#source: flicker fade

[confettiandroses]

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[natsaffection]

Code red. pt 3 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting, gun, blood, trauma, stress situation, death (?)

word count: 7,4k

A/n: 🎢🎢🎢🎢

Part 2

The hospital was humming with the usual afternoon buzz. Overhead lights flickered with a sterile glow, casting long, pale shadows across the linoleum floors. Nurses moved with purpose. Pagers beeped. Phones rang. But to you, it all faded into a low hum as you leaned against the front desk, scribbling notes into a patient’s chart.

“Are you seriously still working?” one of the other interns joked, slinging off their white coat as they passed.

“Some of us aren’t here just to flirt in the supply closet..” you muttered without looking up. The intern laughed, saluted you lazily, and disappeared around the corner. Silence settled in their wake, momentary and oddly comforting.

You flipped to the next page in the chart, pen tapping thoughtfully against your chin. Your brows furrowed in concentration. Then, heels. Sharp, unapologetic, and familiar.

Natasha appeared at your side with the casual grace of someone who knew the entire hallway was watching her. “Well, don’t you look focused.” Natasha purred, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Is it the chart, or are you just avoiding me again?”

You didn’t even glance up. “I’m working, Dr. Romanoff.”

“Ohh, the title now.” Natasha chuckled, leaning casually on the desk beside you. “I like when you call me that. Do it again.”

You finally turned to her, unimpressed. “Don’t you have an OR to seduce?”

Natasha’s grin widened. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

Before you could throw back a reply, chaos struck. A sharp, high-pitched scream cut through the corridor, followed by the sickening crack of a gunshot. Everyone froze. The sound echoed, bouncing off the sterile walls, too loud, too real.

A nurse’s tray clattered to the floor. Then another shot. Your heart seized. Your eyes locked on the source of the noise, a man at the opposite end of the hallway, arm extended, a pistol still smoking in his hand. The nurse in front of him dropped like a marionette with her strings cut, blood pooling beneath her almost instantly.

“Run!” Natasha’s voice snapped in, sharp, low, protective. She grabbed you without waiting, her arm wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close, shielding you as bodies started running, screaming, crashing into each other in blind panic. People shoved past you. Someone was crying. A wheelchair overturned. A monitor crashed from a cart.

Natasha’s hand cradled the back of your head, forcing your face into her chest as you moved quickly through the chaos.

“Don’t look. Keep moving.” Natasha murmured. You ducked into an exam room, the door clicking shut behind you. Natasha turned, bolted it with a trembling hand, then turned to you.

“Are you okay? Are you-” Then she saw it. You blinked up at her, confused, swaying slightly. “What…?”

Blood. Bright and dark, blooming fast across your scrub top. Spreading in thick, ugly circles right below your collarbone, above the ribs. A gunshot, clean, but close. You reached up with fingers that felt suddenly heavy and numb. Touched the blood. Pulled your hand back and saw red.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t need to ask.. No exit wound. Your brain supplied the rest, fast, clinical, single gunshot wound, anterior thorax, upper left quadrant. No exit. Bullet is inside. Close to the heart. Could be the lung. Could be the subclavian. Bleeding is internal and external. Fatal unless treated within minutes.

You looked up at Natasha again. “It’s…not superficial.”

“No.” Natasha said softly.

Your legs folded under you, and you sank to the floor against the wall, your breath turning shallow. Natasha dropped with you, already pulling up your shirt. Her hands didn’t shake. Not even slightly. But her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached.

“I need to see.” Natasha murmured, mostly to herself. You winced as your shirt was pushed aside and the cold air hit the wet warmth of the wound. The blood was darker now, thicker, pulsing slower, but still flowing. A hole, the size of a fingertip, right above the fourth rib.

Natasha pressed her hand over it without hesitation. You let out a choked cry, your back arching off the wall.

“I know..” Natasha said quietly, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

Your eyes filled with tears you didn’t mean to let fall. “I feel it..”

“That’s good. That means you’re still with me.”

The blood surged under Natasha’s palm again, slippery, thick, warm enough to feel like fire. It soaked through her hand and ran in trails down her wrist. Each pulse beneath her fingers felt weaker than the last. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. You were watching her. Reading her.

“Don’t do the voice..” you whispered. “Don’t do the calm voice. I know what that means.”

Natasha said nothing. Her hand stayed steady, pressure perfect. She reached with the other for gauze and shoved it under the pressure point, fingers slick and sure. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tremble.

But inside, she was screaming. Too high for lung access, too low for clavicle, subclavian artery? Maybe? Internal bleeding. No exit. God- “You’re bleeding fast.” she murmured. Not a lie. Just…a fact.

You swallowed. “Am I gonna pass out?”

“No.” Natasha lied. “You’re going to breathe with me.”

“I know how this works, Natasha.” You whispered. “It’s going to fill my chest. I’ll drown in my own blood-”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m scared..” you said, and it came out small.

Natasha leaned closer. “Then let me be scared for both of us, okay?”

You nodded, teeth chattering now. You were turning pale. Your lips looked faintly blue at the edges. Natasha pressed harder. And that’s when she felt it. The flutter. Not a heartbeat, something else. A vibration in the wound. A tremor from the heart that didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel right. Like a failing engine in the dark.

Panic surged. But her hands stayed steady. Then, footsteps. Right outside the door. You tensed, whimpering softly and Natasha shifted fast, one hand never leaving the wound, the other rising to gently cover your mouth. Her eyes didn’t leave the door.

The shooter’s shadow paused beneath the crack of light. You made a sound against her palm, weak, scared. Natasha lowered her forehead to yours, not looking away from the door. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Not even when she felt your blood tickle between her fingers. Not even when it started to cool. She felt your pulse, what little was left of it, under her palm. Please. Walk away. I can’t keep her alive if you don’t walk away.

The footsteps lingered. Natasha pressed harder. You squirmed under the pain but didn’t cry out. Your eyes rolled slightly. And then, finally…footsteps retreated. The moment they were gone, Natasha’s mask slipped. She let out a ragged breath she’d been holding far too long. Blood still ran down her forearms, soaking into her sleeves, dripping onto her pants.

She looked down at you. Your face was slack now. Your eyelids heavy. “No, no. Hey!” Natasha shifted. “You’re staying awake, do you hear me?”

“I’m tired..” you mumbled. Your voice was barely there.

“I know. But you don’t get to sleep yet. You sleep, and you don’t wake up. I know how this works too.”

Your eyes were half-lidded now, your head slumped against the wall. Natasha didn’t have the luxury of time, she felt it, the way the blood was slowing, thickening, but still leaking. The room smelled metallic and wet. Her forearms were streaked in red to the elbows. Think. Do something!

She glanced up at the shelf above the sink, hands never leaving the wound. There, a metal supply bin. Packed with gauze, tape, something, anything.

With one hand still pressed firmly against your chest, she reached up and yanked it down, nearly knocking it off the shelf. The contents spilled across the counter. She grabbed the biggest wad of gauze she could find and shoved it into the wound.

You screamed through your teeth, your back arching. Your body jolted like you’d been shocked. “Hold it.” Natasha snapped. Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was sharp. Commanding. Edged with barely hidden panic.

She grabbed your trembling hand and placed it firmly over the gauze, reinforcing the pressure. “I need you to keep this pressed down. No matter what. I’m going to check the hallway, make sure it’s clear so we can move. You let go, and you will bleed out. Do you understand me?”

You nodded weakly, your hand shaking, but you pressed down. Blood welled up around your fingers immediately. Natasha crouched, wiped her own hands on the inside of her coat, and crept to the door. She cracked it open just enough to scan the corridor.

The bodies had moved, or been moved. Blood smeared the floor. Someone’s pager beeped faintly in the distance. A monitor was flatlining somewhere, forgotten. She turned back. You were still upright. Barely. She slid her arms under your legs and shoulders, and lifted. She didn’t ask if you could walk, she already knew the answer.

The second you left the floor, more blood spilled from the soaked gauze, dripped down Natasha’s arm, splattered on the tile behind you. You groaned into her chest. “N-Nat…”

“I’ve got you.” Natasha whispered, tightening her grip. “Just hold on.”

She moved down the hallway like a woman possessed. Every footstep echoed. Her boots splashed through crimson puddles.

She turned the corner sharply and shouldered open a door labeled Trauma Room C. The overhead light was already on. Someone was inside.. Natasha tensed. Her grip on you tightened, ready to pivot out-

“N-Natasha?!”

The relief that hit Natasha nearly dropped her to her knees. Maria stood at the far counter, gloves on, sleeves rolled. Her dark eyes snapped up, and widened.

“Help me.” she said immediately. “GSW, upper chest. No exit wound. Subclavian or lung, I don’t know. Bleeding out. She’s-” her voice broke “-she’s not stable.”

Maria was already moving. Natasha laid you down on the trauma table, her hands now stained in a dozen shades of red. Your eyes fluttered. You were slipping. Maria ripped open drawers. “We don’t have blood bags.. I’ve got one IV, maybe a saline-”

“Then make it count!” Natasha snapped.

Natasha peeled back the ruined gauze- blood gushed fresh. Maria flinched. “Jesus, it’s arterial.”

“I know.” Natasha clamped down hard again, gauze slipping between her fingers.

You made a strangled sound. “I’m sorry..” Natasha murmured instantly, voice raw.

Maria slammed a drawer shut. “We don’t have what we need. Barely anything. No transfusion kit. No sedatives. Maybe half a bag of saline if we’re lucky.”

“There has to be something!” Natasha snapped, her hands clamped over your wound again. The pressure wasn’t working anymore.

Maria paused. Her jaw tightened. “…We can try a thoracic drain. If the lung’s collapsed, it’ll buy you time. Relieve the pressu-“

“No.”

Both women turned toward you. “No..” you repeated, a bit stronger this time. “No. Not without anesthetic.”

Natasha crouched beside the table instantly. Her bloodied fingers curled around your hand. “Y/n-”

“I know what that is..!” you rasped. “A chest tube? You’re gonna cut between my ribs and jam a plastic straw into my lung. No meds. No numbing. I’ll feel everything..”

“You will.” Maria confirmed grimly, pulling sterile gloves over blood-slicked fingers.

“Then no.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not giving you permission.”

“Then I’m not asking for it.” Natasha said softly.

Your eyes met hers. “I’m sorry, detka..” she whispered. “But I can’t let you die for dignity.”

Your body tensed. Maria was already prepping what little equipment she had, a scalpel, an old chest tube from a dusty tray, a single glove that would double as a makeshift valve. It was barbaric. But it was all they had.

Your chest started to heave with panic. “No..No! Don’t let her-”

“Y/n, we have to..” Natasha cried out, sliding one arm under your shoulder, holding you steady. Her other hand wrapped around your wrist, pressing you flat to the table. “I’ve got you..”

“I-I can’t-”

Maria approached, scalpel in hand. Your entire body arched. “M-Maria-”

“Look at me, Y/n.” Natasha whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “Just look at me. Just me.”

You turned your head and bit down hard, on your own sleeve. You buried the scream before it could start. Then the blade went in. A sharp slice between ribs. A scream tore out from behind your teeth, muffled by fabric. Your body thrashed on the table, muscles spasming under the fire slicing through your side.

Natasha held you. Locked around you. Whispers spilling fast and panicked into your ear, “I’m sorry..I’m so sorry..I’m here, I’ve got you, just a second more..”

Maria’s hands moved fast, slipping the tube between the ribs with a sickening pressure-pop. Your scream turned guttural, strangled by the sleeve in your mouth. Tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body convulsed.

Natasha felt every twitch. Every gasp. Her hands stayed strong, but her eyes, her eyes burned. Pass out. Please just pass out.

But you didn’t. You stayed awake through all of it. “She’s still conscious..” Maria said, her voice tight. “God, she’s still awake.”

The tube took. Air hissed out. The pressure dropped slightly, your chest shuddered, your breathing hitching and slowing. It had worked. A little.

But you were shaking like a leaf. Sweat drenched your hairline. Your lips were bloodless. And still, no transfusion. No fluids. No blood. “Her pressure’s dropping.” Maria said, voice grim. “We bought time. That’s it. She needs more than we can give.”

Natasha stayed bent over you, fingers still brushing your skin. “I’m not losing you.” she whispered. “You hear me?”

Your eyes rolled. You barely nodded. And Natasha held you tighter, tears sliding silently into your hair. You were still trembling under Natasha’s hands, the chest tube taped clumsily to your side, blood pooling slow and steady beneath the table. Your breath wheezed in uneven patterns, but you were alive. Barely.

Natasha crouched beside you, arms gently bracketing your head, one hand still loosely gripping yours. Her face was pale. There was blood under her nails, in her sleeves, in her hair. Her coat was soaked through.

Then, footsteps again. Too familiar. Natasha’s head snapped toward the door. Just outside the thin metal door, a shadow moved. She recognized the boots. The posture. The gun.

The shooter.

Her stomach dropped through the floor. She didn’t think. She moved on instinct. She dropped flat, pulling your hand down with her. Her other arm shot out, grabbing Maria and dragging her low behind the supply cart.

Natasha’s breath hitched as she crouched behind the trauma table, hand clamped over your cold fingers. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked slowly. Barely conscious. Your lips moved, but no sound came out. Maria’s hand rested on the handle of a scalpel, knuckles white. The shadow paused…then moved on. They waited. Ten long, silent, agonizing seconds.

The footsteps faded. Gone again. Natasha stayed frozen, crouched over you like a shield, heart pounding loud enough she swore it echoed off the walls. She counted to ten. Then twenty. Then slowly stood.

She looked down. Your eyes had rolled back slightly. Your breathing was too shallow. “Maria.” Natasha said, urgently now.

“I know.” Maria breathed, rushing to the table. “We don’t have time.”

She grabbed a radio, fingers slick from the blood that coated everything now. “This is Dr. Hill in Trauma C. We need O-negative. Emergency transfusion. GSW. Patient’s crashing.”

The radio crackled. No response. “Come on-” she hit the button again. Natasha moved beside her, brushing the hair from your forehead.

“I'll go get it.” Maria turned, “There's no point in waiting here.” She threw the radio down and immediately turned to the door. Scalpel still in hand.

“Maria, you can’t-“ But she was already gone. Natasha leaned in again, her bloody hand stroking over your jaw. “You’re okay..” she murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

“I’m so tired…”

“I know. But the blood’s coming. We just need to hold on a little longer.”

Natasha did nothing now, no more pressure. No more field surgery. Just stayed beside you. Just held. She didn’t need to play doctor anymore. She needed to be yours. The silence stretched. Heavy. Thick with blood and the too-quiet hum of failing vitals. The only sound in the trauma room was the soft wheeze of air moving through your throat.

You could feel Natasha staring. Watching you. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just breathing too slow. Too steady. Too controlled.

“Hey..” you rasped, voice rough like gravel.

Natasha snapped her eyes to you. “What? What is it?”

You licked your cracked lips and blinked slowly. “Stop staring at my tits.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, Natasha exhaled a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Oh my God.”

You grinned, faint and sleepy. “You’re not even subtle. We’re in a crisis, Romanoff.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, a dry chuckle catching in her throat. “We’ve been here before..” she murmured. “You half-naked. Me looking.”

You raised a brow, voice barely a whisper. “One time.”

Natasha smiled. Tight, but real. “One very memorable time.”

Despite the pain, you snorted. “Guess I make an impression..”

“You do.” Natasha said, softer now. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. You blinked slowly, chest rising in shallow, painful movements.

Natasha caught herself, cleared her throat, forced a smirk onto her lips. “And, for the record…I wasn’t staring at your tits.”

You gave her a slow, skeptical look. “I’ve seen you without a bra, detka. Very thoroughly.”

Your smile faded, but the warmth lingered in your eyes. “Your hands are shaking..” you whispered.

Natasha didn’t deny it. “I’ve got you.” she said instead, voice rough. “Even if I’m falling apart.”

Outside, a new sound finally echoed down the hallway, rushed footsteps. Blood. Help was coming. The door banged open with a force that made Natasha’s head snap up, every muscle coiled to strike, until she saw Maria step inside, a blood bag swinging from her gloved hand and another clenched between her arm and ribs.

“Blood.” she announced, breathless. “Two units. And the shooter’s been spotted on the opposite wing. We’ve got maybe five minutes to move.”

Relief cracked across Natasha’s face like a fault line. Maria was already moving to hang the first bag, attaching the line to the IV she’d placed earlier. “I called it in on the way, three interns are prepping OR 2. They’ll have it sterile by the time we get there.”

Natasha exhaled. “Thank God..” She looked down at you. The blood was already starting to drip through the line, inching toward the cannula taped to your forearm. You looked…worse. Lips pale. Breathing shallower. Sweat beading at your hairline, but your skin was ice.

Then it happened. You groaned, sharp and sudden. Your body twitched violently on the table, hands clawing weakly at your side.

“Fuck, it moved.” Maria said, rushing over. “Something shifted.”

Natasha leaned in immediately. “Hey- hey- what is it?”

Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your back arched. And then blood poured faster. Soaking through the gauze again. Red. Bright. Fresh.

“She’s bleeding internally, faster now. The bullet moved.” Maria said. “It’s tearing something worse. We need to go.”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed the side rails of the trauma table and unlatched the brakes, turning it toward the door.

“Help me push!” she barked. Maria was already there. They shoved the gurney out into the hallway, blood dripping behind you, wheels squealing against the tile. Natasha never let go of your hand.

“We’re almost there, you hear me?” she said breathlessly. “Stay awake for me!”

Your lips parted. “I c-can’t…feel my legs..”

Maria met Natasha’s eyes over the gurney. They pushed faster. “Door’s open.” an intern shouted down the hall. “OR’s ready!”

They swerved the corner, nearly colliding with a nurse backing out of a storage room. The hallway ahead was clear, lit in emergency red, glowing like a tunnel to salvation.

“We’ve got you.” Natasha said again, her voice breaking. “Just hold on. We’re almost there.”

The blood bag above you drained fast. Not fast enough. The doors of OR 2 swung open with a bang that made the interns inside jump. The table rolled in at full speed, Natasha at the head, Maria at the side, a nurse already rushing to hook up suction and monitors.

“Vitals are unstable.” Maria called. “BP dropping. Pulse thready. She’s losing blood faster than we can give it.”

Natasha barked orders as she moved- “Sterile tray. Chest opened. Crash cart nearby. Be ready to cut now.”

The nurse was already prepping anesthesia. You blinked up at the overhead light, dazed and barely conscious. Your lips moved, dry, cracked.

“..Don’t wanna die..” you whispered, voice soft and slurred. “’m scared…”

Natasha moved immediately to your side, gloves half-on, hairnet already twisted into place. She crouched at the head of the table, face close to yours, hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re not dying.” she said quietly, fiercely. “You hear me? You’re not. Not here. Not now. Not on my fucking table.”

You let out a slow, rattling breath. “H-Hurts…”

“I know..” Natasha whispered, eyes stinging. “But I’m here. Right here. I’m gonna fix it. You just have to sleep, detka. That’s all. Just let go for a little while.”

Your eyes searched hers. The fear was still there, carved deep behind the pain. Natasha leaned down, brushing your foreheads together.

“Look at me. Just me.”

You blinked. “You’re gonna wake up..” Natasha whispered, “and when you do, I’ll still be right here. I promise.”

Your lashes fluttered. The nurse turned. “We’re pushing anesthesia. She’ll be out in seconds.”

Natasha kept her hand on your cheek, voice steady even as her fingers trembled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your lips moved again, but the sound was gone now. Your body relaxed, too fast, too loose. Then your eyes closed. The heart monitor beeped slow. The anesthetic took you under like a tide.

Natasha froze. Stared at you. Watched the rise and fall of your chest. Slower. Calmer. But still there. Then, she stood. Snapped on the rest of her gloves. The shift was immediate.

“Scalpel.” she said, voice sharp, eyes locked on the chest already stained in blood.

Maria slid it into her hand. And without hesitation, she cut. The first incision split open the soaked gauze and revealed a mess of blood, shredded tissue, and pooling darkness inside your chest cavity.

Natasha barely hesitated. “Retractors.”

Metal clicked into her gloved hand. She forced the ribs apart, opening the chest just enough to get a clear view. But there was nothing clear about it. Too much blood. Too much movement. It was like operating underwater, every shift caused a ripple of red that clouded everything. Her heart hammered behind her sternum.

“She’s still bleeding internally..” Maria said, voice steady but strained. Natasha scanned the cavity. Looking for metal. A glint. A tear. A hint of the bullet. Nothing. She reached deeper, feeling for it, fingers tracing along broken vessels and muscle, and still, nothing.

Maria suctioned, but the blood kept flooding in. Then..A flash. Metal. Near the pericardial sac. Wedged behind tissue. Nestled close to where no foreign object should be.

“I’ve got it.” Natasha breathed. “Clamp..clamp- hold suction steady.”

Natasha reached in deeper, angling around bone and flesh. That’s when it happened. The monitor let out a flat tone. A scream of static silence. Your body went still.

“No pulse!” Maria said instantly, grabbing paddles. “She’s gone into cardiac arrest!”

“No..” Natasha’s voice cracked. Not you. Not again. The smell of blood hit her harder than before. The lights overhead blurred. Her fingers froze, still inside your chest.

It was the same. The same rhythm. The same mess of anatomy soaked in blood. The same smell that had followed her home after that night weeks ago, when a patient with a nearly identical GSW bled out right here on this same table. Bullet hidden too deep. Lost too much time.

She hadn’t found it fast enough. And she watched the light fade. Her hands shook then, too. And now? You were on the table. Pale. Open. Heart stopped.

“Natasha.” Maria said, sharper. “We need to move.”

Natasha’s hands snapped into motion. “Starting internal massage.” she said hoarsely. She pressed two fingers around your heart, massaging rhythmically. One, two, three, four…Her gloves turned even darker.

“Charging defib, 150.” Maria said. “Clear.” The shock snapped through your chest. Your body jolted on the table.

Flatline.

“No, no, no, charge again! 200.”

Another jolt. Still flat. Natasha bent forward, forehead nearly touching yours as she pumped manually again.

“Come on..” she whispered. “I didn’t hold you through that just to lose you here!”

She felt the muscle under her hands, soft, slow. Still. Refusing. “Charging again, 300. Ready.”

Natasha pulled her hands away. “Clear.” The jolt arced through again. The light above flickered.

And then..Beep. A blip and another. “She’s back..” Maria said, voice softer, almost stunned. The monitor climbed, slow but steady. Your heart beat again.

And Natasha, covered in your blood, arms buried in trauma, let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding since the moment they rolled you into the OR.

She hadn’t lost you.. Not this time. The monitor let out a single shrill tone. A scream of silence. Flatline. Again. The steady rhythm they fought so hard to bring back..gone. The surgical team froze. Maria’s hands dropped from the paddles, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Natasha…” she said softly. There was no judgment in her voice. Just the sound of someone tired of watching people die.

Natasha didn’t move. “BP’s gone. Pulse gone. Pupils dilating.”

Still, Natasha didn’t speak. Maria took a step back. “There’s nothing else to do.”

It was protocol.

She was saying it like they always said it. The quiet, dignified way. And for a second, Natasha wasn’t in this OR anymore. She was weeks ago. Same sterile walls. Same too-bright light. A man on the table. The same wound. The same blood-soaked gloves. And a nurse in a pale blue mask saying, “Time of death: 03:47.”

She remembered how the silence felt after. Heavy. Hollow. Like the room had swallowed its breath and never let it go. And now…You were on this table.

You.

Not just a patient. Not just another name.

You.

The girl who cracked jokes through fear. The one who held on through a chest tube with no anesthetic. The one who smiled with blood on her teeth and said “stop staring at my tits.”

Maria reached out again. “Natasha…let her go..”

Natasha’s jaw clenched and shook her head. “No.”

“Nat-”

“I said no.”

Her voice was steel now. Cold. Final. “She’s not gone.”

“Her heart-“

“She’s not gone!”

And then she moved. She slammed her hand back onto your chest, blood squelching beneath her palm. “Suction. Now.”

“Natasha-”

“I said suction!”

The interns and Maria hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. The suction cleared the cavity, blood drawn away in hot, thick rivulets. Natasha reached inside again, direct heart massage. Her hands coated in gore.

“She’s not cold yet..” Natasha whispered, mostly to herself. “She’s not cold. She’s not blue. She’s still here.”

The monitor stayed flat. Still, Natasha pumped. One, two, three, four.

“Come on..” she hissed. “Come back.”

“You don’t get to go, Y/n! You don’t get to fucking leave me!”

The silence stretched. Another second. Beep. The tiniest sound. Soft. Fragile. Then another. A slow return of rhythm. Maria’s head snapped to the monitor. “She’s back. Sinus rhythm.”

Natasha’s body slumped. Just a little. Her hands trembled now. Truly trembled. But she kept them steady over your heart. She didn’t have time to cry. Didn’t have the right to fall apart. Her hands were still inside your chest, gently compressing, guiding the blood as your body tried to remember how to live.

And then, the OR door creaked open. Slow. Too slow. Everyone froze. It wasn’t a crash this time. No screaming. No barking orders. Just the quiet, deliberate sound of danger arriving.

Natasha’s head snapped up. The shooter stood in the doorway. No urgency now. No chaos. Just calm. He stepped inside like he was walking into a church. Quiet. Reverent. Almost…grieving.

His eyes fell on you first. Chest open. Heart exposed. Breath shallow. Something shifted in his face.

“She looks like her..He muttered. “My wife. In the ICU. Just like this. Tubes. Open. Pale.” He stepped closer. Maria held her breath.

“She was warm..” he whispered, staring at you. “I remember her hand. She was warm. And they told me she was gone. But you know what that means? They didn’t even try.”

Natasha’s body tensed as he leaned in. As his hand rose. Fingers reached for your face, blood-streaked glove hovering just inches from your cheek.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” she growled, voice feral. The room froze. Maria turned sharply. “Natasha, stop.”

“No.” Her jaw was clenched. Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to come in here and touch her like you didn’t just slaughter someone in the goddamn hallway.”

The man stared at her, stunned, but only for a moment. Then his gaze turned elsewhere. Drifted. It flicked past her. To the far corner of the OR. To a nurse. Young. Nervous. Pale as a ghost. Backed up against a medicine cabinet. Recognition hit the man like a freight train.

“I know you..” he whispered. The nurse froze.

“You were there..” the man said, louder now. “You were in that room. You lied. You said my wife coded on her own. But you let her choke! You all let her die!”

The nurse shook his head, tears already falling. “I-I didn’t- I-I wasn’t-”

The gunshot cracked like thunder. The nurse dropped instantly. Screams filled the OR. Someone dropped to their knees. A tray clattered to the floor. Blood pooled across the tile like spilled paint.

Natasha flinched violently. Even she wasn’t immune to the sudden, unrelenting violence. You were dying on her table. And now, everyone else might die too. The shooter wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t raging.

He was talking to himself. Muttering about names. About files. About how none of this was fair. About how he just wanted someone to hurt the way he hurt. Maria’s eyes flicked to the monitor. Your heartbeat was slowing again.

Too much blood lost. Too much trauma. And now this. Her mind raced. She turned to Natasha- hands still trembling, and stepped back from the table.

“Let her go.”

Natasha blinked. “What-?”

“Back off. Now.”

Confusion hit first. Then rage. Then fear. “What are you doing?” Natasha snapped. “She’s alive- she’s right here-“

“Natasha, trust me!” Maria hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low, desperate warning. “Do it. Please..!”

No!” Natasha’s voice cracked open like a damn fault line. “Don’t do this- don’t do this! Maria, she’s right here. I can feel her, I’m still-”

“He will kill everyone in this room!” Maria hissed. “She’s already bleeding out again! If you keep fighting- he will shoot all of us, including you!”

“Good!” Natasha screamed. “Let him shoot me! I’m not letting her go!”

The shooter stepped closer again, gun raising, twitching now. Maria’s voice rose sharply. “Hands up, Nat. Now.”

“I can’t..” Natasha said, trembling, breaking. “I can’t let her die. Don’t make me-”

Natasha’s hands were still red. Her forearms were covered in blood. Your chest was still open, exposed, glistening. The last thing she’d done was press two fingers around your heart to keep it beating. She couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t.

“D-Don’t make me do this..”

“You have to.” Maria said, louder now. “He’ll kill all of us.”

Natasha stared at you. You looked so small. So pale. Still. “Goddammit!” And she raised her hands.

Tears streamed down her face as she stepped back, your blood dripping from her fingertips. Maria turned to the shooter. “If she doesn’t get blood in the next two minutes..” Maria said, “her organs will shut down. Her heart will start fibrillating. Then it’ll stop.”

She glanced back at your body, pale, carved open, barely alive. “After that,” she continued, “the brain goes. She won’t feel anything. Won’t know it’s happening.”

Her voice was quieter now. Gentle. Measured. “She’ll just…stop.”

One soft pulse. Then another. Slower. Then, Flatline. A long, unbroken shriek of sound sliced through the room.

Maria stood frozen, eyes on the monitor. When the sound didn’t stop, when the line didn’t blip, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. To shut out the heartbreak. To hide the way her own hands were shaking.

The shooter stared at your body. Silent. He didn’t cry. But something in him broke. You could feel it in the way the gun slowly lowered. The way his breathing changed. How his shoulders sagged.

And Natasha broke. Her hands fell to her thighs, blood soaking her scrubs. Her whole body shook, shoulders hitching with grief so violent she couldn’t speak. It was like she felt it inside her own chest, the second it happened, like her own heart stuttered in sympathy. A void opened behind her ribs and swallowed her whole.

She pressed her fists to her forehead and sobbed silently. Teeth clenched. Face wet. “No..” she whispered. “No, no, no, please, no..”

The shooter lingered in the doorway. “I didn’t want this.” Then he turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. Silence. No one moved.

Maria stood frozen, then, carefully, turned back to the table. She waited. Five seconds. Ten. Then..She reconnected the ECU cable.

Beep. A single, tiny sound. Natasha didn’t hear it at first. Not until Maria turned and said, gently, “She’s not gone. Nat. Comon.”

Natasha’s head jerked up. Her eyes flew to the monitor. A heartbeat. “We’ve got a window. Do something.”

And Natasha, she surged off the floor like fire. “S-Scalpel..” she gasped, voice shredded. Her gloves slid on with a sickening squelch as she gripped your heart again, every muscle tight, every motion purposeful. Desperate. Her face soaked with tears.

She looked at Maria. Her eyes were on fire. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Maria nodded. “I know.”

Then they got to work, elbow deep in blood, horror, and hope. Then, another gunshot outside. Everyone in the OR jumped. Had he killed someone else? Had he turned the gun on himself?

Then, Footsteps. Quick. Purposeful. Heavy. Not panicked. Disciplined. The sound grew louder, approaching fast, accompanied by the clipped mutter of radios and low commands shouted through headsets. The door burst open. Natasha turned, body rigid, ready to throw herself over your corpse again if she had to.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the shooter. It was SWAT. A line of police officers stormed into the OR in tight formation, weapons raised, but held at a cautious distance. Muzzles lowered slightly, not aiming at anyone. Not yet. Helmets. Body armor. Shields.

One officer barked, “Clear the back wall. Move away from the patient!”

A nurse cried out. Another stumbled backward. But no one moved fast. It was still an operating room. And you were still open on the table.

Maria raised her hands quickly, voice sharp. “We’re in surgery! We have a patient open, guns down!”

A second officer stepped forward, voice steadier, calmer. “Shooter is down. He’s in custody. We’ve secured the south wing. Repeat, the shooter is down.”

Maria’s knees nearly buckled. But Natasha? She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She didn’t even hear the officer say her name. Didn’t notice the way one medic gestured toward the blood pooling at her knees.

The lead officer took one step forward, his voice firm but no longer urgent. “What’s the status?”

Natasha’s hands were moving, slow, uncertain, but moving. As if by sheer force of will, she could make your heart remember how to beat. As if she could physically stop you from slipping through her fingers.

Maria stepped forward, shielding both of you from the officers like a mother lion despite the tremor in her spine.

“The patient is female.” Maria said, her voice clipped and controlled. “Mid-twenties. Gunshot, entry just beneath the clavicle. No exit. Severe thoracic trauma. We performed an emergency thoracotomy. No transfusion available during surgery.”

He glanced at Natasha again. “Doctor, do you need assistance?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Her bloodied fingers had returned to your chest, moving carefully, gently, searching. Hoping. Begging. Her hands were shaking. Her breaths were too shallow. Her lips were pressed together like if she opened them, she’d start screaming.

Maria stepped between them. “She’s not done. Don’t ask her questions. She won’t stop until she’s sure.”

The officer lowered his radio slightly, watching Natasha. “She’s in shock.”

“She’s in..something else.” Maria said softly. Then, more firmly: “Give her a second.”

And the OR fell into a delicate silence, broken only by that single, steady, heartless tone. The line that hadn’t budged. The one Natasha was fighting like hell to outrun.

Two days later.

The news anchor’s voice echoed faintly from the TV in the breakroom, but no one was really watching anymore.

“…ongoing investigation into the hospital shooting… 12 confirmed dead, multiple injured. The suspect, currently in custody, is said to have entered the OR during an active trauma surgery…“

The screen showed aerial shots of the hospital. The emergency entrance. The ambulances. A photo of the hallway with blood still staining the tile.

A nurse watching from the corner of the room sobbed quietly into her sleeve. Another sat beside her, holding her hand. A doctor passed through without speaking, his face pale, jaw tight. Somebody turned the volume down. But the silence was worse.

In the women’s changing room, everything was still. Cool fluorescent lights hummed above rows of lockers. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and old metal.

Natasha sat alone on a bench, still in the same pair of hospital-issued sweatpants and an undershirt. Her duffle bag sat at her feet, untouched. Her hair was damp again, she’d showered. Twice.

But the blood never really left. Not in her mind. She stared at the floor. Or maybe through it. Her elbows rested on her knees. Her hands hung limply between them, fingers twitching with phantom movement, like she could still feel your chest beneath her palms, still feel your pulse flutter and vanish.

She remembered everything. The scream. The gunshot. Your blood on her hands. Maria yelling. Her own hands shaking too hard to keep compressions going. The flatline. Your lips turning pale. That moment she’d said goodbye with her body but not her heart.

They’d sedated you after the surgery. Twice. Once for the pain. Once because you were fighting the ventilator. She hadn’t seen your eyes open since. She hadn’t heard your voice. She’d sat by your bed until they made her leave. Until they said she needed sleep. Until Maria gently took her shoulder and whispered, “Go breathe. Just for a minute.”

So she came here. But she didn’t breathe. She just stared. The door creaked open. Maria stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her. The way her shoulders were slumped. The way her fingers twitched like they wanted to dig back into a body and fix something. Anything.

Maria crossed the room and sat beside her, slow and careful. “Don’t.” Natasha muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I brought you water.” she said gently, setting a bottle down on the bench beside her.

Natasha didn’t look at it. Or her. “I’m fine.”

Maria’s sigh was quiet but sharp. “You’re the worst liar in this hospital.”

Natasha kept staring straight ahead, like if she just kept watching the tiles long enough, they’d start making sense.

Maria crossed her arms and leaned back against the lockers. “You haven’t checked on her.”

“She’s sedated.”

“She’s awake.”

Natasha froze. Maria looked at her fully now, eyes searching. “She asked for you. She’s groggy, and sore, and confused.” Maria said. “But she said your name. First thing out of her mouth.”

Natasha’s fingers twitched again, her nails digging into the heel of her palm. And then she said the one thing she hadn’t let herself say out loud:

“I don’t know why this hurt so much.”

Maria blinked. Natasha kept going, voice quieter, like the words were dragging their way out of her throat.

“I’ve lost people before. Friends. Teammates. Strangers on the table. But this…I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t breathe right. I keep thinking she’s gonna flatline again if I look away. I haven’t slept. I haven’t even let myself breathe.”

Maria watched her. Then, gently: “You love her.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp, defensive, panicked. “She doesn’t know.”

“Do you?”

She looked down. Didn’t answer. Maria leaned in a little. “You didn’t just break because she died. You broke because she’s the only one who made you believe you could have something more.”

Natasha’s hands curled in tighter. “She doesn’t know.” she said again, more fragile this time. “What if she finds out?”

“She already has.”

Natasha flinched.

“Maybe not in words,” Maria continued. “But if you think she doesn’t know what your hands feel like when they’re the only thing keeping her alive, you’re wrong.”

The silence stretched long between them. Then Maria stood, quiet and calm. “You didn’t lose her.” she whispered. “Go remind yourself.”

The hallway smelled like lemon-scented disinfectant and something warm and sterile and sad. Natasha walked slowly. Not because she was unsure.

But because every step felt like a step back toward that moment. Toward the table. The blood. The line. The silence. When she reached your room, she didn’t enter at first.

She stood outside the door, her hand braced against the frame. Through the glass, she saw you. Propped up slightly. Pale. Worn. Eyes closed. Machines humming quietly around you. Your hand resting weakly over your stomach.

But your chest rose and fell. Steady and present. She exhaled, and only then realized she’d been holding her breath since Maria spoke.

She pushed the door open slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, sluggish. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Then your gaze shifted and landed on her.

“…Hi” you croaked, voice raspy.

“Hey..” she whispered back. She didn’t ask how you were. She could see it. You were weak. Worn. Still there, but fading in and out of clarity.

So she moved to your side. Sat. Reached for your hand, but waited before touching it. You lifted your fingers slightly. That was all the permission she needed.

Her fingers wrapped around yours. Firm. Present. Steady. Just like before. Except now, there was no blood. No gloves. Just skin.

“There was a shooter..” you mumbled.

She nodded. “It’s over.”

“I got hit?”

“You did.”

“And…the OR?”

She froze. Just for a second.

“I don’t remember anything..”

Natasha didn’t speak. Your eyes flicked to her. “Did something happen?”

She squeezed your hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You watched her carefully. The way her voice dipped on you. The way her shoulders looked tighter now than they did during training runs or briefings. The way her thumb kept brushing across your knuckles, back and forth, like she was trying to remind herself you were warm.

But your body was heavy. Your brain foggy. You knew there was more. But you let it go. You weren’t strong enough to carry it.

And she..she wasn’t ready to speak it. So you squeezed her hand in return. Weak. But enough. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Her eyes flicked down. And this time, her voice cracked. “So am I.”

-

-

-

-

[meowrimo]

MAMA. zoro x reader ; fluff, flustered zoro. you find his shirt from water 7 (episode 318) and have some questions. — WC : 911

As you sift through the clothes that you store in your small room on the Thousand Sunny, searching for something suitable to wear for the day out at sea, your eye catches something crumpled in the back corner, hidden under a pile of old t-shirts from adventures past.

It didn’t look familiar to you as you tugged it out of its hiding place, the faded yellow colored baby tee was definitely not yours which could only mean it was one of Zoro's.

But it didn’t seem like something he’d wear.

And, plastered on the front, was the word ‘mama’.

Maybe it belonged to one of the girls?

With a lazy shrug of your shoulders, you throw it on and style it with some cute shorts you had laying around. Once you were satisfied with your look, you made your way out to the deck to see what the crew, and your lover, was up to.

And that’s when you see him, lifting a few dumbbells as he stares across the ocean, seemingly lost in thought. Before you make your presence known, you can’t help but admire his quiet intensity. Each bicep curl falls into rhythm with your heartbeat, the sunlight catching the accumulating sweat on his rippling muscles steals your breath away.

“Hi Zo!” There was a slight bounce in your step as your voice carried across the grassy floor. The sound reaches his ears, commanding his attention as your presence so readily does.

The greeting is not one you expected from him, causing you to freeze right in your tracks. Whenever you popped by when he was training or working out, he’d at least give you a small smile in acknowledgment.

But this? This was very different.

Zoro's eye flew wide open, his face flushing a deeper red with each passing second. Every muscle in his already taut body froze as he gaped at you, his gaze stuck on the shirt you wore.

“You like it?” You’re a bit hesitant as you step forward like a hunter approaches a scared animal, careful not to startle him any further. 

“Where did you get that?” The question was flat, shock drenching every syllable. A slight pout forms on his face as he studies you, a glint of concern flickering in his steely eye that you’re not sure how to decipher.

“It was in the back of our wardrobe.” You tilt your head, growing curiouser by the moment. There was something amusing about the way Zoro was looking at you, wide eyed and slack jawed. It was as if you were wearing something completely scandalous – not just a t-shirt. “What's with the reaction?”

“Nothing!” He stands up straighter, trying to clear his throat. Carefully, he sets down his weights before reattaching his swords by his side — no doubt a source of reassuring comfort.

“So, it is yours?” A mischievous smile takes over your face.

“Err—.” He pauses, his fingers run along the hilts of his swords, something he does when he’s a little on edge. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you ever wear it? It was practically shoved away.” Standing before him now, you can see all the different pigments of pink and red blooming across his face. Zoro huffs, brushing past you as he starts walking away.

“It's just a stupid shirt.” The blush on his face was unwavering, the sun only highlighting the effect this conversation was having on him.

“Yet you kept it.” You push, practically skipping behind him as he leads you both to wherever he was headed.

“I forgot about it, alright?” He huffs, looking anywhere else but you and that damn shirt.

“Where’d you even get something like this?” There was no stopping you when you had your mind set on something, and every question you asked only unlocked another.

“Water 7.” Zoro gripped the hilt of the Wado, muscles straining under the interrogation he was trying to flee from.

“And you bought it yourself?” You can almost see it now, Zoro being dragged by Nami into some store and picking up the first thing he could find.

But something tells you that the way he acquired it was a much more interesting story. You were itching to find out.

“Not exactly.” You go to open your mouth but he beats you to it, spinning around to finally face you. “No way, I'm not telling you this story.”

“How about a cup of sake and a kiss for your troubles?” Zoro glares at you, clenching his jaw shut. Whatever the origins of this shirt was, he seemed too embarrassed to tell you how he got it but he knew you were teasing. So, you sweeten the deal. “Or you can show me how much you dislike it by tearing it off of me. Your choice.”

Before he has a chance to bark something back, Robin rounds around to where the two of you were headed. She gives a small, sweet smile, her eyes blinking shut in contentment. The calm before the storm.

“How sweet of you to let them wear your shirt, Zoro.” She says, her voice light yet monotone. “All that’s missing are the three babies.”

“The three WHAT?” You and Zoro both yell out in shock, watching as Robin strolls away, her smile curling into something more mischievous. You’re both left there, stunned into silence as a million new questions come to mind about this shirt.

Zoro was definitely going to need that cup of sake now.

thank you for reading :3 !!

[pedropascallme]

Teach Me Something

Pairing: König x f!Reader

Summary: “But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) p in v sex, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), face fucking, forced proximity, size kink, mentions of overstimulation, use of honorifics (“Colonel”) in a sexual scenario, dom/sub dynamics, dom!König but he's pathetically needy, rough sex, dirty talk (a lot of it is in German), creampie, implication of cumplay, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: One bed trope CAUSE I CAN. Also I don't speak German, so if you do speak German and this sounds like absolute gibberish to you, I'm sorry in advance <3

What had seemed like a promising respite from such a drawn-out mission had swiftly proven to be less than liberating and more of a tease.

On the outside, the safehouse looked like a cabin out of a Christmas movie—something cheesy and re-watchable that you might put on around the holidays as background noise. Sturdy, light wood, powdered with snow.

It didn't look out of place in the forested locale, and anybody passing through would likely think it was a fixture of the area; a quaint vacation home to a little nuclear family.

But on the inside, it was absolutely barebones, and that was putting it lightly.

A raw sort of cold crept in through cracks, and the breeze inched over the thick layers of dust on every surface. It looked like you and König would be the first people to use it in months, if not years.

The chill was uncomfortable, and while the fireplace would've been a delightful way to quell the chatter of your teeth, you knew you couldn't use it—smoke from the chimney could alert anybody of your whereabouts, and the last thing you wanted right now was more practice in self-defense.

There was a small armchair pushed into one corner, and the green velvet faded on the back to reveal frayed weaving. One single bed was pushed to the far side of the tiny room, seemingly frozen in time, and you wondered if the blankets would even peel back from the mattress.

The only source of light was a standing lamp, and when you yanked the cord, it flickered piteously.

Instructions had been clear, and you knew you'd only be here for a night before you had to keep moving, but you couldn't help but huff at the state of the cabin when you had spent all day on the move.

König walked in behind you with a huff; he hated snow, and he abhorred waiting in a safehouse like a sitting duck all the more.

“Mein Gott…” He shook his head, shivering dramatically.

“It’s just a little snow, Colonel.”

You could’ve laughed at the display. You knew he was overreacting; he tended to, and a man of his size couldn’t get cold very easily.

“We will freeze before evacuation, maus.” He grumbled, closing the door with a grunt.

“You’ll live.” You cooed, smiling.

You wouldn't go as far as calling him your friend, but König was certainly a welcome presence despite his intimidating demeanor. He was clever, and an effective soldier; a generally amiable person when he was in the right mood.

And it helped that he was nice to look at.

You appreciated that he actually spoke during operations. Some people—especially superior officers, you'd found—preferred to stay stoic and silent, even at the best of times. But König was chatty, in his own right.

It was clear that he liked the sound of his own voice, but you didn't mind; he could be funny, a refreshing source of entertainment on and off the field. His thick accent and less than stellar pronunciations often led to even more amusement in conversations with him.

He never spoke about himself—you didn't even think König was his real name; you knew it probably wasn’t. But it was the name he responded to, and it was the one you mumbled when thoughts of him forced their way to the front of your mind as you pressed down just right on your clit.

You made your way to the derelict bed, unhooking your chest rig and tossing it onto the mattress. You half expected the frame to collapse, but it was a pleasant surprise when all you got was a quiet squeak from the bedsprings.

“What are you doing?” König watched intently as you lay your belongings out.

“Putting my stuff down.” You looked at him over your shoulder, quirking a brow.

“On the bed.” He was just voicing what he saw, but you knew he had ulterior motives.

“Didn’t see your name on it,” you turned to face him properly, eying him where he leaned against the door. “Take the chair.” You nodded at the armchair in the opposite corner of the room.

König scoffed softly.

“You are joking?”

“Or you could take the floor,” you couldn’t help but smile; you enjoyed riling him up. “Plenty of room for you to stretch out.”

He shook his head, and you watched his eyes narrow behind the mask.

“No. You are smaller than me. You sleep in the chair; I have the bed.” He said it with a sense of finality, reminding you that he was, in fact, in charge.

“That’s not fair.” You argued, crossing your arms.

“You wanted me to sleep on the floor,” he pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer to you, “I am being kind.”

“You’re not,” you scowled, “Not at all gentlemanly, either.”

He chuckled, tilting his head to the side.

“If you will make such a fuss, we will sleep in the bed together, Kleine.”

“Seriously?” You balked at his words, caught off guard.

“Is it a bad idea?” It was almost as if he was goading you; toeing the line to see if you’d agree or if you’d back down.

It wasn’t uncharacteristic of him; he enjoyed teasing you as much as you enjoyed teasing him. He liked to see how hard he could push you when you were deployed together. It brought him a sort of contentment to see you squirm.

It was innocent, as far as you were concerned, and he knew he had the power to do it.

“No…” you decided not to bow to his prodding. “I just—are we allowed to…I mean, I’m fine with it, if you’re fine with it.”

You practically scoffed, uncrossing your arms and gesturing vaguely.

“I just…yeah. No—yeah, that’s a—…let’s just share,” you nodded, trying to reason aloud as you made your decision. “Better for…body heat.”

He nodded, and you were certain he was smiling beneath his mask.

You grabbed your chest rig from the bed and tossed it onto the armchair. Slowly, you began peeling off your kit. The thermal under layer of your uniform was perfect for sleep, and you weren’t about to crawl into bed with the military-grade fabric still on.

But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.

You shoved your clothes onto the chair with your chest rig, turning back to face the bed.

König had already prepared himself for bed, and you were nearly startled when you looked up to see his mask gone.

It was a rarity; he wore it 90% of the time, probably more as an intimidation tactic, but you also assumed it was a comfort thing.

The more shocking revelation was that he’d stripped down completely, forgoing even the thermals, as he sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers.

“Not gonna get cold?” You quirked a brow, not at all unsatisfied by the unobstructed view of his form, but still a bit taken aback.

“It is nice in here,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders before rubbing a hand over his chest. “And your body will be warm.”

His phrasing made you roll your eyes, but you smiled just a little.

“Alright, Colonel,” you shook your head, “Sure.”

You ambled over to the bed, pulling the blanket back and frowning when you realized how thin the material was. But you situated yourself beneath it all the same, lying on your side and eager to curl up and allow yourself to get some rest.

When König maneuvered himself beneath the blanket next to you, you threw a look over your shoulder at him.

“No funny shit,” you glared, though it was playful, “Hands to yourself, or I’ll cut them off.”

König laughed lightly, folding his arms over his chest.

“I will not touch you, Kleine.” He was amused by your threat, but humored you.

“Good answer.” You settled back onto your side.

You found yourself unable to relax.

The room hadn’t warmed up in the short time you’d been inside, and you couldn’t seem to garner the warmth to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. The thermal clothing wasn’t doing much, and the wind howling against the wood of the cabin put you on edge.  

If you were less proud, you might have pushed yourself up against König in search of warmth and comfort. Instead, you let yourself continue to shiver, huffing softly.

But your exasperated sigh turned into more of a stunned gasp when you felt König reach out for you, tugging you into him until your back pressed against his chest.

“Said hands to yourself.” You mumbled, though the relief was immediate. The warmth of his body permeated the thermal shirt you donned and sept into your skin.

“Sh,” he splayed his hand against your stomach. “Dir ist kalt.”

“I’m not cold. I’m…” You tried to think of a valid argument, “I’m not cold.”

He grunted, a wordless response of disbelief.

The room fell quiet again, and you stayed pressed against his body. Part of you was tempted to grab his hand, lace your fingers with his and lean into the situation. But you stayed still and just appreciated the position you’d been pulled into.

“You understand me often now,” König’s voice broke through the silence. “You did not know German like this before.”

“Hard not to pick up on bits and pieces,” you were whispering, but you weren’t sure why. “Most of what you say over comms is German.”

“You are learning, maus,” he seemed pleased, his thumb brushing over your stomach. “Tell me.”

“I know that maus means mouse,” your voice picked up a bit, eager to share the small amount of German you had learned. “Was war das means what was that. Schnell is quickly, ich weiß is I know.”

You paused, thinking for a moment before you continued.

“Verdammt is damn it, and geh zum Teufel means go to hell. I think.”

He let out a small laugh behind you, and you felt his chest move against your back.

“Gut.” Though you couldn’t see it, you could hear the motion of his head against the pillow as he nodded.

You found the confidence to turn over, adjusting yourself enough to face him while staying pressed to his chest.

“Will you teach me more?” You asked, sincerely curious about the other phrases you'd heard him use.

He smiled. “What do you want to know, maus?”

“Will you…” you smirked, thinking, “Will you teach me more curses?”

“Girl after my heart,” he chuckled, running his hand over your back in an oddly docile gesture. “Ja, I will show you.”

He thought for a moment, squinting into the dark of the room as he considered where to begin.

“Em…to call someone’s mother a whore: huresohn.”

“Starting strong.” You laughed, chancing a glance at him.

“There are no weak curses in German.” He smiled down at you. “Scheiße is shit.”

“I know that one.” You yawned, placing an open palm on his chest.

“Fine, then, you are so proud of your skill; Weißt du was Schlampe ist?” He quirked a brow at you, smug.

“You’re going too fast—” you complained, pushing against his chest. “Do I know what what is?”

“Keep up, Kleine.”

“Kleine means small.”

“No—” He furrowed his brow, “Ja, it does, but also ‘little one.’”

You paused, looking up at him again.

“Little one?” You asked, echoing his words.

“Ja.” He nodded, sighing softly.

“Colonel, when you say things like that, I’m almost convinced you have a soft spot for me.” You smiled, putting your other hand on his chest and playfully pushing against him a bit harder.

“Vielleicht,” he moved to place his free hand over one of yours as you pushed him. “Ja.”

There was a pause, both of you taking a moment to stew in the silence and the feeling of each other.

“König…” You were whispering again, staring at how his hand dwarfed your own.

He looked down at you expectantly.

“I have—…I want to know one more thing.” You shuffled up the bed slightly, trying to position yourself to match his eyeline.

“Ok,” he nodded, now moving his hand to toy with a loose strand of your hair. “What?”

“How do you say…”

You could feel yourself shiver, but it had nothing to do with the cold, which you had long forgotten. You worried about overstepping, about saying the wrong thing and making the situation awkward and uncomfortable.

“How do you ask someone to—to kiss you?” You asked anyway.

You saw a flash of something in his eyes.

He paused, tucking your hair behind your ear and letting his fingers trace down your jawline until he could hook a finger under your chin.

“Küss mich.” He scanned your features, watching for a response.

“Küss mich…” You stared back at him, your lips parted.

You felt dazed, but it wasn’t unwelcome; there was a heat in your lower stomach, and it grew with every twitch of his fingers against your skin and with every word he spoke.

“Braves Mädchen.” His words were muttered as he leaned into you, capturing your lips with his and kissing you.

You squeaked, clawing at his chest before slowly reaching around him to pull him closer by the nape of his neck. You could feel his pulse, the quick thrum of his heart pushing against his skin almost as intensely as your own.

The kiss was covetous. He wasted no time pushing his tongue into your mouth, eager to taste every part of you; and you were eager to let him. You cupped the back of his head, pulling him into you, and he perched his hands on your waist, manipulating your body slowly until you were on top of him.

The position was awkward, but you could hardly notice when you were so focused on him. His touch was so warm, and you felt yourself melting beneath his palms; your skin was on fire, but it was a happily received blaze.

The chill of the room that had crept into your bones was long gone, replaced by the heat of his grip on your body.

You trailed your hands over him, taking in the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was so large, muscular in a comforting way, and you whimpered softly against his lips when he gave your hip a squeeze.

“So long,” König mumbled against your jaw, “Have waited so long.”

“For this?” You breathed, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the way his hands trailed over you.

“For you.” He growled, pressing kisses to your throat.

You giggled at the feeling, his lips tickling your pulse point, but he didn’t stop—if anything, it just spurred him on.

“Liebling,” he spoke against the sensitive skin of your neck, “Meine Kleine. Do you know how you tease?”

“I d—I don’t tease, Colonel.” You moaned when he sucked a bruise into your neck.

“You are doing it now,” he tsked, “Telling me no hands—if that is what you want, shall I stop, ja?”

“No...” You whined; the thought of him removing himself from you now was deeply upsetting.

König huffed a laugh against your throat, straightening back up to meet your gaze again.

“Always teasing,” he reiterated as he brought his hand to your face, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “In these silly clothes when I invite you to bed with me.”

“Off—” Your plea came out rushed and unfinished, “Take them off, then.”

He laughed louder now, pleased by your zeal.

“Greedy maus,” he ran his thumb over your cheek, “Move, then—I will help.”

You scrambled to push yourself off of him, sitting up and waiting to see what he’d do—whether you’d be faced with further instructions, or if he’d simply take the opportunity to strip you as you’d asked him to.

He sat up with you, studying you as you clamored to kneel next to him on the mattress.

“Come.” He beckoned you, and you shuffled forward until your face was mere inches from his.

He caressed your sides, and despite the gentle, chaste nature of the touch, you whimpered softly. König curled his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head slowly—almost teasingly, as he exposed your top half.

It wasn’t out of any urge to taunt you, he was just so thrilled to be able to see you bare yourself to him; to scan every inch of your flesh.

He tossed the shirt to the side, and you made a mental note to grab it later so you didn’t leave without it.

“Back,” he instructed, pressing on your shoulder to encourage you to lie down, and you obliged happily. “Raise your hips, Kleine.”

You pushed yourself off the mattress awkwardly, trying to give him the space he needed to strip you of the final bits of fabric.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your thermals, huffing impatiently when he realized that you had underwear on beneath the thermal layer. But he chuckled as he peeled both articles of clothing down your legs, and you let out a quiet gasp as the cool air of the room hit your core.

“So eager,” he tutted, tossing your bottoms in the same direction he’d thrown your top. “Just a touch. You are so easy to please.”

“Shut up…” You muttered, turning your head to the side to hide your satisfaction.

He grunted, bringing his hand to your face and squeezing your cheeks as he moved your head to look up at him again.

“Cruel girl—this is no way to talk to your Colonel.” The cold blue of his eyes somehow seemed to turn red hot; demanding and predatory.

“König—” you stuttered, “Colonel. Please.”

“What would you like, Kleine?” He kept his hand on your face, enjoying the way his palm swallowed you. “Be honest.”

“Fuck me,” you breathed, “Want you to fuck me.”

Upon hearing your words, he laughed, removing his hand from your face and trailing it over your exposed breasts.

“Fuck you? Already?” He kneaded the plush flesh of your chest. “We will be here all night, meine Liebe—I want to enjoy you.”

“Now you’re teasing.” You whined, arching your body into his touch.

“No,” he shook his head with a smirk, his eyes never leaving your chest as he groped you. “I will make you feel nice.”

With that, he leaned over you. His tongue followed a messy trail over your tits; circling your nipples before pressing his lips against the pillowy skin to suck deep marks into you. He treated it like a game—a meal, even, as he nipped at you, learning and memorizing what would make you squirm beneath him.

When he grazed his teeth over your nipple, you let out a sharp moan, reaching down to press his face further into your chest.

“No hands.” He mumbled into your skin, and you sighed dreamily.

“Think we’re past that…” You let your other hand wander over his shoulder blade.

“We are not,” he pushed himself off of you, forcing your hands away as he rose. He found enough balance to grab both your wrists, pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head. “You must listen when I say these things, Kleine.”

You whimpered, nodding an affirmative.

“Do you understand?” He looked down at you, “You will tell me. Speak.”

“Yes,” you nodded again, swallowing. “I understand, Colonel.”

He let go of your wrists, and his chest heaved; with lust or pride, you couldn’t tell, but it was likely a combination of both.

As he pushed himself down the bed, he couldn’t seem to separate himself from your body; pressing his face, his lips, into your skin; murmuring against you as if he wanted your bones to hear the filth that fell from his mouth.

“Such a pretty girl,” he mouthed just beneath your navel, “Finally behaved.” 

You bucked your hips, trying to encourage him to bring his mouth down to where you needed it most. But he bypassed your cunt completely, situating himself between your legs and biting at your thighs, only eyeing your core.

“Maus…” He sighed the petname, pressing kisses to your inner thigh before finally releasing his grasp on your leg. “So wet from kisses?”

He leaned forward, as if to drown his senses in you; your scent and your image, he wanted to appreciate it fully.

“Pathetic, a bit, mm?” He swiped a finger through your folds, collecting your slick, and you whimpered. “So desperate, to drip like this…”

“König,” you were whispering, afraid to warp the charged atmosphere. “You can do anything; just do something.”

He laughed at that, basking in the pleas you directed towards him as he removed his hand from your cunt and pressed a kiss to your clit.

“Schlampe.”

He buried his face against you, pushing his tongue into your entrance and lapping up the slick that dripped from your core.

You moaned, raising your hips off the mattress in an effort to find even more friction. König pressed down on your hips, effectively pinning you to the bed; holding you captive with his grasp and the movement of his mouth.

“Sweet engel,” he moaned against your cunt, “You taste like heaven, Kleine.”

“Fuck—” His actions were one thing, but his words hit you hard; it felt like forever since you’d been with someone who showed so much enthusiasm.

His gruff moans as he lapped you up only served to push you further towards the precipice of total pleasure, and you could feel yourself teetering over the edge already.

“You are so excited, Liebling,” König groaned bringing a hand up to press two thick fingers against your entrance. “Wetting my face this way, but still too tight for my hand.”

He began to nudge your hole, letting his fingers circle your entrance before sinking into you. He went as far as the first knuckle before stopping.

“Scheiße,” he cursed as he watched your cunt struggle around his fingers, “How will you take my cock, Kleine?”

You whimpered at the way his fingers stretched you; penetrating you shallowly, but enough to make you feel so full.

“You can—I’ll—I can take it,” you stammered, “Please, Colonel, make me take it.”

“Bitte…” König’s moan neared a whimper, pushing his fingers deeper into you. He bucked his hips against the mattress in response to your words and the filthy squelch of your cunt around his hand. “Whatever it is you want, maus, I will do for you.”

“More,” you begged softly, “Want more.”

He smirked, more to himself than to you, and continued his ministrations.

He wrapped his lips around your clit, flicking his tongue over you as he fucked you with his fingers. Whenever he heard you let out a soft gasp, he increased his pace.

“Probably one more can fit,” he spoke against your pubic mound, his lips finding purchase on your body again and exploring more of you with his tongue as he threatened your entrance with another finger. “Ja, Kleine?”

“Yes—another one.” You were so hot, maybe even sweating as he worked you open, but the flush of your skin did nothing to discourage you from whimpering for his hand. 

He pushed a third finger into you, and the stretch made your body contort; your back arched and your legs tensed. The pads of his fingers danced over your most delicate spot as he thrust them in and out of you.

The pressure in your abdomen was immense, but damn, if it didn’t feel amazing.

And he was thrilled by you. Every sound you made and every clench of your walls around him made König feel lightheaded, grinding himself down against the bed just for a moment of relief; imagining the pure bliss that would be getting to bury himself inside of you.

He could feel his boxers growing damp, the tip of his cock crying for you, just as you cried out for him.

“Little thing, so tight,” he was moaning, his sounds almost as eager as your own as he lay his head on your thigh to watch his fingers work you open. “Verdammt, Schatz—bitte, bitte, cum on my hand like this.”

He dipped his head down to lick the slick that coated his fingers, gradually moving his tongue so that it dragged over his fingers and up to your clit. He sucked the bud between his lips, and you white-knuckled the pillow beneath your head with both hands, the pleasure overwhelming to the point that it was almost too much.

You came with a cry of his name, just as you always did; but this time he was there with you to hear it; this time he was the one manipulating you to feel the rush of ecstasy.

“Hübsche Hure…” König continued to push his fingers in and out of you, determined to push you to the brink and see just how much you could take as your legs trembled from the overstimulation. “So good for your Colonel. So good to let me prepare you.”

You keened under his praise, your eyelids heavy. When he removed his fingers from you, you regained your senses as the pleasure that had wound itself so tightly around your muscles began to dissipate, leaving you in a hazy state of fucked-out bliss and feeling empty.

You reached down to brush your knuckles over his cheek, and he closed his eyes when your hand made contact with him, still resting on your thigh.

“You will look so pretty wrapped around me, Liebling.” He murmured, turning his face and kissing your hand.

He’d seemed to have forgotten about his previous request that you keep your hands to yourself—that, or he was too drunk off of you to care, content with the domestic gesture of your fingers trailing over his skin.

“Show me,” you whispered, the dull ache his fingers had left in your core swelled at his words, and you found yourself squeezing your thighs together in anticipation. “I want more.”

“Eine Schlampe tut es immer,” he muttered. He moved to lick up your thigh, savoring the slick that had gathered there to make your skin shiny and syrupy. “You will stay like that.”

You nodded, watching him perch himself on the edge of the bed before he stood.

You almost felt like you should avert your gaze; he fiddled with the waistband of his boxers, and you noticed the slick spot on the fabric that highlighted his need for you. It flooded you with a new wave of arousal—to want and to be wanted was such a tremendous thing.

But it was when he removed his boxers that you felt your breath hitch, eyes widening slightly in an almost comic way before you turned your head to stare up at the ceiling.

You had figured his mentions of readying you were just rooted in König being typically boastful. But the image of his cock, hard and weeping and big, as it sprung free from the confines of his boxers made you recognize that his preparatory measures were warranted.

Your mouth watered, but you maintained your gaze on the ceiling.

“Look,” König approached the edge of the bed, “Look at me, Kleine.”

You didn’t really need to be told twice, shifting onto your side to admire him; big might’ve been an understatement, and your lips parted as you lay still, just staring.

“Touch.” The harshness in his voice as he delivered the command was undercut by the tender way he reached for your hand and guided it to his cock.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, and König let out a short sound of approval. It made you feel powerful, to have a man like him by the cock, to be forcing such sweet noises up from his chest.

But mostly it just made you want even more.

“Bitte,” he bucked his hips leisurely into your hand, your dry palm creating the friction he’d been chasing, “Your mouth, engel. Taste.”

You hummed at his request, leaning forward to lick circles over the head of his cock. The sound that came from his throat was choked, stifled as best he could manage when you took the tip beyond your lips and hollowed your cheeks.

“Oh—Gott,” he tilted his head back, eyes closing as he relished the way you wrapped your lips around him. “Perfekter kleiner mund.”

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, but you knew enough to know that he liked what you were doing, and it spurred you on.

You leaned further into him, trying your best to take more of him into your mouth and down your throat. A bit less than halfway down his shaft, you found yourself gagging; spluttering around him as you jerked the rest of his length in your hand. He grunted out a curse, bringing a hand to your hair and tugging gently at your roots.

“Very nice, maus,” he groaned when you glanced up at him, lips still wrapped around his cock, choking on him. “Take it deeper.”

You lifted yourself off of him, drooling.

“Too much…” You croaked out, “Too—too big. I can’t.”

It felt so conformist to say; expected, like an actress in a porno, faking it for the camera. And despite the fact that the words that left your mouth seemed almost cringeworthy, what you said was true: there was no way you'd be able to manage taking all of him.

But you loved a challenge.

“I was not asking,” he tsked, tightening his grip on your hair and earning a moan that traveled from your mouth in a breathy puff. “Put your mouth back. I will help.”

You whimpered, rubbing your thighs together as you lowered yourself back onto his cock and wrapped your lips around him. His authoritative nature on the field was always more attractive than it should’ve been, but this took the cake.

König fucked into your mouth like it was a toy, guiding you up and down over his cock, using your hair like a handle as he pulled you over his length.

You choked, spit and tears mingling on your face and dripping down his length, and he seemed to enjoy the sight as much as you enjoyed the feeling; his moans grew louder, the image of you helpless under his grasp getting him off in equal measure as the feeling of your mouth on his stiff cock.

He pulled you off abruptly, removing his grip from your hair and trailing his hand from behind your head to perch on your cheek. He wiped stray tears from your face with his thumb.

“I will cum if we keep playing this way, Kleine,” he panted, “And I would rather fill your cunt.”

You moaned wantonly at his words alone; he spoke so plainly, clear about his intentions, and you whimpered at the notion of having him spill inside of you.

“Fuck me, then,” you sighed, using the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. You took on a playful cadence, “Don’t keep me waiting, König.”

“Not waiting,” he shook his head, grabbing you by the chin and forcing your eyes on him. “Preparing.”

“Show me what you were preparing me for, Colonel.” You smirked, watching his face contort in arousal and a smug sense of assuredness.

He didn’t hesitate to climb onto the bed and hover over you, pressing a kiss to your chest just above your breasts before settling between your legs.

“You are impatient,” he muttered, “I only wanted to make you comfortable, Liebling.”

He held your hip in a vice grip, tugging you down the bed a bit to line himself up with you.

“No complaints when you are given what you have begged for.” He looked down at you, under obvious strain from his desire; his eyes had grown shadowy to the point of turning gray in the dim light of the room.

He ran his cockhead through your folds, grunting at the feeling of your slick mingling with the spit you had left coating his cock. He pushed his hips further, breaching your entrance with a groan.

Your hips moved on their own accord, rising to meet him, as you mewled.

“Ja, gut,” he moaned, “You need more—you need it all.” König kept his eyes glued on your cunt, watching his cock disappear into you.

He was growing impatient, sinking into you slowly had him gritting his teeth and breathing hard. You, too, felt restless at the pace; you could feel the stretch so viscerally, the pressure of his cock against your walls, the pain that faded into pleasure, and you craved more—you craved everything he had to give you. All of it.

“König,” you whined beneath him, squirming slightly, “Give it to me—I won’t break.”

“And if I want you to?” He queried, his voice low and wolfish.

You whimpered. It wasn’t often you felt vulnerable; guns strapped to your hip and a legion of other soldiers behind you. But now you felt exposed, prey waiting for the final act, and you relished in it.

“Do it.” You begged, waiting to see what he would do with the permission you gave him.

You didn’t have to wait long; König thrust his hips forward until they pressed against your own. He bottomed out with a whine, knocking the air from your lungs.

You cried out, full and stretched in such a foreign way. But you wrapped your legs around his hips as you writhed beneath him, locked in a battle with your pleasure.

“So tight,” he was panting, whimpering; six-foot-ten and easily 200 pounds heavier than you, and all it took for König to completely lose his edge was the feeling of your cunt wrapped so deliciously around him. “You—Scheiße, you are swollen with me.”

He traced a hand over your stomach, pressing against the bulge his cock produced, and you moaned at the sinful gesture.

He was just as overcome with lust, entranced by the image of your body squeezing around him, opening for him like a toy. He seemed so content to simply look and feel for a moment, but you grew impatient.

“König…” You pressed your heel against his back, trying to express your urgent need for him to move, to speak—to do anything that would let the pleasure spring free from the coil that had begun to tighten itself so harshly in your abdomen.

He swallowed, nodding in a manner that made it seem as though your words had brought him back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, hesitant to leave the warmth of your cunt, and you whimpered; you could feel every vein, and the round head of his cock dragged against your walls to further overstimulate your core. You bucked your hips, chasing the feeling.

“Oh, meine Liebling,” he shuddered, “Du willst es verdammt nochmal, eh?” He rumbled, drawing his hips back until the tip of his cock just barely penetrated you. “I will give it to you, Kleine.”

He pushed himself back into you just as harshly as he had the first time, and again you screamed for him, grabbing at his forearms and clawing at his skin in an attempt to ground yourself before the bliss became too much for you to handle.

“You want to break?” He muttered in your ear, his labored breaths fanning the side of your face, “Then you will break.”

“It—oh my god, König, please—” You pushed your head back against the pillows, angling your body closer to his to allow him free reign over you. “Fuck, it’s so much—so fucking—please.”

“Was willst du, Kleine?” He cooed, licking over of your collar bone, “You would like more?”

“M—more,” you managed, “Yes. More.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning at your stammered pleas, and he was more than willing to deliver.

He straightened up, grabbing you by the hips and practically hauling your bottom half up like you were a ragdoll; you whined, loosening your legs around his waist as he was clearly able to support you on his own.

He fucked into you like a toy, like your body was for him and him alone to use in whatever manner pleased him, and you relished in the control he exhibited over you.

“Tiefer,” he grit his teeth as he forced himself into you roughly, “You are easy to use this way, schlampe—so beautiful. Take all of my cock, engel, be good for your Colonel.”

You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a verbal reply. You stared up at him with lust-blown eyes, expressing your feelings through heady moans as he pushed the air from you.

You couldn’t help the way your hand meandered from its spot beside your head, leaving its home in the fabric of the pillow to trail down your body so that you could brush your fingers over your clit while König ravished you. You just needed that little push, the outer stimulation to match what he offered you, so that you could free-fall into satisfaction.

And perhaps he’d changed his mind about disallowing you to touch—he hadn’t disputed the way you’d grabbed at his arms when he’d sunk into you. Besides, he seemed too focused on your cunt to worry about any previous demands. Either way, there was only one sure-fire method to find out.

But König wasn’t pleased by the initiative you took. He dropped you, pressing one hand roughly against your hip bone to keep you still as his other hand flew to your wrist.

You yelped at the suddenness, but you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t been the reaction you’d wanted.

He stared, almost in shock, at your hand, your fingers still grazing your clit, before practically throwing your arm back to your side and leaning over you, looming.

“No hands,” he pressed his body against yours, engulfing you, “You have not listened, Kleine.” He thrust shallowly into you, not able to stop himself from appreciating the way you felt on his cock despite his urgency in chastising you.

“I thought—” you searched for an excuse, “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

He chuckled lowly, glaring in a manner that seemed to border on tender.

“I think you are lying,” he accused, “I think you enjoy being treated like this. You are testing me, schlampe.”

You let out a shaky, needy breath in response to his assertion.

“I’m sorry, Colonel.” You mewled, moving to clasp your hands behind your head in an attempt to show him you had seen the error of your ways.

“I do not want your apology,” he grunted, his thrusts increasing in pace suddenly as he planted his hands on either side of you. “I want your pleasure.” He smiled down at you, leering at the way your face contorted in tandem with the way your body contorted to allow the intrusion of his cock. “I would like to feel it.”

He moved to rest on one forearm above you, his free arm snaking between your bodies to replace your hand with his own on your clit.

His fingers were so much bigger than yours, and he was somewhat clumsy as he rubbed circles over you. But the pressure was exquisite all the same, and he pulled new sounds from you that rose from your chest in appreciation of the friction he was granting you.

“Bitte,” he had once again begun speaking through whines, “Bitte, meine Liebe, let me feel how your cunt squeezes. Wet me with your cum—bitte.”

His broken requests, intercut with guttural grunts and whimpered groans, flooded you with heat. He pressed down on your clit right as he pushed his cock deep into you, lifting his hips upward to create an angle that allowed him to press against your most delicate spot.

You tried to stifle the sound that flew from your throat, and found yourself screaming silently into the room as you came.

“O—oh, bitte,” König’s hips stuttered against you, his head falling back as he reeled from the impact your orgasm had on him. “Ja, I—oh, bitte, bitte—”

He let himself fall forward, crushing you under his frame—though the weight of his body was comforting as you trembled through the aftershocks of your high. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, moaning wantonly as he approached his own release.

“Engel, meine Kleine—perfektes Mädchen,” he was only partially coherent as he licked a stripe up your throat. “I—I will fill you, ja? Bitte, would you let me fill you this way?”

“Please, König,” you breathed, overjoyed by the promise of being able to feel his cum leak from your spent cunt. “Cum in me, I want it—I want it, Colonel, please.”

He growled, reaching his tipping point upon hearing your words, beautiful sounds of approval falling from your lips as you expressed your eagerness at the prospect of him finishing inside your perfect cunt.

He came with a loud moan, guttural and sourced from his chest; his hips stuttered erratically against you as he let your cunt milk him.

You whimpered beneath him, accepting the warmth of his spend as it painted your walls.

He stayed on top of you, both of you taking a moment to recalibrate and catch your breath. When your pulse settled, you took the chance and wrapped an arm around him, trailing your fingers in vague patterns over his shoulder blade.

“König,” you whispered, voice hoarse, “You’re a great Colonel, but you’re a fantastic lay.”

 He rested his chin on your chest, staring up at you. He seemed to translate your words at a much slower speed than he normally would.

He shot you a smug look when it finally clicked.

“I am glad I meet your standards,” he sighed, pressing his cheek into your skin and letting the sweat that beaded over you cool his face. “Are you tired, maus?”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t have lied even if you wanted to; your muscles felt loose, and your body sunk into the suddenly cozy mattress.

“Sleep.” He shuffled down your body, maneuvering one of your legs over his shoulders and slotting his face between your thighs.

“What are you doing?” You smiled down at him, and he looked back at you with bright, eager eyes.

“I would like to clean the mess I made.” He replied in a tone that made it seem as though his plan should have been obvious to you.

You hummed, squeezing his head lightly with your thighs.

“Mm...so the mask is really just a muzzle, hm?” You mused.

“We will be here all night,” König smiled, nipping at your thigh as he reiterated his earlier words. “I want to enjoy you.”

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Idk if you wright for him. But sense I saw you wrote DMC Dante x reader...... Could you possibly do a White Rabbit x reader but..... The reader is kind of like his 'Alice' or smth......

A/n: Excellent...low key feel like this man would have a breeding kink

The room is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the small table lamp casting a warm, amber glow. You sit comfortably on the couch, a book resting in your lap, though your eyes keep drifting away from the pages. The sound of passing cars lingered out side the window.

And yet here you were — his Alice.

White Rabbit stands a few feet away, his back to you, adjusting the cravat around his neck with delicate, almost dainty fingers. Despite the mask, you can sense his focus — the meticulous way he straightens every ruffle, smooths every seam. You can’t help but smile as a soft hum escaped your lips.

"You don't need to do that you know."

He pauses, head tilting slightly in your direction, the light glinting off his glasses. “It’s not for you, Alice,” he says, his tone playful but with a soft undertone of affection. “It’s for me. Gotta keep up appearances, after all.” That was a lie of course, while he was still adjusting to this, to your love the man was still scared that you'd leave him.

You hum, leaning back against the couch. “I still prefer you without it.” You snap the book shut giving him a coy smile. "Don't get me wrong, you're handsome like that but with the mask off you are sexy as fuck

White Rabbit’s hands still, his fingers lingering on the ruffles around his wrists. His shoulders tense for a moment before he lets out a soft, almost reluctant sigh followed by a snort. Slowly, he turns to face you, his mask catching the light, casting a faint shadow across his stitched scars. "Do you truly feel that way?"

You nod, patting the spot next to you. “Come here.”

He hesitates, those bright yellow-orange eyes studying you intently. There’s something vulnerable in his gaze, a flicker of uncertainty that has your chest tightening.But he moves. He moves with that same fluid grace, folding himself down onto the couch beside you. He’s careful, as if afraid to touch you too much, to get too close. But you don’t let him stay distant for long.

You reach up, fingers brushing the edges of his mask, and he stiffens. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “Let me see you.”

A shiver runs through him, but he nods, the movement jerky, tense. You gently lift the mask, sliding it off his face. Beneath, his dark hair falls in unruly waves, framing a face marked with scars, stitches that wind over his cheekbones, down his jaw. His eyes, now unobscured by the lenses, are even more intense — molten gold, sharp and yet so terribly soft.

You place the mask aside, then cup his face, thumbs brushing over the stitched seams. His breath catches, and he leans into your touch like a man starved.

“Better,” you whisper. “My White Rabbit...my love”

His eyes flutter closed, and when he breathes out, it’s a soft, broken sound. “Yours,” he echoes, his voice a rasp, a prayer.

You press your forehead against his, feeling the steady thrum of his artificial heart beneath your palms. “Always,” you say, fingers trailing down to rest over his chest, where the demon blood pulses in time with his heartbeat. “Always, my White Rabbit.”

His arms come around you then, pulling you close, and he buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You let him, fingers combing gently through his hair, grounding him, holding him, loving him.

“And you’re beautiful,” he countered easily, his nose then brushing against yours, his eyes half-lidded and intent. “My Alice, the only one who’s ever made me forget the chaos. You’re my wonderland.”

His hand moved to cup the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your ear. The world seemed to fade away, the distant sounds of the city drowned out by the rapid pounding of your heart.

Your heart ached at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your breath catch. Before you could respond, his lips found yours in a soft, lingering kiss. His hand slipped to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle, unhurried rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours, a rare vulnerability shining through. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “In this mad world?”

You smiled, leaning up to press another soft kiss to his lips. “Always, White Rabbit. Always.”

He exhaled a soft breath, his smile widening as he pressed his forehead against yours once more. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go, Alice. Not ever.”

Because that’s what you are to him. His Alice. The one thing that keeps him tethered to the light.

[salemrph]

Comfort chain

Image source on X

Summary: Let the still night wash over you, sink into the depth of the water and your feeling.

Character: Sylus & MC/You

Genre: romantic, fluff, intimacy

Word count: 1.1k | Reading Time: 4 min |

Is late, is always late with Sylus. His lunch breaks are your midnight snacks. His cool-downs your warm-ups. Sometimes you work out together, pushing each other until sweat glistens and laughter spills between sets. Other times you simply watch.

Earlier, while Sylus boxed with the twins, you’d slipped off to the pool. The soft ripple of water, Mephisto’s wings rustling lazily from his hammock nearby, the simple sounds came together in a way that was oddly calming. You could’ve turned on music through the underwater speakers, but tonight, silence felt better. Just the rhythm of your breath, the splash of your arms breaking the surface, and the subtle echo of movement beneath. You swam your laps, long, even strokes, letting the day slide off your shoulders.

Sink and dive from side to side, while your lungs burn from holding your breath. You never know when it'll come in handy to train your lung capacity underwater. You could consider yourself a bit of a workaholic, and surely more than one of your colleagues would nod and pull out the table of missions you've done this month in excess. So the captain sends you home more than once for several days to relax. You sigh. Despite wanting to get back into action, you are at peace. You loved this sensation, this strange, grounding knowing that everything was how it should be.

Then you floated. Just that. Silently, weightless in the water. You felt satisfied. Floating, staring up at the clear night sky, your thoughts began to loosen. Pain, worries, friends, work, life… it all blurred at the edges and faded for a moment. There was only water. And peace. Your body swaying with the soft rhythm of the water, the stars above flickering faintly in the night sky.

The feeling of freedom that came with not wearing a swimsuit was strangely comforting. As the air bubbles seep through all your natural folds. There was something sacred in letting the water have you like that, enveloping you without barriers. So you closed your eyes and exhaled long enough to relax your muscle.

After a while, when your toes had already begun to wrinkle in the water—you heard the soft sound of the pool door opening.

Sylus stepped, already barefoot, in with a slow smile, still in his workout gear, his hair slightly damp with sweat.

Even in the dim light, you caught the way his gaze swept over you. You weren’t sure how he noticed so quickly—how he always noticed—but the moment he did, his smile widened.

“Can I join you, my love?”

You shifted in the water, folding your arms loosely over your chest, not for modesty, not really, you just wanted to play coy. You met his gaze and returned his smile. “Be my guest.”

With unhurried movements, Sylus peeled off his black tank top and tossed it onto the bench nearby. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts, sliding them down in one smooth motion. He stepped toward the rinse-off station, running a hand through his hair as the cool water washed away the sweat from his training. Naked he walked toward the edge of the pool, eyes never leaving yours. 

Then he slipped in, causing light waves as he approached you. He reached, and without a word, he pressed his body gently against yours beneath the water. One of his hands slid along your arm, fingers finding yours and gently lacing them together beneath the surface. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth as he leaned in. He placed a so tender loving kiss, making you feel the most loved person in the world.

Your lips parted for him instinctively, your free hand resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat. 

“You look peaceful” he murmured. 

“I am,” you whispered “It’s easy to be… here.”

“Here?” he echoed, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“With you.”

“I like when you say things like that,” he said softly. 

You shifted slightly, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your bare skin press to his in the most unassuming, natural way. Sylus adjusted to you, his hands resting lightly at your lower back, thumbs moving in quiet circles. The movement was unspoken, like dancing but so lazy and slow. Meant for no one but each other.

“You’re being very soft tonight,” you murmured, nose brushing his.

“Mm. That's a complaint?”

“Maybe.”

“Liar,” he said with a smile, tilting his head to nip at your jaw, then soften it with a kiss. “You melt every time I get like this.”

You sighed dramatically. “Only a little.”

He laughed softly. The kind of sound you wanted to bottle and keep on a shelf. Above you, stars shimmered in the open skylight, the whole city far below. Up here, in this quiet apartment on top of the world, it was just the two of you. Naked in the water.

“The Moon is beautiful isn't it?” he says. You followed his gaze to the massive windows above, as he looks back at you.

You tilted your head slightly, smirking.

“You know, I’ve heard you say that multiple times, Sy.” You poked him lightly in the cheek. “To be clear, I’m not complaining…” He huffed, amused but trying to keep the act. “…But are you really going to keep saying it that way?”

His lips twitched. “What do you think I’m saying, kitten?”

You arched a brow. “Playing dumb now, mister?”

He leaned in, brushing your nose with his. “No…”

His voice dropped, softer now, deeper.

“…I’m just waiting to see if you’ll say it back.”

Your hand slid up to cup his face, fingertips brushing the sharp line of his jaw.

“Do you know why I like the pool at night?” you asked softly, eyes not leaving his.

Sylus raised a brow, slightly thrown by the change in direction, but he didn’t pull away. “Tell me.” You smiled.

“Because it feels like the world finally shuts up. Like everything outside this room… stops mattering. When I’m here like this, wrapped around you, stars above me, water holding me up. I feel like I can breathe again. Like I’m safe.” 

With your left hand, you reached for his fingers, lacing together beneath the surface. The golden evol linkage shimmered faintly underwater, glowing like a hidden thread. You're connected in all aspects to him. In such a way, that moves beyond of just begin chained to him. And somehow it felt like home.

Your voice caught, but you didn’t shy away from it.

“I guess what I’m saying is…” You leaned in, your lips brushing his closely “...the moon’s really beautiful tonight.” He exhaled, a breathless laugh slipping past his lips. 

“You’re…” he whispered, and whatever words he meant to follow with vanished into the kiss that came next.

----

Go to MASTERLIST

[conchcronch]

My Turn

WC: 2816

Pairing: Spite x Fem!Rook

Summary: Lucanis accidentally fell asleep which leads Spite to take over when you come to spend the evening together.

Warnings: a little bit DUB CON but it gets cleared up towards the end.

A/N: PLEASE send me prompts for Lucanis and Spite x Rook, I’m obsessed.

The lack of a moon and stars in the Fade had unsettled you since your first night at the Lighthouse. The sky was lit as though there were some sort of light source but you could never find one as you walked from the main building out to the farthest room at the end of the courtyard. What had originally been your dining hall had been taken over by the Crow, feeling most at comfort in the dank pantry, not something you could fully understand but you also had no intention of questioning it more then you already had.

The door was unlocked, the fire lit in between the two wolf statues. Your partner was not leaning against the mantle as you had expected, but the flickering of candles through the pantry/bedroom door quickly hinted at where he likely was. You noticed freshly brewed coffee, two mugs set out, anticipating your arrival. You cleared the distance from the door to the counter in the small, dark kitchen. Taking your time prepping the coffee, leaving his black so he could taste the flavor notes of this particular blend, but pouring a decent amount of milk in your mug, the thought of leaving yours black made you grimace.

With mugs of coffee in hand you walked past the fireplace, the warmth wrapping around your legs making the cold of the back bedroom all the more jarring. His back was to you, the candle light flickering, distorting his shadow as it danced across the wall. “I brought you coffee, it might be a little cold, but I can warm it up if you want.” You took a quick sip of yours as you held his outstretched, his back still to you.

“Not now” a wave of his hand made you cock an eyebrow but put the mug down on a small shelf nevertheless. You leaned your back against the sturdy oak shelving, sipping your coffee as you tried to output enough fire magic from your palm to warm the ceramic mug rather then ignite it. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable despite being slightly out of character for him. Ever since the blighted dragon attacked Tarviso he had been different, the sight of such a beast in a town that he and his family were fighting so hard to save must have proved to him just how delicate it really was.

His weight shifted from foot to foot, his hand under his chin, toying with his beard as he so often did when deep in thought. “Neve is still gone” the silence had stretched on much too long for your liking, your anxiety gnawing at you as you watched him. You were hoping he’d reassure you, tell you you had no choice but to make the impossible call, to thank you for choosing his city over her’s. But instead he just stood there, silent, unmoving. “I’m worried she might not come back, Bellara says she will, but honestly I’m not sure I would if I were her.” You tipped your head further back, the last mouthful of coffee warming your throat as you put your mug on the shelf next to his. “Lucanis,” He didn’t budge at the use of his name, his shoulders barely even moving as he breathed. You stepped closer to him, your hand out in front of you to touch his shoulder. “If now’s not a good time I ca-“ He felt cooler to the touch, even through the layers of his shirt and vest, it was as though his body was giving off no heat.

“Smells like waterlily.” The voice was his, but not entirely. His accent was present but the pitch off, the tone heightened. You tensed, preparing yourself for whatever was to come next. Finally the body of your partner turned, his eyes glowing purple as you’ve seen only a handful of times before.

“Spite” The name feels sharp in your mouth, your tone giving away your hesitation. He leaned forward, sniffing you closer and you remained glued in place. He stepped forward, close enough you could wrap your arms around him if you really wanted to. You can feel his breath on your neck as he inhaled your scent deeply, his face was so close to your skin you swear you could feel his lips against you for the briefest of seconds.

“You came to us for pleasure” You felt your face flush, of course it wasn’t your only intention, but you certainly weren’t going to turn it down if one thing led to another, but your relationship was still fairly new, and despite your longing for a physical component you weren’t intending to push those boundaries. But for your desires to be so bluntly outed there was a wave of embarrassment that washed over you.

“Let me talk to Lucanis.” You stepped back, crossing your arms over your chest but not missing the way the demon’s purple eyes dragged down your form.

“It’s my turn with you.” You couldn't deny how impressed you were at Spite’s fairly calm demeanor, after listening to many of Lucanis’ one sided conversations with the demon you had expected him to be bordering on feral when speaking directly to him.

”Spite, I want to talk to Lucanis.” You added a bit more force to your tone, hoping the demon would grow tired of your insistence and go back to wherever it is he resides when Lucanis is in control. But when you felt hands on your hips, tugging you against the body you so desperately craved it took you a beat before you were struggling against the grip.

His lips were on your neck, lapping more than kissing. Groaning as he did so, every lick finishing with a gravelly moan, his hips rutting against your side as his hands balled the cotton of your shirt. “sp-pite- fuck” You tried to convince yourself to push away from him, but your longing for the Crow was fogging your brain. You could feel your core pulse, his tongue working wonders along your sensitive neck and the slightly distorted moans were making it difficult to resist.

“Spite” You tried to say but it ended up coming out as a whine rather than a demand, receiving what could only be referred to as a purr instead of a hum.

“Can smell how wet you are, Rook” The way he purred your name forced you to swallow a moan. Before you were able to even notice him walking you backwards, your back was against the stone wall of his makeshift bedroom. His fingers trying to unbutton the top clasp of your navy casual shirt, bought from a Crow vendor Lucanis had brought you to not that long ago. His patience lasted about as long as it took you to blink before he ripped the garment open, buttons falling to the ground around your feet.

Before you could chastise him about the now ruined shirt, the words died in your throat the moment his hands were on your bare waist. His blunt, well manicured nails dug into your skin, as he pressed your body against the wall, his lips finally on yours.

This wasn’t the first kiss you and Lucanis would have shared, but it certainly was the most heated. Every kiss with Lucanis had stopped before it went anywhere, his lips pulling away as soon as you tried to deepen it, never giving a reason but always retreating afterwards. But the way Spite kissed you, the way his tongue invaded your mouth, marking what you knew he’d refer to as his territory. You were trapped between him and the wall, his hands slipped down from your waist until he could roughly grab your ass, keeping your hips against his as he rutted against you, moans and grunts flowing from his mouth every time it wasn’t covered by your own lips.

“Had to…” He spoke into your mouth, his words fading as though he forgot he was even speaking “had to watch him. Watch him kiss you. Terribly.”

“Spite” you tried to sound as though his sentence offended, but it ended up coming out far more breathy than intended.

“Could smell you. Can always smell you. I always tell him. Tell him you want this. But he never listens to me.” He’s back to your neck, lapping at your skin, dragging his tongue down to your collarbones, his hands kneading the fat of your ass.

”Spite, I think- ah- I think it’s Lucanis’ turn.” Spite laughed against you, biting at your collar hard enough you weren’t sure if he had drawn blood or not.

“He’ll stop.” His mouth sank lower, nipping at the tops of your breast, “I know you don’t want to stop. Can smell it.”

“Spite, please.” Reluctantly he pulled away from your chest, your eyes meeting his glowing purple sockets, and somehow you could have sworn you saw his expression soften for a fraction of a second. You reached forward, cupping his cheek as you had done countless times to Lucanis, hoping the demon found the same comfort in it that the Crow did. He pressed his cheek into your palm,

“Will I get. Another turn?” You couldn’t resist nodding, finding yourself thinking how cute he was, despite the fact he was still pressing you against a wall and had torn your shirt in two.

You watched the demon blink, his purple eyes closing and reopening with black pupils, brows furrowed in confusion as he stared into your eyes, blinking a few times as though he was trying to clear sleep from his vision. Lucanis’ breath quickened, immediately trying to assess the situation that he had just woken up in. “Did he hurt you?!” His tone was dripping in anxiety as he stepped away from you, your hand falling from his cheek as he hurriedly looked around.

His eyes moved down your body then back up, pausing before repeating the same thing, slower this time. The tips of his ears burned red as he realized what had happened as he unknowingly slept. “Mierda” He looked down at the buttons that lay around your feet.

It was impossible to not notice how he was straining against his slacks, his eyes everywhere but your gaze. “I-I sho- I should go” You wanted to stop him, grab him by the wrist before he was out of reach, but your mind was still foggy with lust and craving more of what Spite had been giving you, but this time you wanted to feel Lucanis’ lips against you.

You stood there for what felt like an hour but you knew it couldn’t have been that long, leaning back against the wall behind you, hoping the cool stone would help clear your thoughts and bring back some reason.

By the time you went to go find the Crow, the sky surrounding the Lighthouse had shifted to black, the pieces of debris still floating around the buildings as though it were as normal as clouds in the sky. As you climbed the rickety stairs that led to the top of the dining hall you glanced around the courtyard, trying to see if any of your companions were out. You expected to see Emmrick on the balcony of the main house where he so often went at night, taking note of the ethers in the Fade. But tonight there wasn’t a soul outside apart from you, Lucanis and Spite.

He stood at the far side of the roof, bent over the railing, his head hung down so his forehead was resting against his arm. No matter how quietly you approached him, he always knew you were there. You could tell he knew by the way his body stiffened, his shoulders tensing and his head moving so he was looking out over the courtyard.

He needed time, time to figure out what had just happened, how far things had gone, time for his unexpected erection to go away, and time away from your intoxicating scent. But of course you were coming up the wooden steps not long after him.

He tried to pull himself together, locking his eyes on the back of the wolf statue in the middle of the courtyard, the cool ‘night’ air was the only thing that was keeping his cheeks from turning pink again. You stood beside him silently, leaning over the edge of the building, taking in the view of the Lighthouse.

You could feel how uncertain he was, his hands clenched the railing, his posture even straighter than normal as he pretended like he was taking in the sights just as you were. The breeze reminded you of your open shirt, which you tried to hold close with one hand while the other pushed through your bangs in an attempt to ease your uncertainty. “I’m not sure what to say.” You laughed awkwardly, desperate to break the silence that stretched between the two of you.

“Then why say anything.”

“Because I’m worried if I don’t start talking, you might never speak to me again.” You hazarded a look at him from the corner of your eye, hoping to gauge his reaction to some extent, but it remained stoic.

The silence stretched on until the sky darkened even more, the colour the same shade of blue as the Crows’ armor when you first laid eyes on him. You fidgeted anxiously, changing positions over and over again as the time passed, until you had your back to the railing, head up looking for any kind of star above you. “I should have been more careful.” It almost sounded like the words were meant for himself rather than you, as though he were reprimanding himself.

“Why?”

“He could have hurt you…I…I could have hurt you.” You couldn’t stop the little scoff that slipped out, turning to look at him with a smile across your lips, meeting his eyes for the first time since Spite had relinquished control. “Is now really the time to laugh?”

“If you think I couldn’t take you in a fight, you’re sorely mistaken, Crow.” You watched his eyebrow raise, the corner of his mouth following, but only slightly.

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“I don’t know,” You sidestepped, bringing your shoulders closer so you could nudge against him “Why, is it working?”

“This is serious, Rook.” He turned to face you, his hand on his hip as he shifted his weight. “I let my guard down, and you…he forced himself on you.”

“That’s the thing,” You stood up straight, turning to look at him fully while you rubbed at the back of your neck, knowing that the next thing out of your mouth had the potential to end your relationship before it had really started. “He didn’t force himself on me, he more…initiated it, I guess.” You watched his eyes narrow, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together what you were saying. “I could have pushed him away if I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t?” There was an underlying disgust in his voice, as though the thought of being with him was so vile he couldn’t even pretend to understand.

“I didn’t.” The silence left as heavy as the weight of the world that seemed to live on your shoulders. He broke what little eye contact you had held, shifting his weight as he put more of his weight on the railing, his hair slipping from behind his ear.

“Why didn’t you?” His voice was quiet, if there had been even a bit of a breeze, you may have missed his question all together.

“Because I wanted it.” You watched his hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening so you could see his teeth grind. “But I wanted it from you.”

“From me?” You couldn’t stop the small laugh that slipped from your lips at his clearly, surprised tone.

”Lucanis,” You leaned against the small wall, one hand on the railing the other perched on your hip. “This can’t possibly come as a surprise.” He looked over at you, cheeks just a hint of pink.

“I just- I didn’t know you wanted…that.” He dropped his eyes again but not before dragging along the sliver of bare skin he could see between the seams of your torn shirt.

And to think he had touched you, kissed you, dragged his hands down your bare skin, and didn’t get to enjoy even an ounce of it.

“Consider this your formal announcement that, Lucanis-“ You stepped closer to him, waiting a beat before he too straightened, turning to face you so you could press your forehead to his. “I desperately want exactly what Spite was doing. But I want to try it with you.” The only response you received was a low hum that you felt rubble from his chest and into yours as he grabbed your waist and tugged you against him.

[deunmiu-dessie]

ⅲ▬ ⁽ 𝒹𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓃 ⁾²

part one

𝓌𝑜𝓇���� 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ♡︎ : ₇˖₅ₖ ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ♡︎ : mdni----- unedited, NSFW,  explicit content, teratophilia, demon/human, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cunnilingus (both receiving), overstimulation. ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ♡︎: with your escape from your kidnapping, you find yourself now stranded in a world unfamiliar to you, how will you get home?

꒰m!demon ₊⊹ afab!reader꒱

𝒴 ou find yourself lost in thought, pondering how long you've been sitting outside. Your trusty (albeit broken) silver watch stubbornly displays midnight, but time seems irrelevant in this alternate world where minutes stretch into eternity. The rhythmic patter of raindrops keeps you company on the balcony, drawing you in with its soothing melody. Despite the allure of a cozy bed mere steps away, you remain entranced by the stormy night. Rain has always been your sanctuary, a source of comfort in turbulent times. And much like the rain, you find beauty in the fog that accompanies it, shrouding the world in a veil of mystery and distorting the passage of time.

In this enchanting world, you find yourself drawn to its allure. The raindrops fall delicately, resembling glittering diamonds, while the thick and mesmerizing fog gracefully enveloped everything in sight. Despite its seemingly monotonous nature, the sound of rain became a melody that resonated with your soul, especially during the serene nights when your neighborhood fell into a peaceful slumber. However, you were no longer in the comfort of your own home. Instead, there was a certain allure in venturing outside in this strange world during your unconventional waking hours, embracing the rain as it transformed the radiant light of the two moons into a muted glow amidst the stormy clouds. The lantern lights shimmered briefly, casting a magical glow before fading away. This was the embodiment of tranquility.

Your eyes trail to where the last lantern light on the garden flickers out, and your body turns rigid as something, tall, lanky, and dark comes slinking your way, well not necessarily your way, but down the path in your direction. The rain intensifies, drumming against the balcony railing and soaking your legs and feet. Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you? You were stressed and scared. A crashing sound of thunder startles you, a trail of goosebumps crawling up your arms. The sensation of them developing sends a quiver down your spine, one that leaves your bones rattling and achy.

As the rain continues to pour down heavily, the path ahead becomes a blur, even with the faint light of the moons flickering through the clouds. You can almost feel the wetness of the soil beneath your feet, the sensation of it squishing between your toes. The raindrops relentlessly peck at your face, while the gentle rustling of the trees creates a comforting hum. It's as if Mother Nature herself is embracing you. Suddenly, a sharp pang of unease shoots through your chest, causing your eyes to flutter open.

You raise your head from its tilted position and peer down the path below the balcony. It's not a long stretch, the length of a car and then some. Your breath catches in your throat as you spot something peculiar. The figure that had been walking along the trail earlier, which you had dismissed as a figment of your fear, now stands at the end of your balcony. It is drenched and covered in a mysterious black substance. Although still tall, it no longer possesses its unnaturally thin appearance.

A terrifying grin stretches across its mouth, revealing a multitude of razor-sharp teeth, causing an uncontrollable scream to burst from your lips. In a frantic scramble, you seek refuge within the confines of your room, desperately hoping to evade the horrifying sight. The name you scream had meant to scream was Elmira, but out came, "U-Ulysses!" Your body turns into a puddle of goo, hot, sappy goo when a large hand settles over your eyes to obscure your vision. "Well aren't you a troublemaker?" he remarks, his eyebrows minutely creasing at the warmth emanating from your forehead and skin. As your hand rests upon his, he takes note of the clamminess of your palm.

"Do you like the rain?"

Amidst the relentless downpour, his voice cuts through the noise, smooth and velvety. It's reminiscent of savoring a fine whiskey, leaving a warm trail down your throat. You can't help but wonder if he tastes just as divine or otherwordly, and that thought alone makes your eyebrows furrow softly. You can feel his eyes on you, curious and searching. Knowing. Your words come out almost incoherent, but he doesn't seem to mind. His hearing is ten times sharper than yours, after all. Your voice, like a serene lake, barely makes a ripple. As your lips part, his eyes follow every movement with unwavering attention.

“I do.”

The rain has been falling relentlessly for hours, the constant pitter-patter on the ground and roof soothing you into a cozy and passionate state. Your affection for the rain is unwavering, it's a love that will never fade. Observing it brings back memories of your dreams, those beautiful dreams where you're standing in a vast field, letting the rain drench your clothes and moisten your skin. It's just you and the raindrops. The rain brings you solace. That's why you have no qualms about watching it endlessly.

“Do you like the rain?”

Your question catches him off guard, yet he craves the feeling of vulnerability you display by trusting and relying on him, despite your previous lack of trust.

“No.”

As your sight remains obscured, you're swiftly hoisted off the ground, the creature beneath you fading from your mind and your heart gradually returning to its normal rhythm. You hesitate to inquire further, realizing you're essentially a prisoner in this situation, with him as your captor.

“Why.”

As you both walk in silence, there is a sense of comfort that envelops you. It's a silence that doesn't make you feel awkward or embarrassed about the lack of response from him. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind - where exactly are you heading? Although the bed assigned to you wasn't too distant, it feels like you've been strolling together for quite some time.

"Where are you taking me?"

As soon as your question leaves your lips, the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut echoes through the room. Suddenly, you find yourself being gently placed onto a much larger bed than the one you were initially provided. "You'll be staying in my quarters until I can resolve the issue with the infestation,"

As your vision returns, you sit upright on the bed and fix your gaze upon him, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Are you talking about mice? Or rats?" A blush spreads across your cheeks when he glances at you sideways, emitting a small chuckle devoid of humor. "Sure," he replies.

Sliding off the bed, you cross your arms protectively over your chest. "I won't be staying in a room with you. Find me another one." His eyebrow quirks and his eyes narrow, causing you to take a step back instinctively. "I have no intention of laying a finger on your body, especially considering you're human," he retorts. Offended, your mouth hangs open in disbelief and you take a step towards him.

"I wouldn't let you touch me, even if you begged!" Your words are sharp as he approaches. "Calm yourself, ao bewl ¹, I'll be in the next room over." ( my love )¹ A sudden wave of heat washes over you, causing your vision to blur and your breath to quicken. Ulysses remains unfazed as he steps closer, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards him, his other hand lifting to touch your chin and check your forehead. "Silly woman, how long have you been out in the rain?"

Ulysses notices your lack of response and tenderly lifts you up from your slouched position against him, carefully placing you back in bed. "The rain in Lomaliue is unlike anything you've experienced in the Upper Realm," he whispers under his breath, his cool hands gently brushing against your forehead and then your neck. You peer at him through blurry eyes, your heart pounding in your chest. "Is this the end for me? Am I dying? I'm dying, right? " Fear grips you as tears stream down your face, and the room starts to spin around you.

The Demon can't contain his amusement and lets out a deep, rich chuckle. "Come now, little human, no need for theatrics. You're not dying. It's simply the unfamiliar weather and atmosphere of the Under Realm that's causing you discomfort. You'll be alright." Sweat clings to your body like a second skin, drenching your hair and clothing, leaving little to the imagination. A wave of intense pain surges through your abdomen, causing you to wince and squeeze your eyes shut. "It hurts, it hurts."

Ulysses sighs and softly caresses your complexion from top to bottom, hovering just slightly over your face. Your eyes slide shut and sleep takes over. He doesn't even startle or rise when Elmira enters the room, eyes worried. "She'll be fine, bring my papers from the office here, cancel the board meeting, and rearrange it a sennight from now." Elmira nods obediently and laces her hands behind her back. "Of course Master." Before she can turn to leave, he he adds, "The Guard, have them hunt down the Helkuma that made its way in. I'll be conducting a border check to identify any lapses in security."

"Yes Master." Elmira leaves the room and shuts the door behind her softly, leaving the two. Ulysses rises from the bed, intending to make his way to the plush velvet couch, but his progress is halted by a gentle tug on his loose tunic. Your small, tender hand clings to him with an intensity that suggests a desperate need for his presence, while the worry lines between your eyebrows deepen. "It seems I've been mated to a clingy human."

For the next coming days, Ulysses spends his time doting on you as you're in and out of sleep, while also doing a lot of the work that had piled up in his absence. Surprisingly, in your drowsy state, you show no fear towards him; in fact, you become quite affectionate and touchy. On the seventh day, your fever finally breaks, and your pretty eyes no longer hold that bleary look of exhaustion and pain; it soothes Ulysses more than he cares to admit. Elmira hands him another stack of reports, her smile tinged with guilt as she notices his exasperated glare. "Just a few more to go, and we'll be done, except for the east wing reconstruction," she says, but stops when he raises one of his hands (from his third arm, the others are busy with paperwork) "Don't remind me."

Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump

The feline demon's ears twitch as your heart rate quickens. "Master, My Lady has awakened," he hums in acknowledgment, placing the two out of the three pens down and rising from the desk he had relocated to the room. "Ask the Chef to prepare a light meal and gather medicine and a sweet treat." Carrying a few crucial documents, he settles onto the plush velvet couch, flipping through them. Elmira nods in understanding and swiftly exits the room, gently closing the door behind her.

"I am aware that you are awake, my dear 'captive'."

He finds your bewildered grunt incredibly amusing, much more than he had anticipated. With a slight chuckle, he resumes his task of signing, paying no attention as you ungracefully slide out of bed and stumble toward the couch farthest from his position. Wrapped in the sheets, you look absolutely adorable, with it trailing behind you as you settle into the comfortable couch. "What time is it? What day?"

"It's been a sennight since you've come down with fever, that makes it Woedenes dæg, and it's noon." He steals a quick glance at his watch, indicating that he's running out of time and you have a feeling that he's about to go. "Which also means I have my meeting soon." And your intuition was spot on.

Ulysses stands up and carelessly tosses the pages onto the table. "Elmira will bring you something to eat. Take a brief stroll in the gardens and enjoy the fresh air. Just remember, not more than 10 minutes. Your body needs time to adjust to this environment."

You give a slight nod, feeling a bit disoriented and not up for a debate, the situation still feeling surreal. A sudden feeling of bashfulness overtakes you, making your cheeks burn. "Have you been here the entire time?" "Yes, the employees here are not accustomed to dealing with humans. You're also mine. My responsibility and I allowed you to become ill, and for that, I am sorry."

Your heart skips a beat and your stomach does a flip, but it comes crashing down when he finishes. "I also didn't want to put them through the pain of your snoring and clinginess." Ulysses finds amusement in the glare you send his way, observing as you settle back into the couch, appearing at ease in his presence. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else? Hurry and get out." His eyes soften and a smile quirks his lips, "I'll come to visit you after." You huff and wave him off with a middle finger. "Don't bother!" Your voice trails off weakly as he walks out, shutting the door with a solid thud.

Just as you are lost in your own thoughts, Elmira enters the room carrying a tray of steaming soup. Her face lights up with a warm smile, and her steps exude a contagious energy. "My Lady, I'm overjoyed to see you recovering. Your illness had the entire castle in a frenzy, and the servants have been sending their good wishes." It's puzzling, isn't it? You were just an ordinary person who stumbled upon this grand castle one day. Your interactions were minimal, and you couldn't even recall the names of those you encountered. So why all the fuss?

Elmira seems to read your mind and responds with a gentle smile. "In the sennights you've been here, your presence has brightened this place. The Gardeners feel like they have a purpose, the Chef gets to cook more often and the other maids love to dote on you." The Garden. The mere thought of dining in the garden brings a smile to your face as you sit up from your previously huddled position. "Elmira, I would like to eat in the garden."

The walk to the Gardens (a place you had never been to) was quick and pleasant, with the suns shining brightly at noon. The knights on patrol greeted you warmly and in a slightly cute and chaotic manner. Stepping outside, you slipped off your new flats, lifted your dress, and ran into the grassy plains with a soft smile and squinted eyes, the sun's rays shining in your eyes and warming your skin. A gentle sigh of contentment escaped your lips as you wiggled your bare feet in the grass of the garden. With a slight breeze in the air, Elmira draped a shawl over your shoulders before heading back to the table to prepare your breakfast.

"Elmira, why is it that I've never been here before?" you inquire, your voice gentle as you lower yourself, your gown spreading over the earth and your hand encircling your knees. The scent of the air is pure and invigorating, a stark contrast to the environment you're used to at home. Your fingers trace the outline of a dandelion-like flower, smoothing over its bright yellow stem before picking it. Raising it to your face, you inspect the pink fluff that surrounds it. The clinking of dishes is the only sound until she interrupts.

"This is the Master's private garden, in order to come here you would need approval. While you were recovering, I told him that you enjoyed being outside and in Nature, and he gave you access to this Garden." Elmira answers, occupied with the dolly that holds the tea and soup that had been prepared prior. As you listen to her words, a soft smile graces your lips, and your heart flutters with excitement. You take in a deep breath and let out a puff, air releasing from your lungs and onto the flower. The pappus soars through the wind, taking flight and drifting further and further away from you. The garden mesmerizes you with its meticulous upkeep, vibrant hues, and the intoxicating fragrance of the dew-kissed plants. Every plant thrives, leaving you thoroughly delighted.

You now longed for a book to read, so you could lose yourself within the garden and experience something you had yet to want until now. But, after realizing that perhaps all the books were in the language of this new world, you would have to ask Elmira or Ulysses to get you something. Ah, you said it so easily, as if staying here was a forever thing, but perhaps it was. Ulysses had hit the nail on the head about your old life - no caring family, a job ready to let you go, and no one waiting for you back home. You weren't living, just surviving miserably. With a soft groan, you rose from your crouched position, hands moving up from your knees as you straightened. Your eyes roamed and landed on a beautiful glass table that Elmira was setting the dishes onto. It was clear, almost see-through. White placeholders were facing the chairs that came with the table. "It's so beautiful here." Your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers glide along the smooth glass surface, the set looking as if water had stilled. It could've been mistaken for ice if the warmth from the present sun didn't beam onto everything in its path. You hesitate, stealing glances at the elegant table, unsure if you should dare to sit. The opulence of the furniture makes you question if you might tarnish it. "Elmira, is it alright for me to sit here? It looks expensive." The cat demon nods absentmindedly, focused on arranging the items. "Certainly, the furniture is meticulously cleaned every day." "Oh," you respond, your brows furrowing. Your gaze swiftly shifts to your hand, a delighted smile spreading across your face as you notice something unexpected. "What is this?" you whisper softly, bringing your hand closer to examine it.

Perched on the back of your hand is a mesmerizing bug, its vibrant blue hue adorned with delicate white spots. At first glance, you might mistake it for a ladybug, if not for its peculiar shading and the menacing stinger at the end of its abdomen. Elmira's expression changes as you inquire about the bug, her face turning pale. With a sense of urgency, she urges you. "My Lady, quickly blow it off your hand!" You look up and away from the bug and glance toward her, panicking slightly at her tone. "What? Why? What's wrong–." Before you can comprehend her warning, a scorching sensation surges through your veins, engulfing your body in unbearable pain. As you glance back at your hand, you discover that the bug's stinger is now embedded in your skin, while the insect itself has vanished amidst your frantic state.

In an instant, you're sprawled on the ground, and Elmira rushes over, tenderly cupping your face in her palms. It's hard not to ponder why a mundane day is an elusive dream in this peculiar world, where nothing ever seems to be ordinary.

"—The Hundyai Region has become overrun with–."

The atmosphere in the meeting room instantly turns heavy as a sudden knock reverberates through the door. All eyes turn towards the interruption, their curiosity piqued. It is a rare occurrence to interrupt a meeting with the fearsome Demon Lord Ulysses, it had never been done before, or well, successfully done. Before he can even speak, Elmira enters the room with a sense of urgency, her steps quick and purposeful. Bending down to whisper into his ear, she imparts crucial information to their Lord, causing a ripple of tension to spread across the room. The council members watch intently as Ulysses' eyes narrow and his jaw tightens in response. With a stiff nod, he acknowledges Elmira's message, prompting her to exit the room gracefully. Bidding a respectful farewell to the men at the table, she disappears as silently as she had arrived.

Standing up from his spot at the head of the table, Ulysses straightens his cuff links. "Let's postpone the meeting for now. Feel free to wait in the lounge with some refreshments." There are no protests, no irritation, just unwavering loyalty. "Understood, my Lord." She can't seem to stay out of trouble.

"How long ago was it?"

Elmira anxiously clasps her hands together as she hurries alongside Ulysses, makes his way to his bed in a few long strides."It couldn't have been more than five minutes. I rushed to your side as soon as I could. Ghallahan brought her back here," she explains. Ulysses tenderly cups your chin in his large hand, observing as your eyes glaze over and your lips part to take a deep breath upon his touch. Your skin feels warm and moist with a thin layer of perspiration, causing him to curse himself for his lack of attentiveness. "Bring me something to alleviate the pain and swelling within 10 minutes. Clear out the staff near my room and instead attend to our guests. If I need anything, I'll call for you." Elmira, though reluctant, nods and shuffles out of the room. "What's happening to me?" Ulysses, captivated by the alluring and breathy tone of your voice, shifts his attention back to you. He nonchalantly rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons his shirt ever so slightly. "While in the Garden you were stung by a Fern. Their venom can intensify one's libido to a dangerous extent if not treated correctly. It can also lead to swelling in the limbs and even the brain, depending on the specific type of Fern."

In the midst of your poisoned state, your eyes widen with a mixture of fear and disbelief. Your thighs involuntarily clench together as your heart beats erratically in your chest. The overwhelming realization that death may be imminent engulfs you, and you find yourself uttering desperate words, "Oh God, I'm going to die, I don't want to die." However, amidst the chaos, a strange sensation begins to stir within you. Your nipples harden beneath the fabric of your dress, the sensation bordering on painful. Ulysses gently brushes his hand against your, puffy lips sending a jolt of electricity through your body. His touch trails down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of anticipation in its wake. "For it to stop, I need to pleasure you." Your body tenses at the information and your cheeks flush. "I'll just do it myself. Why can't I do it myself?"

"It doesn't work that way, little dove."

The thought of him touching you so intimately sends tingles of white-hot pleasure down your tummy. Another wave of heat hits and beneath your dress your wet, sticky thighs rub together, desperate for a touch of any kind. You can feel your clit swell and ache as your blood rushes to it. Your panties are damp with your arousal. As you lock eyes with him, his passive yet sharp features, and his deep, alluring red eyes, you sense a hunger that sets him apart from the rest. The sinewy muscles of his arms ripple, captivating your attention, and you boldly cup your breast within your small hands, embracing your own provocative nature. It becomes clear that the mere thought of his touch has the power to bring you to the brink of climax.

You can't help but feel a little shy, but there's no denying the effect he has on you. The way his voice rumbles sends shivers down your spine. His deep, sultry tone stirs something deep inside you. "Dove, talk to me." His voice is almost pleading, and you comply with a quick nod, gasping as his lips press against yours, dominating and all-consuming. His tongue dances over your lower lip, relishing the addictive taste of your mouth. His teeth sink in, causing a pleasurable moan to escape into his mouth, your fingers desperately clinging to him; as his fingers trail calmly down your waistline and tickle your belly button. Slowly, they make their way back up to the neckline of your dress, effortlessly tearing it off, and exposing your breasts to the cold air, causing goosebumps to rise. Though his warm mouth chases them away.

Your thighs tighten around his waist, feeling the hot, pulsating bulge in his pants pressing against your stomach. The most sultry, erotic moan he's ever heard pierces his ears and the deep, primal groan that he lets out makes you whimper. He lifts his head to gaze into your eyes, seeing the raw desire and intense need reflected at him.

His fingers delve into your hips, reassuring and light as he pulls you closer to him, his mouth continuing a slow, tantalizing assault on your nipples. Each time his teeth nip you, you mewl wantonly and arch into him, hips grinding against him. Tears trickle down your cheeks at the discomfort between your thighs, a fire that slowly starts to eat you alive.

Ulysses' hand caresses your breast, thumb teasing your wet nipple. And you let out the most sinful, obscene moan he's ever heard; and you attempt to stifle it with your hand. " It's only me and you here, dove " He states, kissing down the valley of your breast, eyes flitting upwards to gaze at your tortured face. His breath leaves his lungs in a shocked rush, and a surge of emotions engulfs him when his eyes find yours, they're wet with tears and you down at him through thick lashes, eyes so trusting and yet so scared.

"In this life and the next, you possess the power to consume me entirely." His voice, a mere whisper, and his hands cupping the soft weight of your breast. He bends his head, his teeth scraping over your left nipple. His other arms work on taking off the top half of his clothing, carelessly ripping them away. You sob out, the sound unlike anything he's heard, it makes his cock strain against his pants. Once again, he claims your breast, his mouth unyielding. Suckling vigorously, his tongue dancing across your nipple, while his fingers tease and caress the other. Your cries echo, as you entangle your fingers in his tousled locks.

As he lifts his head from devouring you, his gaze fixates on the vibrant hues that adorn your bosom, and you gasp at the color of his eyes. He knows you see the dark red of his eyes, a lust-filled predator, and yet you don't seem to care one bit. Instead, you yearn for him, your arms entwining around his neck to meet him in a kiss. Ulysses revels in the sensation of your body melding seamlessly with his, surrendering to his dominance as he ravishes your mouth with a fervent hunger, relishing the taste of your fervor. Your mouth, an addictive nectar, surpasses any pleasure he has ever savored in his two millennia of existence.

As your perky nipples graze against the chiseled contours of his muscular chest, a shiver of pleasure courses through your body, leaving you breathless and emitting a delicate whimper. He hungrily devours your sounds, his lips relentlessly claiming yours, until your once tender lips become swollen, evidence of his insatiable desire.

“More," You plead softly. "I need more." You can't help but squirm against him, hips bucking. Hungry. Needy. Demanding. The poison inside you ignites a fiery hunger, and only he can quench it. All you desire is him. His touch, his kiss, rough and demanding. You yearn for the numbness that envelops you when he tilts your head back, dominating your mouth repeatedly. Your cries are filled with urgency, and you don't care if you have to beg him to get what you want. What you needed.

"I can feel the heat of your cunt through my pants, dove," He whispers softly, and to you? He murmurs gently to you. He exudes pure, sinful allure. Temptation. Forbidden and devilish. The brush of his teeth on your neck causes your eyes to close and your lips to part. "I bet your panties are drenched, aren't they?" The question has another wave of slick dripping from your pussy.

He doesn't bother waiting for your response; instead, he plants a series of kisses from your lips to your neck, and then down to your breasts. Every gentle bite or caress sends a surge of heat directly to your pussy. The heat is intense, scorching, pulsating between your thighs, and you can't help but squirm. Your pussy twitches, clenches, and weeps with hunger.

"I want to see for myself," He states, nipping under your breast and then down along your ribs. "I need the taste of you on my tongue, my mate." His sensual words make you flush red, but sends your stomach clenching in anticipation, it goes straight to your core. You weren't certain you could survive. Certainly if he didn't speed up his teasing you wouldn't, you truly didn't want your brain to swell and explode.

His stalling mouth doesn't stay very long but continues to journey down your belly, his tongue dipping into your navel. Gracefully, he slides off the bed and kneels in front of you, urging you to the edge and pushing your thighs apart. "Rest your feet on my shoulders," he commands, his voice thick and velvety. Filled with dark promise. A shiver runs down your spine at the sound and another pulse of hunger shudders through you. There's no thought in your mind that think to defy the edge in his tone. Without hesitation, you comply, soft feet settling over his broad shoulders.

You would do anything for him at this moment. You had never in your 20+ years of living ever felt so desperate or needy. The feeling was so strange but, so intense, your body shook with it. Your heart raced, blood pounding in your ears and flushing your cheeks. Ulysses' face bore a dark, erotic lewdness. Intense. Savage even. Feral and untamed, it stirred something deep within you, something you didn't even realize was there. You hungered for him so much that you could feel the warm wetness of your arousal smearing your thighs and gathering between your folds in anticipation.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you gripped his locs of hair, your breathing ragged. You were completely bare to him and you should have been embarrassed to have a demon you just met buried between your thighs, but instead, you were all the more desperate for him to do something—anything.

"So wet. So sweet." His gaze fixates on the luscious, soft curls on your mound, damp with heat, his eyes hooded and hungry. With a low, primal growl, he exhales a cool breath directly onto your feverish folds, and you sob, oversensitive and gripping his horns to steady yourself. "You belong to me," he declares. You don't even have time to process his words because he lowers his head to the feast between your shaking thighs. Your cry is hoarse. Broken. Mewling. He doesn't just give a tentative lick. Ulysses takes what he wants like a starved beast. He consumes your mind, body, and soul with a ravenous appetite.

He consumes you. His tongue delving deep to extract the musky, sweet taste of you. He nibbles, sucks. He dominates you with just his mouth and nothing more. Powerless to do anything but hold on, you grasp his horns, his firm hold on your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for his plundering mouth. It was beautiful. So good. Better than anything you could have imagined. Your mind refuses to function, focusing on the sheer pleasure escalating like a tsunami. The sensations are indecent, and arousing, the intensity escalating the insatiable desire within her higher and higher.

He releases a fierce hunger within you, his tongue flicking, diving deep repeatedly, caressing and teasing. His deep snarls only added to the sensations battering through you. The flames roar back with a vengeance, tantalizing your nerves and scorching through your veins, a blaze of passion across your stomach and down your legs, along your spine, and deep inside your sopping pussy. You were so close, the tension coiling so tightly you cry out with need as his mouth envelops your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, he licks just enough to overwhelm you with sensations, but not enough to release you. "Ulysses," You whimper his name in a desperate plea. Begging. Longing. Knowing he would fulfill your desires in his own time. Your body was his. He had claimed it and he was making sure you were aware of that. "Please," You whisper, fingers now clutching his black tresses.

He looks up at you and you feel the added intensity of his twinkling eyes. Your hips involuntarily thrust against him, craving the tantalizing sensations that tease you just beyond your grasp. His mouth covers your sensitive clit once again, his tongue flicking, licking, pressing with broad, flat strokes and caresses, driving you higher than you thought possible, until you scream your release. The rapid, relentless rhythm pushes you beyond your limits, causing you to surrender to the overwhelming release that consumes you. Overwhelmed by ecstasy, you bury his face deeper into your pulsating core, grinding against his tongue as your thighs tremble with desire. "Ulysses." You sob his name like a prayer. He tenderly traces the inside of your thigh, soothing your senses with his gentle touch. Slowly, your eyes flutter shut, your racing heartbeat gradually returning to its steady rhythm. Exhaustion washes over you, and the sweet embrace of sleep claims you.

With a soft knock on the door, the demon eases you back into bed, pulling the duvet over your body. Elmira glides into the room, placing the requested items on the table. "Escort the guest back to the meeting room, we'll resume the conference."

As you wake up from your poisoning-induced slumber, the darkness of night surrounds you, the castle eerily quiet except for the gentle sound of raindrops. Sitting up in bed, you slowly rub the sleep from your eyes, allowing the events of the day to slowly return to your mind. "Oh God." The events from earlier today rush back to you in vivid detail. You cover your mouth with your hand, shaking your head in disbelief. It must have been a dream, an incredibly lifelike, tantalizing dream. But the dampness between your thighs and your labia tells a different story. "I must have been dreaming."

"Of what?" The deep voice that you were starting to get used to startles you. Ulysses closes the door behind him, striding over to his desk. "I came to check on you after what happened earlier," His muscles tense and a surge of desire flickers in his eyes. Oh, and you were naked beneath the sheets. "So, I wasn't dreaming?" Ulysses chuckles humorlessly. "With the taste of your pussy still on my tongue, I don't think so." You try and ignore his lewd words, cheeks heating, instead you question him. "Earlier, when, yeah— you called me your mate, are we talking like, Australian mate? Pirate mate? Ahoy. What did you mean by it?"

"As in soulmate, predestined. You belong to me as I belong to you." His voice is gravelly and tinged with weariness, and you almost invite him into bed with you. "How? And how do you find me? Why me?" "Soulmates for Demons are rare, not many have them and they usually outlive them. Stumbling upon you was a fluke, but one I wouldn't change." Ulysses studies your reaction with a bated breath, searching and wondering. "I discovered you through your heartbeat. Your emotions. I could sense them all. Your fear, your relief, your longing."

"As simple as that, I got attached. Part of me wanted to leave you there, to never lay eyes on you again. However, your emotions anchored me. The solace you found in the echo of my voice and the sense of security you experienced, impelled me to protect you." Ulysses saunters closer, pausing to rest against the bed frame. "Your clumsiness, magnet to trouble, love of nature, and politeness to the staff, only made you more irresistible."

Your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest, a rhythmic thump that resonates with the intensity of a confession. "Whether you desire to depart from this place is inconsequential, for I have no intentions of releasing you," Is it sinful that you find yourself utterly aroused? The way his smoldering eyes possessively roam over your figure sends a tantalizing shiver down your spine. His eyebrow quirks in a provocative gesture, and his eyes sparkle with a magnetic allure.

You felt your cheeks flush and your heart pound. He knew exactly how to turn you on. It was wrong, but it was also thrilling. The way he gazed at you made your pussy drool. Your clit throbbed with excitement. A part of you blamed it on the poison still gliding through your veins. "I don't see a reason to go anywhere," you murmur, relaxing your grip on the sheet. Ulysses' jaw tightens as he advances, his lips crashing onto yours forcefully, swallowing your moan before breaking away.

"I'll put your mouth to use little human."

The thought of his throbbing cock sliding deep into your throat sends delightful shivers down your spine and the way his gaze darkens lets you know that he can also feel what you think as well. With a hint of shyness, you cautiously approach him, allowing the sheet to gracefully slip from your body, settling on your knees right before him. Craning your neck to look up at him, captivated by his towering presence. At his staggering height, you had no problem being face-to-face with his bulge. Your lips form a sultry pout as he gently cradles your face in his hands, while his other two hands firmly grip your hair, a hold that is both biting and intoxicating, leaving your pussy dripping.

A primal hunger consumes you. He was an irresistible temptation, and you had already indulged in a sinful taste of him, otherworldly and enigmatic. You yearned for more. "Put your hands on my thighs," He says softly, his gaze burning into yours. You inhale deeply, your head shaking in disbelief, your eyes sparkling with desire. "I've never done this before."

"I know." Those two words swirl inside you. Makes you shiver. With his remaining hand, he deftly undoes his pants, revealing his cock.

As you inhale deeply, your throat tightens and your eyes feast upon him. His jet-black hair is elegantly swept away from his captivating face. With broad shoulders and narrow hips, he possesses a striking V-shaped silhouette. His thighs are thick, lean and firm, but your gaze is centered on his pulsing, jerking cock. He's bigger than you imagined a man would be— well a demon. He's long and thick, perfectly matching his purple-grey skin tone, but there is an otherworldly quality to it that leaves you craving more. Intricate ridges and pulsating veins adorn its length.

"Keep looking at me, dove. I need to see you, to make certain you want this."

Your gaze swiftly ascended, locked in a passionate connection, for in that very moment, you were ready to surrender the world to him. He envelops his fingers around the base of his cock, guiding it towards your awaiting mouth, an act so tantalizingly arousing, it surpasses any previous encounters. (Not that you've had many, but…) Ulysses presses the velvety head against your lips, and the sensation of his precum moistening them ignites a pulsating surge of pleasure within your core. Driven by instinct, you part your lips and sensually lick the glistening droplets, taking the offering and savoring his taste.

His groan is deep as the flat of your tongue dances over his sensitive tip. He retreats momentarily, causing you to whimper in protest, which is quickly silenced as he abruptly sinks into your mouth, giving you what you want. He moves unhurriedly, each stroke taking him deeper until he's nearly at the back of your throat, careful of you. But you can feel the way his body responds as you suckle hard. It's orgasmic, the violent way his muscles contract from the burning pleasure. His gaze, dark and intense, follows every movement of his cock as it slides in and out of your mouth; tip and shaft sloppy now, dripping with saliva.

You revel in the sensation of his intense gaze watching your pillowy lips enveloping his cock, and this feeling alone from you has his cock swollen and engorged, so much so that your jaw aches. You sensually trace circles around the tip before lavishly slurping the underside of his shaft. Your eyes lock with his as he spasmodically twitches within your mouth.

"Enough." An order, his voice rough. He can't help himself. He had to have you. The plea in your eyes, the pure fire burning there, swallowing him whole, is too difficult to oppose. With one final thrust, he plunges deep into your throat, holding you there until your eyes well up with tears, before sliding his cock from your mouth.

Ulysses follows you down onto the bed, your arms circling his neck. Your thighs part, thighs glistening and pussy glittering in the soft, dull glow of the moons. And oh, he seizes the opportunity, lodging the wide head of his cock into that fiery haven. A growl rumbles low in his chest as your pussy clenches, squeezing around the tip of his cock.

Your cunt felt like molten lava engulfing him, so intense that he feels he might explode. Ulysses slowly applies pressure, short bursts that push through your resistance. It's scorching. So perfect. Too tight. Strangling him in a vice grip. The sensation is sheer bliss, your body stretching and igniting, reluctantly surrendering to his invasion.

Ulysses halts as he knocks dully on your thin, virgin wall and holds himself still, jaw ticking and hands gripping the bed frame, causing it to splinter. To give your body the time it needed to adjust to his incursion. He wasn't nearly in deep enough. The effort to remain still is almost unbearable. "Dove, look at me." he pleads. He had to see your eyes. Your lashes flutter and then lift. His stomach muscles contract malevolently. His body shudders and his cock thickens, and throbs, desperate for more.

You looked absolutely breathtaking.

"I need more," You whisper. "Please, hurry. Please. I'm burning up. I need . . ."

"I know what you need." Three of his arms embraces your hips, lifting you effortlessly. In an instant, your legs coil around him, ankles clasping at his waist, and fingers entwining at the back of his neck, eyes pleading. Ulysses takes a deep breath, for the sight of you is overwhelming.

He thrusts forward, with unrelenting intensity. Breaking through your innocence and forcefully entering your tightness, the scalding fire seizing him, and your tight pussy has no choice but to accept all of him.

You cry out at the bite of pain, but he feels you surround his cock tightly, tugging him deeper until he's lodged all the way, kissing your cervix. Your tight muscles contract around him, gripping and pulsating. Your hips buck. A small whimper of need slips from your throat. The need to fuck hard and deep into you repeatedly nearly sends him over the edge. "Are you ready? Breathe for me, dove." Your eyes meet his. Wild. So untamed, his breath catches in his throat. He holds you still while you try your hardest to grind against him, desperate to move.

"Please, fuck me." Your voice sends him over the edge. He moves then, drawing back and then plunging deep into your drooling cunt. Your tightness, like scorching silk, grip his cock. He feels the last of his control snap and he begins to drill into you. It's rough, too rough for your innocence, but he can't help himself. The pleasure consumes him, almost bordering on pain in its intensity.

He can feel you rising toward your orgasm. Surging toward it. He grasps your hips firmly, holding you, for a moment, savoring your tight, dripping cunt, and then he surges into you over and over with hard, deep strokes. Ulysses feels his balls tighten at the sudden, overwhelming convulsion of your pussy. The intense fluttering around him. Your moans fill his ears—his very being. Pleasure overwhelms him.

Each hard jerk of his thick, creamy cum spilling into you is a wave of pleasure. He raises his head and looks down at you, at the helpless, cute, bewildered pleasure on your face. Your lashes flutter and before you can open your eyes all the way, Ulysses slants his mouth across yours. Gently. Completely at odds with his roughness earlier. And you respond softly. Tiredly.

"Sleep, we have all of eternity."

connected with this post!

[seospicybin]

EVERMORE.

CHAPTER II

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (25,6k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting for the new chapter. Can't wait to read your feedback on it ♡

[EXCLUSIVE] Rumors Swirl Around Bang Theory Reunion—But It’s All About Love This Time June 20, 2025 — by Sky Kim.

The internet went into a frenzy this weekend when whispers of a Bang Theory reunion tour sent fans of the iconic '90s rock band into nostalgic chaos. The spark? A grainy video clip of frontman Chris Bang passionately performing on stage surfaced online late Saturday night—complete with pyrotechnics, a mic drop, and… a somersault gone wrong? But before fans could start petitioning for world tour dates, a little digging uncovered the truth: Chris Bang wasn’t reigniting Bang Theory for a tour. Instead, he was rocking out for a far more personal gig—his daughter Tigerlily’s wedding. Yes, you read that right. Sources close to the family confirmed that Chris reunited with his old bandmates for a surprise set during the wedding reception of his daughter. The performance was said to be “equal parts chaotic, emotional, and iconic,” with one insider joking, “It felt like the '90s again… until Chris faceplanted off the stage.” (He’s reportedly recovering well, and in true Chris fashion, already making jokes about it.) Despite the reunion rumors being nothing more than a wedding gift in the form of nostalgia and guitar solos, fans are still buzzing. Could this heartfelt one-night-only performance lead to something bigger? For now, it seems Chris is more focused on family than fame. But if this weekend taught us anything, it’s that you can take the man out of Bang Theory, but you can’t take Bang Theory out of the man. Stay tuned. And congratulations to the bride and groom.

-

The garden glows in soft amber light, wrapped in a golden haze as the sun begins to dip behind the trees. Strings of fairy lights flicker gently overhead, casting everything in a romantic shimmer. Laughter drifts through the warm air, mingling with the gentle clinking of glasses and the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze. Guests settle into their seats at the long tables adorned with white linen, scattered florals, and glowing candles. It's the kind of evening that feels suspended in time—dreamlike, sacred.

Chris stands slowly from his seat, a champagne flute in one hand, the other smoothing down the front of his black suit. He clears his throat as someone passes him a mic, the subtle shift in attention moving toward him. He looks out at everyone, but mostly at her—his daughter, his Tigerlily—radiant in her wedding dress and laughing softly at something Julian just whispered to her. His throat tightens, but he starts with a familiar glint in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching, “I just want to take a moment to call out a traitor.”

The laughter begins immediately, warm and curious. Chris turns toward Tigerlily, mock betrayal written all over his face. “You. Yeah, you. You promised me, when you were five and wearing light-up princess shoes and eating peanut butter straight from the jar, that you were going to marry me.”

The laughter swells. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands as her shoulders shake with amusement.

“I was your first love. You said no one else could compete. And now look at you.” He gestures dramatically toward Julian. “Running off with this guy.”

Julian gives a sheepish grin, and the guests eat it up. Chris shakes his head dramatically before he continues, voice growing softer even as the laughter fades. “But the truth is, I’ve been preparing for this day in my own way, probably since the day you were born. Even if I didn’t want to admit it.”

He looks at Tigerlily, and the air seems to still around him. “You were always magic, little cub. Even when you were tiny—especially when you were tiny—you had this energy about you. You lit up every room. I remember holding you on my shoulders during rehearsals, watching you bop around to the noise like it was music. I didn’t know it then, but those were the moments I’d keep in my back pocket forever.”

He turns toward Julian now, eyes still soft, but steady. “Julian, I know we joke—and I will keep joking—but I also want you to know… I trust her with you. And I trust you with her. Please, love her right. Because she’s my whole world.”

He pauses, emotion catching in his chest, but he swallows it down with a smile.

“To Tigerlily and Julian,” he says, raising his glass, voice bright with both pride and bittersweet joy. “May your life together be louder than a Bang Theory concert, but just as unforgettable.”

Cheers erupt across the garden, glasses clink, and Chris slowly sits down, heart thudding in his chest. He exhales quietly as he watches his daughter beam at the man she chose, her smile bright enough to carry him through the ache of letting her go. He then settles back into his seat, still feeling the ghost of the mic in his hand, the warmth of everyone's attention slowly ebbing away. The laughter, the applause—it all lingers around him like a soft echo. He catches you looking at him with that expression, the one he remembers from years ago, back when you’d watch him after shows, proud but trying not to let it show too much.

“That was a good speech,” you say, nudging his elbow gently. “You did good.”

Chris lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “You think so?”

You nod, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I know so.”

He grins and turns to the teenager next to him, nudging her with the same hopeful energy. “Hey, Riley bear. What did you think? Pretty solid, right? A little funny, a little touching?”

Riley doesn’t even look up from her phone. She just lifts a thumb in the air in response, eyes glued to her screen.

Chris stares at her in mock betrayal. “A thumbs-up? That’s it? My finest performance in years and I get a thumb?”

Still nothing so he slides his arm around her shoulder and leans in dramatically. “You know what? That’s it. As of this moment, you are officially not allowed to date. Ever.”

Riley lets out a loud groan without breaking eye contact with her phone. “Oh my god, Dad.”

You chuckle, reaching across the table to tug on his sleeve. “Come here,” you whisper, leaning close. He shifts toward you, and you murmur conspiratorially, “You know nothing about teenagers. The more you tell them no, the more they gonna want to do it.”

Chris leans back, eyes narrowed like he’s just been told a trade secret. “So you're saying… I should encourage her to date?”

“No,” you say through a laugh, “I’m saying be less obvious.”

He huffs. “Fine. I’ll just plant a tracker in her shoes.”

That earns him a full-bodied laugh from you, rich and unguarded, the kind he used to chase when you were still his. It hits him in the chest more than he expects. He missed that laugh. He missed you, in all the quiet, unspoken ways that sneak up on him like this.

You bump your shoulder against his, teasing. “Didn't you know, Chris? Love finds a way.”

He glances back at Riley, still firmly ignoring him, and sighs with an exaggerated shake of his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But there’s no bitterness in his voice—just a tired kind of joy. A surrender to the passage of time and the impossibility of holding onto anything forever. Except maybe memories like this. Family, laughter, the sound of your voice next to his. That, he can hold onto a little longer.

-

The stage is small, a modest wooden platform strung with warm, golden lights and flowers, but as Chris strums the first few chords, it feels like home. It always does. His fingers remember every note like muscle memory, even though it’s been years since The Bang Theory played anything beyond a casual jam in someone’s garage.

The crowd at the wedding is electric with warmth—family, friends, strangers, all laughing, clinking glasses, swaying to the music. But Chris doesn’t see them. Not really. Not yet. He sings the words, not thinking too hard about them—just letting them carry through the air. His voice still holds. Maybe a little more gravel, a little more soul. Maybe that’s age, or maybe that’s just what happens when life keeps turning the pages faster than you can read.

He scans the crowd while his bandmates pick up the next chorus. Familiar faces drift past—Julian with his arm around Tigerlily’s waist, Maude and Riley taking a video on her phone, a few old friends from the label. But he’s still searching. His heart doesn’t settle until it finds you. Then, a moment later, he spots you. You’re making your way toward Tigerlily and once you're by her side, you’re both dancing, singing and laughing—his girls. Tigerlily, radiant in her dress, twirling with ease, her face bright with joy. And you, swaying with her, singing the chorus back at him. Not for the crowd. For him. It guts him in the best and worst way.

The memory hits like a wave. Another wedding. Another stage. Tigerlily in his arms, small enough to rest on one hip, clapping her little hands to the beat while you laughed beside him. She didn’t know the words back then, but she still sang them. Gurgled them, really. And now she’s here—grown, glowing, a bride.

Chris blinks through the swell in his chest. For a second, his voice almost catches. His bandmates keep going, none the wiser, but Chris has to turn his head and refocus on the strings under his fingers.

This is joy. This is what it looks like. Not stadiums. Not gold records. This. His daughter dancing in a white dress. You laughing beside her. This music, this moment, this life that somehow kept going even after everything cracked and fell apart. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes for the last chorus.

This one’s not just for Tigerlily. It’s for you, too. Because you’re still here. You’ve always been and that’s enough to carry him through the song. And this— This energy is addictive. Chris can feel it pulsing through his veins like a second heartbeat—music, laughter, the stomping of feet, the kind of wild joy that used to live in his bones back when stages were his second home. He didn’t realize how much he missed this—needed this—until the spotlight found him again, until the cheers roared like an old familiar friend.

People are shouting his name. Singing along. Phones are up. His bandmates are grinning like teenagers, feeding off the crowd. But none of it compares to the way Tigerlily beams at him from the dance floor, her hands up in the air, veil clipped to the side now, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

He points at her, chest swelling. “This one’s for you,” he calls into the mic. “My little cub, my Tigerlily.”

The crowd hollers. Tigerlily covers her face with both hands in mock embarrassment, but she’s grinning from ear to ear. It hits him all at once—how alive he feels, how proud, how the moment stretches so wide it could hold a lifetime. He’s never been good at sitting still, not when there’s rhythm in the air and the world’s spinning like a record. So he does what instinct tells him to do. What used to make fans scream in stadiums and what his knees warned him not to even think about anymore. He goes for the somersault.

The adrenaline makes it feel like flying for a second. The cheers spike. But the landing—oh, hell—the landing doesn’t come easy. His foot catches on a loose cable near the speaker. It jerks mid-air. His balance shifts. He hits the edge of the stage with a crack of bone and sound equipment.

The crowd gasps as his body lurches forward, his arms flailing to catch anything—but there’s nothing. Chris faceplants into the grass with a dull thud, mic still in hand, and the music cuts off with a horrible screech of feedback.

There’s a beat of pure silence. Then, all at once—shouts. Gasping. Someone screams his name. Tigerlily’s voice pierces through it like a blade. Feet scramble. Chairs screech. Phones drop. The stage, the celebration, the euphoria—gone in a heartbeat and then, everything blurs to white noise.

-

The fluorescent light above him hums low and constant. The antiseptic scent clings to everything, even the blanket draped over his lower half. His leg—he can’t even see it—rests stiffly elevated in a cast, bulky and awkward.

Chris exhales heavily, tilting his head toward the voices murmuring near the doorway. You and Tigerlily stand together, still in your dresses from the wedding, now a little crinkled from the chaos. The doctor finishes his long, clinical summary with a gentle smile.

“He’s fractured his ankle,” she says. “A clean break, but he’ll need to rest for 6 to 10 weeks. We’ll reevaluate for physical therapy later on. For now, minimal movement.”

The doctor excuses himself and leaves you two alone with Chris. He looks at you both, the guilt already gnawing at him. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Tigerlily gives him a look, arms crossed. “Well… yeah. You did a somersault at my wedding and faceplanted.”

“I was going to stick the landing,” Chris mutters.

You lean against the edge of the bed, lifting a brow. “And I was going to marry the Danish prince. Things change.”

He huffs. “I’m sorry. Both of you. I really—”

“As much as I enjoy seeing you in pain,” you cut in dryly, a glint of playfulness in your eyes, “you’re not allowed to die yet. You still have to live long enough to see your future grandkids.”

Tigerlily lets out a laugh, bumping your shoulder affectionately. “And spoil them rotten.”

Chris gives a sheepish smile, his eyes softening as he looks at his daughter. “Speaking of… where’s Riley?”

“She’s with Julian at home,” you reassure him. “Eating the wedding cake and probably laughing at your fall in 4K.”

He winces. “Great. Viral before I even leave the hospital.”

“Only because someone decided to stage dive without warning,” Tigerlily teases.

Chris reaches for her hand and holds it gently. “I’m really sorry, cub.”

Tigerlily leans over and wraps her arms around him, careful not to bump his leg. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters. We’ll laugh about it—just… not tonight.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the room, your presence steady beside him, and his daughter’s embrace warm and forgiving.

-

Chris is sleeping, finally. You sit quietly beside his hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His leg is elevated, stiff in the fresh cast, and his face is slack with exhaustion—lines of pain and embarrassment still etched faintly into his features. Your mind drifts back to Tigerlily’s words earlier, just after the doctor broke the news.

“Mom, can he stay with you for a while? Just until he’s okay enough to fly home?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation in your answer. Of course. Because Chris is her dad. Because back home, no one’s really there to take care of him, not the way he needs. And Riley—sweet, spirited Riley—is far too young for the responsibility.

You reach out and gently adjust the blanket covering him, letting your fingers linger at the edge before slowly pulling back. Then, quietly, you rise and slip out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind you, and when you lift your eyes, you see Hyunjin. He’s waiting by the wall, casual and calm, but the worry in his eyes gives him away. When he spots you, he straightens, and the moment you’re close enough, he wraps you up in a warm, wordless hug. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, the scent of him—faint cologne and something undeniably his—settling your nerves. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He pulls back, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. He hands you a duffel bag and you peek inside to see clothes and a toiletry bag which you guess is packed by Tigerlily.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a soft smile. “How’s Riley?”

“Riley’s fine. Tigerlily and Julian are staying with her at your place.”

You nod again, and squeeze his hand in gratitude.

“Come on,” Hyunjin says gently, threading his fingers through yours. “Let’s get you some coffee.”

The café is empty except for some nurses and hospital staff fueling up for the night shift with loads of caffeine. You see Hyunjin returns from ordering coffee carrying a tray in his hands.

“Here,” he says, setting a cup of coffee in front of you and sliding over a small plate with a slice of cake and a few cookies. Then, without a word, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders. It’s still warm from him, and you sink into it instinctively, the weight of it grounding you.

He sits down next to you, close enough that your knees bump under the table. “How’s Chris doing?” he asks, his voice low, concerned.

You wrap your hands around the coffee cup, exhaling. “The doctor said minimal movement. A lot of rest. Probably physical therapy later.” You pause before adding, “He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Hyunjin nods, sipping his drink slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

“And… it seems like he'll be staying at my place,” you say after a beat. “At least until he’s well enough to fly home.”

Hyunjin arches an eyebrow, but his expression is unreadable. “How do you feel about that?”

You look at him. “It’s fine, honestly. I want him to be taken care of. It’s just—” you exhale with a small smile, “—it means we’ll have to postpone the trip.”

A soft smile curves his lips. “That’s okay,” he says, reaching up to gently brush your hair behind your ear. “We’ll take that trip next time.”

You give him a grateful look, warmed by how easily he understands you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Then you lean in and press a sweet kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. When you pull away, Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat—he steals another kiss, a longer one, before finally letting you go with a grin.

You laugh under your breath and pick up your fork, digging into the cake, but just as you take the first bite, Hyunjin tilts his head and says with a playful smirk, “But are you sure that it's not some Chris's devious plans that he’s just trying to get back together with you by breaking his leg?”

You nearly choke on the cake as laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god,” you say, dabbing your mouth with a napkin. “If that’s the case, you need a better plan than him.”

Hyunjin gasps, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Excuse me. My plan involves far fewer hospitals and much better wardrobe choices.”

You both dissolve into laughter, and for the first time in what feels like hours, everything feels light again.

-

The car ride is mostly quiet but every bump in the road sends a dull ache through his leg, wrapped tight in a stiff cast and resting on the backseat. Julian’s driving carefully, like he knows every pothole could ruin what little comfort Chris has left.

Tigerlily turns from the passenger seat every so often to check on him, her brows furrowed in that particular way she used to do as a kid when she was worried—when she didn’t know how to fix something but desperately wanted to. “We’re almost home, dad,” she says gently.

Chris gives her a half-smile. “You act like we’re going to war.”

When they finally pull up to the house, he sees you and Riley waiting on the front porch. You’re in comfy clothes, hair tied up, and Riley’s already halfway down the steps before the car fully stops. There’s something so warm and familiar about the sight, and despite the throb in his leg, Chris feels a little less miserable. As soon as the car is parked, Tigerlily and Julian jump out.

“Okay, slow and steady,” Julian says, opening the door and helping Chris swing his casted leg out. Tigerlily grabs the crutches from the trunk, adjusting them before handing them over.

“I feel like an ancient rock star,” Chris mutters, gripping the crutches and bracing himself for the awkward maneuvering.

Riley runs toward him, arms wide, throwing herself into a gentle hug. Chris chuckles and hugs her back. “I should break my leg more often if this is what it takes to get you to hug me.”

Riley pulls back just far enough to punch him lightly on the chest. “Don’t even joke about it!”

He yelps anyway, rubbing his chest like she really did damage. “Ow! Abuse to the disabled! Unbelievable.”

And then his eyes meet yours, and there it is—that look. You’re grinning, arms crossed, that same sparkle in your eyes that’s always both comforting and dangerous.

“You’ve never looked this good before, Chris,” you say, eyes trailing down to the crutches. “Remind me again why we got divorced?”

Chris arches a brow, smirking. “Well, it only took a traumatic injury, mild public humiliation, and a hospital bill to get your attention again. Worth it.”

Everyone laughs, and for a moment, the pain fades behind the easy rhythm of being home. With Tigerlily and Julian flanking him, Chris hobbles his way toward the door, Riley skipping ahead to hold it open. Together, you all step into the house—something about it feels like slipping into an old song. Familiar, comforting, and maybe… just a little unfinished.

Lunch is simple but comforting—crispy sandwiches, soup in mismatched bowls, and a pitcher of lemonade sweating on the table. Everyone digs in like they haven’t eaten in days, the laughter already bubbling before the first bite is finished.

Tigerlily is the first to strike. She pulls her phone out, turns it toward the group, and presses play. Chris hears it before he sees it—the familiar chords of The Bang Theory mid-performance, the cheers from the crowd, and then, in glorious high-definition: himself soaring off the stage like a man possessed before planting face-first into the floor.

“Okay, okay—” he tries, holding up his hand, but it’s too late.

Julian’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on a piece of grilled cheese. “You looked like a rockstar… for three seconds.”

Riley is cackling, phone in hand. “Dad, it’s everywhere. You're all over the fyp page. There’s already a remix version of it.”

Chris buries his face in his hands. “I was on adrenaline! The music took over!”

You’re laughing behind your hand, trying and failing to keep it together. “Honestly, if you hadn’t broken your leg, I would’ve sworn you were doing a bit.”

He glares at his soup like it betrayed him. “This is how you all repay me? A lifetime of music, memories—and you sell me out for a meme?”

Tigerlily leans over and kisses the top of his head. “We love you, dad.”

Chris lets out a huff, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it. This—this table, this meal, this stupid video on loop—is everything. Maybe he didn’t need a reunion tour. Maybe everything he ever needed was already right here. He reaches for his spoon, winces at the pull in his side, and mumbles, “Next time I want attention, I’m just faking a fever.”

You snort. “Next time, try doing it without turning into a trending hashtag.”

The laughter gradually softens into easy chatter, plates half-cleared and soup bowls nearly empty. Chris leans back, shifting his leg on the stool propped beneath the table, and glances at Tigerlily and Julian seated side by side—her fingers laced through his, their shoulders bumping gently every now and then like they’ve always belonged to each other.

“So,” he begins, swirling what’s left of his lemonade. “Aren’t you two should be on your way to your honeymoon? Or are you two just going to live here and keep mocking your injured old man for the rest of the month?”

Tigerlily chuckles, squeezing Julian’s hand. “We’re actually heading to the airport in a couple hours.”

“Somewhere warm?” he asks.

Julian grins. “Somewhere sunny. No signal. Just naps and fruity drinks.”

Chris smiles. “Sounds perfect.”

Tigerlily rests her chin on her palm, eyes softening. “You don’t need to worry about anything, okay? Just focus on getting better. You’re the only person I know who manages to break a leg mid-performance.”

“Gotta keep it interesting.” He turns toward you now, gaze warm. “Thank you, seriously. For letting me crash at your place.”

You shrug, reaching for your drink with a teasing glint in your eyes. “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m planning to ditch you the second your daughter’s on that plane.”

Chris laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Ruthless.”

You lean in a little, mock-whispering, “You better hope you’re still viral by tomorrow. Sympathy’s on a timer.”

Everyone chuckles again, but the moment softens between the cracks of laughter. Chris looks at his daughter—his newlywed daughter—and then at you, still wearing the faint shimmer of the wedding makeup, still hosting him like it’s no burden at all, and he feels the quiet weight of gratitude anchor somewhere deep in his chest.

Tigerlily glances at her phone, sighs gently, then looks over at Julian. He gives her a small nod, already reaching for their bags near the door. “That’s our cue,” she says, standing up and smoothing her dress. “We should head out before traffic gets crazy.”

Chris feels his chest tighten, even if he hides it with a casual shrug. “You sure you don’t want to delay it a day or two? Maybe wait until my other leg’s broken too?”

Tigerlily grins and walks over, bending slightly to give him a gentle hug around the shoulders. “No more falling, please.”

Julian comes around to shake Chris’s hand, firm and respectful. “We’ll call once we land.”

“Or don’t,” Chris says. “Go have your fun. You’ve earned it.”

Tigerlily turns to you next, wrapping her arms around you in a long, lingering hug. “Thanks again—for everything. And for letting Dad stay.”

You smile and squeeze her tightly. “Just enjoy your honeymoon. Your dad’s already threatening to take over the guest room forever.”

“Then you can start charging him rent,” Tigerlily jokes, pulling back. She turns to Riley next, who gives her a hug that’s more of a shoulder bump, the kind that says she’s too cool for sentiment but still means it. “Take care of them for me, okay?”

Riley nods solemnly. “I’ll keep him from trying to somersault in the living room.”

“Hey!” Chris hisses in protest and followed by more laughter. The good kind.

Then, after one more round of hugs and kisses, Tigerlily and Julian are out the door, dragging their suitcases down the porch steps. You and Chris watch from the entryway, standing side by side in silence as they wave one last time before disappearing into the car.

Chris lets out a quiet breath, his voice softer than before. “She is someone’s wife now.”

You glance at him, lips curling gently. “Yeah. She is.”

He leans a little on his crutch. “God, I’m old.”

You chuckle. “You’re not old. Just broken.”

He grins at that, and the two of you step back inside, closing the door behind you.

-

Later after dinner, the house is quiet in that peaceful, lived-in way. The clatter of dishes has faded, replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laugh echoing from the kitchen. Riley’s been helping dry the plates while you rinse them, the two of you slipping into an easy rhythm that makes Chris feel like something out of a memory.

Once the last dish is tucked away, Riley leans against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. “Hey, Dad,” she says casually—too casually. “Can I go hang out with Maude for a bit?”

Chris immediately frowns. “Aren't you flying home tomorrow?”

“C’mon,” she groans. “It’s not like I’m leaving tonight.”

“She has a point,” you say, stepping in beside her, your elbow brushing his. “She’s packed and everything. Let her enjoy the town with her friend.”

Chris looks between the two of you, instantly outnumbered. Riley with her pleading eyes. You with that soft, knowing look that says you already know he’s going to cave. He exhales. “Fine. But—”

“Since she’s staying at my house,” you cut in with a smirk, “she has to follow my rules.”

Riley straightens, hopeful as you turn to face her. “Home by ten,” you say.

Riley immediately groans, “Ten? Come on.”

Chris crosses his arms, backing you up. “Ten’s fair.”

Riley’s already scheming. “Eleven?”

You tilt your head. “Ten-thirty.”

And she grins, victorious. “Deal.”

She steps forward to give Chris a quick hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

Then she leans in and gives you one, just as quick, before darting out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get changed. Chris turns slowly toward you, brow raised. “You’re spoiling her.”

You only smile at him, utterly unapologetic. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same with Tigerlily.”

Done with tidying up the kitchen, you help ease Chris down onto the sofa, one hand supporting his arm while the other steadies his casted leg as he shifts with a wince. The cushions swallow him up in familiar softness, and he exhales a long breath through his nose.

“I feel bad,” he mutters, adjusting the blanket you toss over his lap. “Making you take care of me like this.”

You shake your head, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d do the same for me.”

Chris watches you for a moment, quietly grateful, quietly thinking. Then, with a little more caution, he says, “Is your boyfriend okay with me staying here?”

You glance at him, one brow lifting. “You mean Hyunjin?”

Chris nods, and his expression twists in confusion. “Remind me again—what does he do?”

You chuckle softly as you reach for the mug on the coffee table and hand it to him. “He’s a pottery artist. And yes, he’s fine with it. He gets it. He’s busy prepping for his next exhibition anyway.”

Chris sips from the mug and hums thoughtfully, then side-eyes you. “So… how far are you two?”

You shoot him a dry look. “We’re taking it slow.”

He nods, accepting that. “Good. I like seeing you happy.”

That makes you shyly smile. “And I like seeing you in pain.”

Chris groans, dropping his head back against the cushion. “When will people stop teasing me about this?”

You laugh, rising from your seat. “When it stops being funny.”

He watches you walk toward the hallway. “Where are you going now?”

“To get your meds,” you call over your shoulder. “So you’ll heal faster and be out of my hair sooner.”

Chris chuckles, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Brutal,” he murmurs to himself, but there’s no mistaking the warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It takes a little while, but with your help, Chris eventually makes it to the guest bedroom—the one with the soft blue sheets and the window that catches the morning light just right. You move slowly with him, patient as ever, guiding him as he hobbles in on crutches, then helping him sit, then lie back, careful not to jostle his cast.

You fuss with the blanket, tucking it around him like he's not a grown man but someone still worthy of being taken care of. It makes something ache in his chest—something soft and unfamiliar.

Chris watches you adjust the pillow beneath his head. “Hey, can you check on Riley for me?” he asks quietly.

You smile as you sit at the edge of the bed. “I called Maude. She and Riley are already on their way home. She’s fine, Chris. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m her dad,” he says, voice dry. “Worrying’s kind of the gig.”

You reach out and briefly brush his hair from his forehead in the same way you used to when he’d stay over during tours and couldn’t sleep. “I’ll worry enough for the both of us. You just sleep.”

He nods, the heaviness of the day settling into his bones now that the adrenaline is gone. You rise from the bed and head for the door.

“Goodnight, Chris,” you say gently, your silhouette framed in the soft glow from the hallway.

“Night,” he murmurs.

The door clicks softly shut, and the room falls into a comforting dimness. Outside, he can faintly hear the wind brushing past the window, and somewhere further off, maybe Tigerlily’s laugh as the front door creaks open.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Chris exhales and feels the tension ease from his chest. He’s not on tour, he’s not chasing time—he’s home, or something close to it. And for the first time in a long time, he feels at ease.

-

The morning light is soft, filtering through the pale curtains of Tigerlily’s old room. You gently push the door open and find Riley sitting cross-legged on the bed, her open suitcase in front of her, carefully folding clothes with a quiet focus. Her hair is a little messy from sleep, and the room still smells faintly of the floral shampoo she used the night before.

From the doorway, you clear your throat. “Hey, Riley bear. I think you're forgetting something,” you say, holding up the pastel slip dress she wore to the rehearsal dinner, draped gently over your arm.

Riley looks up, her eyes wide. “Wait—is that...?” She scrambles to her feet and gasps. “Are you giving me the dress?”

You nod, smiling. “It’s yours now.”

She beams as she takes it from you with reverent hands, smoothing out the fabric like it’s something sacred. “Thank you so much,” she says softly, folding it carefully and placing it into her suitcase.

You cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. “Your dad called your mom and she’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Riley nods without looking up, adjusting something in her bag. “Is Dad going to be okay?”

You glance toward the window, your thoughts momentarily drifting to Chris snoring softly on the couch with his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. “Of course. Don’t worry about him—just focus on your school, okay?”

She pauses and then glances at you with a knowing smile. “I’m not worried,” she says. “You’re taking care of him.”

You grin and slightly roll your eyes. “Obviously. I’m a world-class babysitter.”

She laughs at that, a bright, clear sound, and you pat the space next to you on the bed. Riley plops down beside you, and you drape an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

“You can come here whenever you want, you know,” you tell her. “You can borrow more dresses—or hang out. If you don’t mind hanging out with an old lady like me.”

Riley leans her head against your shoulder. “You’re not that old,” she says. “And you’re cool.”

You gasp dramatically. “Coming from you? That’s a high honor.”

The two of you burst into laughter, and the sound fills the room—warm, bright, and easy.

Later that afternoon, you sit behind the wheel, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel as the engine hums softly. From the driver’s seat, you watch through the windshield as Chris leans against his crutches on the front porch. Riley stands in front of him, her bag already tucked in the trunk, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. They’re saying goodbye.

Chris wraps one arm around her in a hug, pulling her in with a gentleness that always catches you off guard. He leans his head down, murmurs something into her ear that makes her laugh through a tearful smile, and then he presses a kiss to her temple—tender, lingering.

And just like that, you’re back in time. A younger Chris, crouched down by the sidewalk with little Tigerlily in his arms. Her pigtails bouncing, her cheeks sticky from popsicle syrup, her tiny arms thrown around his neck. He’d done the same thing then—held her close, kissed her on the temple, whispered a promise into her ear before sending her off with you.

Now here he is, older, slower, but still her father. And Riley—well, she knows she's not his only daughter, but there’s something in the way she leans into him like she knows she can rely her life on him and that's special. Precious.

You glance away, giving them a private moment. A beat later, Riley climbs into the passenger seat beside you, her eyes a little glassy but her smile firm.

“All good?” you ask softly.

She nods. “Yeah.”

In the rearview mirror, you catch a final glimpse of Chris waving, his expression unreadable, before you pull away from the curb. As you drive toward the airport, Riley leans her head against the window, and you feel something settle quietly in your chest—warm and bittersweet. Some goodbyes never get easier.

-

From his spot on the living room sofa, Chris watches the way you move in the kitchen—fluid, relaxed, a wooden spoon in one hand, a faint hum in your throat as the scent of garlic and something rich fills the air. There's something quietly mesmerizing about the scene, the domesticity of it, the warmth.

“Need help with anything?” he asks, shifting his casted leg slightly on the ottoman.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, that soft kind of smile that’s always caught him off guard. “Yeah, you can sit there and look pretty. Maybe put on something good for me to cook to?”

Chris snorts. “So I’m the house DJ now?”

“That, and the broken mascot,” you tease.

He laughs, grabbing his phone and flipping through a playlist. “Alright. Your soundtrack is ready.”

A mellow tune begins to play—something old, probably something from the Bang Theory days because you’ve always had a thing for nostalgia—and you give a little sway of your hips as you stir the pot. Chris chuckles under his breath. “You always dance when you cook?”

“Only when I have a pretty audience,” you toss back, not even looking at him.

“Flatterer.”

You smirk, but before you can reply, the doorbell rings, cutting through the moment. You set the spoon down and wipe your hands on a towel before heading toward the door.

Chris stays put, listening. He hears the quiet murmur of exchanged greetings, too muffled to catch the words. Then footsteps—two sets—approaching.

You return a few moments later, and this time, you’re not alone. Behind you is Hyunjin, tall and graceful as ever, a fruit basket cradled in one arm and a polite smile on his face. Chris sits up straighter instinctively, caught a little off-guard by the sudden shift in the energy.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says with easy warmth. “Thought I’d drop by. Brought this for you.”

Hyunjin holds out the basket toward Chris and he manages a smile, nodding at the gesture. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Hyunjin replies, settling into the space like he belongs there.

And maybe, Chris thinks, watching the way you smile at Hyunjin as you gently nudge the door closed, maybe he does.

Dinner is simple but delicious—roasted chicken, potatoes, something green that Chris can’t name but eats anyway because it tastes good and you cooked it. The three of you sit around the dining table, the evening soft and mellow, the lighting warm enough to make the moment feel like it’s been pulled from a memory he hasn’t made yet.

“So there was this one time,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair, “we were playing a festival in Brazil—middle of a thunderstorm, the power cuts out mid-song, and our drummer thinks, ‘This is the perfect time for a solo.’” He grins. “Dude went wild. People thought it was part of the act.”

You chuckle, eyes crinkling. “That actually sounds kind of iconic.”

“Oh, it was. We got soaked, the whole stage nearly collapsed, and we ended the night with someone handing us a baby monkey like it was a trophy.”

Hyunjin laughs—open and genuine, the kind of laugh Chris respects. “That’s a hell of a story. I feel like I’m not living enough.”

Chris raises his glass. “You’re dating her. That’s living dangerously.”

You roll your eyes as you reach over to steal a bite of Hyunjin’s salad like it’s the most natural thing, and Hyunjin just slides the bowl closer to you without a word, like he already expected you to do that.

Chris watches it all unfold—your subtle smiles, the way Hyunjin’s hand rests lightly on the back of your chair, your legs brushing beneath the table. It's not dramatic or flashy. It's quiet affection, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word.

You’ve always been soft with the people you love, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen you like this—content, calm, at ease. And even though there’s a dull ache in his leg and maybe a sharper one in his chest he doesn’t want to name, Chris finds himself smiling too.

-

Chris is in rare form tonight—witty, nosy, and clearly trying to establish dominance from the corner of the living room where he's lounging like some kind of injured rockstar king. You knew the moment Hyunjin walked through the door with that fruit basket that Chris was going to put him through something resembling a war trial masked as small talk and he doesn’t disappoint. You’re curled up next to Hyunjin on the couch, sipping tea when Chris starts his ambush.

“So, Hyunjin,” Chris says, swirling his water like it’s wine. “What are your intentions with our dear girl here?”

You groan. “Chris…”

But Hyunjin just smiles, unfazed. “Good ones,” he replies easily.

Chris narrows his eyes. “Define good.”

“Chris!” you scold, half-laughing, half-mortified.

Hyunjin glances at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “I mean that I care about her. I think she's incredible. I respect her. I’m not here to mess around.”

Chris pretends to be unimpressed, asking question after ridiculous question—about changing tires, knowing your coffee order, and even how he handles power tools. It’s ridiculous. But what surprises you the most is how calm Hyunjin stays. Charming, even. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn't falter. And he answers everything with a kind of quiet grace that makes your heart clench.

“You pay attention,” you murmur, impressed.

Hyunjin offers you a small smile. “Always.”

Chris blinks. You swear, for a second, even he’s impressed. Though of course, he hides it behind a grumble. “Barely passed.”

“Chris, you're scaring him away,” you say, nudging Chris’s foot with yours.

Chris shrugs. “Good. If he scares easy, he’s not worth it.”

Hyunjin laughs. “I’m not scared.”

Chris studies him again, then leans back with a groan, giving his approval in the most Chris-like way—by pretending to be annoyed. “Alright. Interrogation’s over. You can breathe again.”

You roll your eyes and grin, settling back against Hyunjin as the conversation shifts into easy territory—stories from Chris’s band days, the kind that are so ridiculous they don’t even sound real, and you’re not sure how much is fact and how much is filtered through nostalgia.

Still, the atmosphere is soft. Comfortable. Hyunjin’s arm is warm around you, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm. And Chris—even with his broken leg and sarcasm—is clearly enjoying the company.

It feels like something real. Something warm and human and a little chaotic in the best way. And when Hyunjin calls it that he's overstaying his visit, you let out a sigh of relief. Relieved because you can finally get Hyunjin away from Chris and the side effects of the painkillers he's taking.

Hyunjin slips his shoes on slowly, like he’s stalling—like he’s not quite ready to go yet. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, looking at you with that sweet, sleepy glint in his eyes. His voice is low, a little rough, like the night settled into his throat.

You smile at him, soft and warm. “You can thank me for it in another way.”

His brows lift, but the smirk that follows is immediate. He knows exactly what you mean. Without another word, Hyunjin steps closer, arms circling around your waist, drawing you to him until your bodies are pressed together. He leans in and kisses you—hard, deep, like he’s been holding it in all night. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulls away, his voice is a murmur against your lips. “I missed you.”

You cup his cheek, brushing your thumb along his skin before kissing him back—this time slower, but just as full of everything you haven’t said out loud. “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your back, and you don’t try to move either. You just lean into the warmth of him for a second longer, until he breaks the silence again.

“Can I take you out this Friday night?” he pauses for a second, his eyes glint mischievously. “Or do I have to ask Chris’s permission first?”

You snort, lightly swatting his chest. “No, but I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into. I need to know what to wear.”

He only leans in, brushing a kiss against your lips. “Can’t tell you that. It’s a surprise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but it’s fond. “Fine,” you say, already knowing you’d say yes anyway. “I’ll go.”

And then he kisses you again—deeper, harder, with more heat and just enough tongue that when he finally pulls away, you’re gasping softly, blinking up at him.

“Goodnight,” Hyunjin says innocently, but his smirk gives him away as he slowly backs toward his car.

“Goodnight,” you manage, a little dazed as you wave, watching him drive off into the night.

Your lips still tingle from the kiss, and there’s a flutter in your chest that doesn’t quite settle even after the taillights disappear. Friday can’t come soon enough.

-

The water is warm, and for a little while, Chris almost forgets about the ridiculous cast on his leg, sticking out over the edge of the tub like some awkward decoration. He leans back, arms stretched along the sides, eyes closed, letting the steam ease the tension in his shoulders. Getting into the bath wasn’t easy, but he managed. Getting out, though… that’s a different story.

He stares at the edge of the tub, doing the math in his head. No grip, no proper leverage, one working leg. He shifts, trying to maneuver his body upright, and winces. Nope. Not happening.

“This is so stupid,” he mutters under his breath.

A minute passes. Two. His pride holds the line for as long as it can before it finally caves. “Hey!” he calls out, voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. “Can I get a little help in here?”

Footsteps approach. The door creaks open and you peek your head in. “Everything okay?”

Chris sighs, shoulders slumping. “I, uh… didn’t really think through the getting out part.”

You suppress a laugh as you walk in, crossing your arms. “Are you seriously embarrassed I might see you naked?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You used to scold me for walking around the house shirtless. ‘Put a top on, Christopher, there’s a child in this house!’ Sound familiar?”

You smirk and hold out your hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out before you prune.”

He takes your hand, the other gripping the edge of the tub. With a grunt, he lifts himself—but pushes too hard. His wet body stumbles forward, crashing into yours. Water drips onto your dress as he presses against you for balance. “Shit—sorry,” he says quickly.

You snort at the way he holds you so tightly as he steadies himself. “Just stay hold on to me as I grab a towel for you, okay?”

He obeys, clinging to you as you reach for the shelf and grab a clean towel from the top of the stack. Once you get it, Chris slowly pulls back while grabbing the towel you shove at him.

You step away, but not before he sees it: your dress, soaked and clinging to you, almost transparent. His eyes widen and he quickly looks anywhere else. “I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, grabbing another towel for yourself. “Not the first time I’ve ended up wet because of you.”

Chris lets out a surprised laugh, choking on it halfway through. “Wow. Okay.”

You glance at him as you towel off. “Need help with anything else?”

He grins. “Well, if you’re offering… can you dress me too?”

Your towel lands on his chest with a thud. “Don’t get too comfortable, rockstar.”

You’re already walking out as he starts laughing, water still dripping from his hair. And even though he’s half-naked and slightly humiliated, he’s smiling.

Freshly dressed, Chris walks out of the bedroom, the soft thump of his crutch echoing down the hallway. He makes his way to the kitchen, and when he gets there, he pauses. On the dining table is a single plate, carefully prepared and still warm. Just one. He furrows his brows, glancing around. “Hey, why’s there only dinner for one?”

He fills a glass of water from the sink, and just as he takes a sip, he hears the sound of your footsteps descending the stairs. He turns toward the sound—and stops. You appear at the base of the stairs, dressed in a black dress, your hair swept up to show the curve of your neck. There's a light touch of makeup on your face, your lips painted a vivid shade of red. You look… radiant.

“Forgot to tell you I’m going out with Hyunjin tonight,” you say, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder.

Chris stares for a second too long before blinking and offering a small, stunned smile. “Whoa. You look… incredible.”

A soft blush colors your cheeks as you give him a flustered laugh. “Thanks. And I��ll probably be home late, so don’t wait up.”

Chris nods, pushing down the little twist in his chest. “Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”

You’re already halfway to the door when you turn and smirk at him. “I’m not worrying. Not after you tried to stage dive at your age.”

Chris groans with a laugh. “I’ll never live that down, huh?”

You shake your head, heading for the door when he calls out, “Hey—wait.”

You pause, turning on your heel to face him.

“You should wear your hair down,” he says, his voice softer now, sincere.

You blink, confused for a moment, but slowly reach up, pulling out the pins and ties holding your hair up. It falls over your shoulders in gentle waves.

Chris smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers for a beat too long. “You’re more beautiful with your hair down.”

Your gaze lingers on his for a second, touched. “Thanks, Chris.”

He nods, and you quietly slip out the door. Just before it clicks shut, your voice drifts back in. “Goodnight.”

Chris stands in the kitchen, the soft echoes of your heels fading away down the path.

“Goodnight,” he says, but you’re already gone and suddenly, the room feels a lot quieter without you.

-

The restaurant is quiet, tucked away behind ivy-covered walls and glowing lanterns, the kind of place you’d only know about if someone had whispered it to you like a secret. The lighting is soft and golden, and your heels click softly against the floor as you settle into your seat across from Hyunjin. He looks good tonight—black button-down rolled at the sleeves, a silver chain catching the low light. His buzzed hair has grown longer and you like the way his eyes soften when they land on you.

You’re halfway unfolding your napkin when he leans forward, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Did Chris say anything about you going out tonight?”

You snort, reaching for your water. “What, do you think he’d ground me or something?”

Hyunjin shrugs, casual, but you catch the glint of something teasing in his eyes. “He lives with you. I just don’t want to get between the retired rockstar and his… babysitter.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Chris is fine. He’s got a warm meal, his pain meds, and his laptop. He’ll live.”

“Which means,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice dipping a little lower, “you’re all mine tonight?”

You arch a brow, leaning forward so your elbows rest against the table. “Aren’t I always yours?”

That makes his gaze darken just enough, his posture shifting ever so slightly before he mirrors your movement, leaning in until your faces are only inches apart. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and slow at first—but deepens fast. The kind of kiss that curls heat low in your belly, that makes you forget, for a moment, that you're in public.

When you finally pull away, slightly breathless, you catch the smudge of your lipstick staining the corner of his mouth and laugh under your breath as you reach for a napkin. “Hold still, potter boy,” you murmur while dabbing at his lips. “Can’t have you looking like you just made out with this old lady.”

Hyunjin grins, tilting his face toward your touch. “Which in my defense only makes it hotter.”

The taste of rosemary and lemon still lingering on your tongue from the appetizer as you swirl your glass of red wine, catching the way Hyunjin’s eyes fixed on you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. “You’re being very mysterious tonight.”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I?”

You nod, leaning forward just a little. “You said this wasn’t the only stop tonight. Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to keep guessing?”

He chuckles softly, setting his glass down. “Depends. What’s your guess?”

You tap a finger against your lips thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “It’s either something very artsy, like a pop-up gallery you’re secretly featured in… or something romantic, like a rooftop somewhere with fairy lights and dessert.”

“Both interesting guesses,” he says, his smile growing. “But no.”

You squint. “Okay, now I’m even more curious.”

Hyunjin leans in across the table, his voice low, playful. “I’ll tell you this much—it’s something I’ve been wanting to do with you for a while.”

Your heart flutters a little at that. “That’s vague. And mildly dangerous.”

He laughs again, then reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb gently over your knuckles. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

You glance down at your joined hands, then back up at him, letting a soft smile tug at your lips. “I already like this.”

And you mean it. Whatever he’s planned, wherever the night goes, it’s already perfect—because he’s here, looking at you like that.

-

Hyunjin parks the car behind a nondescript building, the kind of place that looks more like a storage warehouse than a destination for a Friday night. You glance around as he cuts the engine, confusion twisting your brows. There’s no sign, no line of people, nothing to give it away. Just a dim back alley and the sound of distant city life.

Before you can ask, Hyunjin shrugs off his jacket and gets out, circling around to your side. He opens the passenger door for you with that easy charm, his hand already extended for yours.

You take it, stepping out in your heels, eyeing him with growing curiosity. “Okay,” you start, suspicious, “are you finally going to tell me where you’re taking me?”

But Hyunjin just grins, lips twitching as he leans in close. “Trust me,” he says, voice warm, “just come with me.”

So you do as he leads you through a side door tucked into the wall of the building. The hallway inside is narrow and dimly lit, almost like a service entrance. Every step you take makes the mystery grow thicker. “You know this is the kind of hallway where people get murdered in thrillers, right?” you mutter.

Hyunjin only chuckles and squeezes your hand. The further you walk, the louder the music becomes—low, thumping, vibrating faintly through the floors and walls. You exchange a glance with him, eyebrows raised, but he still gives nothing away. Just that quiet smile. Then you push through a final door, and suddenly you’re hit with the dim light and pulsing energy of a crowded venue. You blink, your eyes adjusting to the haze and strobes overhead, taking in the press of bodies all facing one direction. A stage sits under soft red lights, still empty—but the crowd’s buzzing. Waiting.

Hyunjin wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you through the crowd until you find a decent spot near the side of the room. You’re about to ask what this place is—what kind of event this even is—when the cheers erupt. You snap your head toward the stage. One by one, people step into view: guitarists, a drummer, a keyboardist. And then—her.

It takes you a second to believe your eyes. She’s changed, older now, but unmistakable—her. Your favorite singer. The former lead vocalist of the band you practically worshipped as a teenager. The one whose songs you screamed into your pillow and played on repeat during every heartbreak. She steps up to the mic with a knowing smile and starts singing, her voice carrying years of history and grit and something raw that punches you right in the chest. You whip your head around, mouth parting as you stare at Hyunjin in disbelief. He’s already watching you, smiling like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Are you serious right now?” you shout over the music, eyes wide.

He leans in, his mouth close to your ear. “You said you never got to see her live,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Thought it was about time you did.”

You don’t even realize you’ve grabbed his face until your hands are on his cheeks, kissing him hard in the middle of the crowd, your heart pounding like it’s synced to the bass.

He laughs into the kiss, then wraps his arms around you and sways with you to the music as your favorite song from years ago floods the room.

It doesn't take long to make you lose yourself in the music. The moment your favorite song spills from the speakers, something in you lights up. You’re dancing before you even realize it—arms swaying, hips moving, mouth shouting every lyric like it’s still 1994 and you’ve got posters on your wall and heartbreak in your chest.

And Hyunjin—God, Hyunjin—isn’t even pretending to watch the stage. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze like a touch. Even in the shifting lights and the chaos of the crowd, you know he’s locked in on you, drinking you in like the music was just the opening act and you are the real show.

You spin around to face him mid-chorus, laughing breathlessly, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him—fast, messy, a little off-center from all the movement, but so full of joy it makes your chest ache.

He laughs into the kiss, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other already sliding around your waist as the next song kicks in. It’s another one you love, and you turn in his arms, still moving with the beat, still singing at the top of your lungs as he pulls you close from behind.

Hyunjin sways with you, slow and lazy, despite the fast tempo of the music. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you can feel the warmth of his smile against your skin as he holds you tighter and lets you scream every lyric like you’re sixteen again and nothing in the world hurts.

You’re not thinking about anything else—not Chris, not real life, not what tomorrow might bring. Just this moment. Just this music. Just Hyunjin, dancing with you under the haze of stage lights, letting you steal the spotlight without even trying.

-

The night air is cool against your flushed skin as you walk barefoot in Hyunjin’s shoes—your heels dangling from his hand while he strolls beside you in his black socks, not caring about it as long as you're walking comfortably next to him. You glance at him every now and then, both of you worn out but glowing, your fingers linked as you quietly head back toward the car. Your feet ache, your voice is raw from screaming lyrics, your cheeks hurt from smiling too much—and still, you feel like you’re floating.

Hyunjin breaks the silence first, voice low and soft, “Are you happy?”

You nod right away, not even needing to think. “I’m really happy,” you say, exhaling the words like a warm breath in winter. “Like… stupidly happy.”

His mouth curls into that sweet smile of his, the one that always melts you. “Then I’m happy too.”

You clutch his arm tighter and lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth, quick and playful, and he chuckles, the sound rich and fond, watching you like you’re his whole world wrapped in a black dress and someone else’s shoes.

When you reach the car, Hyunjin opens the door for you like he always does—gentle, thoughtful—but just as you’re about to get in, he asks, “Ready to go home?”

You stop and look up at him, something new sparking in your eyes. “I don’t want to go home,” you murmur.

Hyunjin blinks, brows lifting slightly. You pause, then add, with a soft, shy smile tugging at your lips, “I want to spend the night at my boyfriend’s place.”

His face warms instantly, that surprised grin spreading across it like sunlight. And before he can say a word, you lean in and kiss him again—slow, sure, a little deeper this time—like you’ve made your decision and now all that’s left is to feel the way he kisses you back, like he’s been waiting for you to say those exact words all night.

-

The two of you pushing through the door to Hyunjin’s apartment, tangled up in each other—lips crashing, breaths quick and heated. You're both laughing in between kisses, fumbling with shoes and jackets and anything that dares to be in the way. His keys clatter somewhere to the floor, forgotten.

Hyunjin backs you into the wall, his hands firm on your waist as his mouth finds yours again—this time slower, deeper, like he’s been holding this in all night and he’s finally letting go. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and your hands slip under the hem of his shirt just to feel more of him, to anchor yourself to the heat of his skin. You gasp against his mouth when his fingers trail up your sides, drawing your body flush with his. Your leg hooks around his hip instinctively, keeping him close, needing him close.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen and parted like he’s struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t think I'd be able to stop,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You smile, playful and breathless. “Then don’t fight it.”

And he doesn’t. He kisses you again, this time deeper, more desperate. The world fades—just skin and sighs and the electric buzz between you. It's not rushed, but there's urgency, like you're both afraid the night might slip away if you don't hold it tight enough.

Hyunjin lifts you, carrying you through the low-lit apartment with ease, like he already knows exactly where he wants you, and your fingers find the back of his neck, holding on as your laughter melts into another kiss, dizzy and all-consuming. Next thing you know, you feel the cool press of the dining table beneath you as he sets you down on the edge, his lips never far from yours. The kiss deepens—hotter, heavier—and his hands grip your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“The way you looked tonight oh...” he murmurs against your mouth, each word laced with heat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do to you.”

You let out a soft, teasing laugh, lips brushing his. “What things?” you ask, already knowing, already craving.

“Sinful things,” he whispers, and his smirk sends a shiver down your spine.

That makes you giggle, and you kiss him again—hard, greedy—playfully tugging his bottom lip between your teeth before letting it go with a soft pop. He groans at that, low and throaty, before grabbing your legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messier, hungrier. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands roaming your sides, your back—like he can’t get enough. You’re both breathless, laughing in between the gasps, and yet neither of you want to stop. The tension between you crackles like fire.

Hyunjin rocks against you slowly, his hips pressing into your heating core with just enough friction to make your breath catch. Your foreheads pressed together, looking into each other’s eyes—and it’s there, clear as day. Want. Need. The palpable desire.

“I want it,” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes search yours, heat smoldering in the way he asks, “Here?”

You nod, lips brushing his. “I feel like doing something reckless tonight.”

That’s all it takes for his mouth to crash into yours again, urgent and wild, as the world narrows to just the two of you. Your hands fumble impatiently at Hyunjin’s waistband, tugging at his slacks like you can’t bear to wait another second. He lets out a breathy laugh, helping you get them down just enough before his hands find the hem of your dress. With practiced ease, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, hooking onto the elastic band of your underwear. In one smooth motion, he pulls them down your legs, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. The hem of your dress bunches up around your waist as he parts your legs, spreading you open before him—and the way his eyes darken, the way his lips part like he’s forgetting how to breathe, tells you everything. He's practically salivating at the sight of your throbbing cunt but something holds him back.

“What are you waiting for, mmh?” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

Hyunjin hesitates, brushing his thumb gently against your thigh. “Is it okay… to do it without protection?”

You smile at that, your hand sliding down to wrap gently around his cock, hot and pulsating in your palm. He twitches in your grasp, his breath hitching as you slowly stroke him.

“I want to feel all of you tonight,” you say, kissing the hollow of his throat, your lips lingering there. Then, in a sultry whisper, “Don’t you want to feel all of me too?”

The look in his eyes is molten—his restraint slipping fast. You guide him to you, the heat between your bodies coiling tighter with every breath, every second. As you align him at your entrance and put just the tip inside you, letting him to do the rest. It takes a second until he finally caves, groaning softly as he pushes the remaining length into you, slow and deep, until he’s buried to the hilt. Your head falls back, his name a whisper on your lips and from there, there’s no stopping either of you—only the rhythm you fall into, lost in the feeling of being completely, recklessly consumed.

Hyunjin moves with desperate need, his hips driving into you with a hard, steady rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Your lips stay tangled in a messy, open-mouthed kiss—teeth grazing, tongues colliding, moans swallowed into each other as you cling to him like you’ll unravel without the anchor of his body against yours. You shift against him, angling just right so he hits that perfect spot deep inside you, again and again. Your moans rise with each thrust, echoing through the apartment, shameless and sweet and full of heat.

He grips you tighter, one arm around your waist, the other braced on the table to keep you steady as he drives into you with everything he has. The world feels far away—there’s only him, only you, only this fire burning between your bodies.

It's raw, it's messy. It's this pure, primal need for each other that brings the two of you to your highs, crashing over both of you fast and hard. You fall apart together, your back arching as you cry out his name, and Hyunjin’s grip turns bruising for a moment as he gasps against your neck. He barely manages to pull out just in time, and you both glance down at the mess he leaves on your thighs—warm, pearly white sheen of his seed painted your skin, undeniable evidence of how far gone the two of you were. You look back up at him, breathless and flushed, and the grin on your face matches the one tugging at his lips—satisfied, dazed, and completely smitten.

Hyunjin leans in, still breathless, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “That was so hot,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and a little dazed.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s still not ready to let go of the moment. Then, with a teasing grin, he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’m never going to be able to eat at this table without thinking about this.”

You laugh, nudging your nose against his. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all,” he says, his hands tightening around your waist before crashing his lips onto yours again, a little more desperate, a little more possessive.

When you finally pull back, your lips still tingling, you glance over his shoulder and eye the living room sofa. You arch a brow and say with a playful gleam in your eyes, “I just had a new idea where we can do it next.”

Hyunjin follows your gaze, then looks back at you with a slow, wicked smile that tells you he’s more than on board. You slide off the edge of the dining table, your legs still a little shaky, and pull Hyunjin in for another heated kiss. As your lips move against his, you begin walking him backward—slow, careful steps until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the sofa. With a playful smirk, you give him a gentle push and he drops onto the cushions with a surprised laugh, eyes wide and dark with anticipation. He barely has time to react before you're kneeling between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs as you part them. Your smile turns sly, eyes twinkling with something mischievous as you reach for the front of his slacks.

“You're really not going to catch a break tonight,” you murmur, fingers already undoing his fly.

Hyunjin lets out a breathy laugh, his gaze locked on yours, heavy and full of want. You pull his cock free, your hand wrapping around him with a slow, teasing stroke that makes his breath hitch. You lean in close, your lips ghosting over the crest of his cock, not touching—just letting your warm breath tease him as your hand continues its lazy rhythm. His fingers tighten on the sofa cushions, and the way he looks at you—like he’s completely undone—only makes your grin widen. You glance up at him, lips brushing against the length of his shaft just enough to drive him mad.

“I want you to think of this whenever you sit on this sofa,” you whisper, voice low and sultry.

Your smile deepens as you lower your gaze, your fingers tightening just slightly around him. Hyunjin’s breath catches—his chest rising and falling a little faster now, his hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or just watch. You lean in, placing a slow, teasing kiss on his abdomen first—just to tease—and then another, lower and closer to where he wants you this time. The tension in his body winds tighter with every second, and when you finally press your lips against his tip, his head tips back against the sofa with a soft, shaky groan.

You take your time, putting his length into you little by little, savoring every inch of him and at the same time, drawing a shudder out of him. Hyunjin’s hand finds the back of your head, not guiding—just resting, like he needs the anchor. You hum softly, letting him feel it, the feel of your mouth and how it's vibrating around him, and he mutters your name like it’s the only word he knows.

Every now and then, you glance up at him, locking eyes just long enough to watch him fall apart—his lips parted, his brows furrowed in disbelief at how good it feels. You know exactly what you're doing, and the satisfied curl of your mouth says it all.

Your lips curve around him with practiced ease, the slow rhythm you keep making Hyunjin melt deeper into the cushions beneath him. He’s breathing heavy now—chest rising and falling fast, hands gripping the sofa like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s your name he whispers like a prayer. Then his fingers tangle in your hair—firm, maybe a little too much, but it tells you just how close he is. “Baby,” he gasps, voice ragged. “Wait—stop, please…”

You pull back, slow and teasing, your lips still curled in that wicked little smile. You look up at him, chest heaving, eyes dark and dazed, and swipe your tongue across your lower lip just to mess with him. “Too much?” you ask sweetly.

Hyunjin groans, swiping his thumb gently over your mouth, wiping away the last trace of your affection. “You’re too good at that,” he breathes, eyes flickering over your face. “I almost—God, I was so close.”

You tilt your head, playful. “So? What’s stopping you?”

He laughs, low and breathless, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek. “Because,” he says, his voice rough with want, “I want you on my bed next.”

Your smile turns softer, more dangerous somehow, and you slowly rise to your feet, eyes locked on his. “Then what are we waiting for?” you murmur.

Hyunjin doesn’t say a word—he just sweeps you off your feet, literally, arms tucked beneath your back and knees as he carries you bridal style through the soft glow of the apartment. You giggle against his chest, your arms looped around his neck, heart fluttering with anticipation.

When he sets you down on the bed, it’s with a gentleness that contrasts the fire in his eyes. You sink into the plush bedding, propped up on your elbows as he straightens, standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly peels off his clothes—first his shirt, then his slacks—revealing skin and toned muscle, each movement deliberate, unrushed. You drink him in, quietly, your gaze tracing the lines of his arms, the dip of his waist, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just as breathless as you are. Every inch of him, familiar yet thrilling, makes the knot in your stomach tighten with each passing second.

Hyunjin smirks when he catches the way your lips part slightly, your eyes trailing shamelessly. “You’re staring,” he teases softly, voice low and warm.

You bite back a smile. “Can you blame me?” you whisper. “You’re kind of… irresistible.”

His eyes darken just a little more at that, and as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, he murmurs, “Good. Because I only undress like this for you.”

Hyunjin hovers above you, his bare skin brushing against yours as his hands move with reverence, peeling away the last of what you’re wearing until you’re bare beneath him. The air shifts between you, warm and charged, and he pulls back just enough to take you in—his gaze drinking you in with quiet awe. His fingers trail gently over your curves, slow and deliberate, as if committing you to memory. “I want all of this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, like the weight of what he feels is almost too much to say aloud.

You meet his eyes, your hand reaching to rest against his cheek. “It’s yours,” you whisper softly.

His breath catches. “All of this? Really mine?”

You nod, pulling him down to you. “Wholly. Completely. Yours.”

He doesn’t respond right away—not with words, at least. Instead, he lowers himself until your lips meet, and in that kiss, there’s nothing held back. Just the certainty of belonging, of devotion, of everything unspoken that now lingers between you.

The mattress dips under his weight as he turns you over until you lay on your stomach and then settles himself behind you, he's pulling you close until your bodies align perfectly. He uses his fingers to tease your already soaked cunt, running them between the folds and pushing two digits to milk more arousal out of you, getting you ready for what's coming next. You're unable to look but you know that he's using the tip of his cock now to tease your entrance, wetting it with your arousal before finally pushing it in, entering you and not holding back from whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being wrapped in your warm, tight walls.

Hyunjin slowly lowers himself, his chest meeting your back, his breath is warm against the back of your neck, his fingers firm at your waist, and when he moves—slowly at first—it draws a quiet, desperate sound from deep in your throat.

The bed creaks beneath the rhythm he sets, steady and hard, just the way you asked for it. You grip the sheets and whisper his name between gasps, urging him on, asking for more. “Harder, Hyunjin, please, harder!”

And every time you do, Hyunjin answers—thrusting deeper, faster, his hand slipping under you to stroke at your clit with knowing fingers.

It doesn’t take long before you're unraveling again, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes over you. But even through your haze, you manage to breathe out, “Don’t stop.”

He holds you tighter, chest pressed to your back as he chases his own release. You feel the tension in him, the way his body coils tighter with every movement, and when you sense he's close, you hurriedly grab his arm and pull it across your front. Turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, you whisper, “Don’t pull out.”

His response is a kiss—deep, messy, filled with heat—and you both tumble over the edge together, your bodies stay tangled close as he spills into you, filling you with his seed with one hand gently rubbing at your abdomen. His plush lips brushes your ear as he mutters, “Yeah, take all of me, baby, it's all yours.”

In the next moment, the room turns quiet, the only sounds are the slow, steady breaths the two of you share in the afterglow. Hyunjin doesn’t let you go—not even for a second. He’s wrapped around you, arms firm yet gentle, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold. His lips press against your shoulder, your jaw, the crown of your head, in soft, lingering kisses.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, voice hushed. “For tonight. For letting me meet the you from back then. The one who sang her heart out to her favorite band and danced like nothing else mattered.”

You smile lazily at that, eyes already growing heavy. “I think she’s back in her current version cause she feels so sleepy… It’s way past her bedtime,” you mumble with a teasing pout, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

Hyunjin lets out a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face before kissing your temple. “Then I’ll make sure that she sleeps well and have the sweetest dream tonight.”

He presses one last sweet kiss to your lips. “Goodnight, angel.”

Your sleepy smile lingers as you whisper back, “Goodnight…”

As your breathing slows and your thoughts begin to blur, a soft wave of happiness washes over you—warm and weightless. You fall asleep feeling safe in his arms, your heart full, and a quiet joy humming in your chest… because tonight, you got to relive your teenage years. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

Slivers of sunlight spills gently through the curtains, painting soft golden streaks across the bed. You stir slightly, feeling the warmth of a body beside you before you even open your eyes. When you do, it’s to the sight of Hyunjin lying on his side, watching you with that quiet, tender gaze that makes your heart flutter. His fingers are gently brushing strands of hair away from your face, careful not to wake you—though you’re already awake, and the way his lips curve into a sleepy smile lets you know he’s noticed.

“Good morning, angel,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, the heat of it lingering on your skin.

You groan a little, half your face disappearing under the duvet. “Morning…” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep, self-conscious about your messy hair and morning breath.

Hyunjin chuckles softly and keeps stroking your hair, his fingers moving with a kind of reverence. “How’d you sleep?”

You peek at him through the edge of the duvet and smile. “Excellent. Like a teenage girl who just lived her dream.”

That earns you a grin. “I’m glad.” He pauses, eyes dancing. “So, what do you want for breakfast?”

You blink. “You’re cooking?”

He nods, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “Of course. Why so surprised?”

Your smile grows wistful. “It’s been a long time since someone cooked me breakfast. A really long time…”

“Well,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle your nose, “that’s about to change.”

Your face lights up. “So I get to choose anything?”

“Anything,” he says, firm but playful. “After what you did last night? You deserve a five-star menu.”

At the mention of that, memories from last night flash in your mind—wild and sweet, messy and intimate—and your cheeks instantly heat. You cover your face again with the duvet, laughing quietly. “Don’t say it like that.”

He gently tugs the duvet back down so he can see your face. “Then tell me. What are you craving?”

You hum thoughtfully, then start listing things. “Pancakes. And eggs. A little fruit. Maybe hash browns? And coffee. Definitely coffee.”

“Coming right up,” he grins, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumb across your cheek. Then, with a lingering kiss to your lips—warm, unhurried—he slides out of bed. “Stay right here. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

You watch him head out, shirtless and tousled, your heart full and your soul wrapped in a kind of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. As he ordered, you stay lying on the bed, the sheets still warm from where Hyunjin had just been. The faint sound of him moving around in the kitchen drifts in from the other side of the apartment.

There’s a strange but comforting intimacy in it all, the kind you’ve only read about or seen in movies—the feeling of waking up in someone else’s bed not out of recklessness or mistake, but because you wanted to be there. Last night was wild, beautiful, tender, and real. And this morning feels just as special. The kind of morning where you could let the sun warm your skin, feel the softness of a stranger's sheets beneath you, and believe—just for a little while—that things are falling into place.

The weather outside looks gorgeous. Golden sunlight peeks through the curtain slits, dancing along the floor in quiet invitation. And you feel… good. Light. Like the day is already off to a perfect start. That is, until your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach over lazily and grab it, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the screen. Several missed calls from Chris stare back at you, along with a stream of increasingly chaotic texts. You can almost see him in your head—shirtless in sweatpants, hair a mess, glaring at the kitchen as if it’s personally offended him, a wooden spoon in one hand and a phone in the other. He’s probably fine. Probably. Unless he somehow manages to set a pot of water on fire. Again.

Chris isn’t exactly known for his domestic abilities, and the fact that he didn’t pick up when you called back immediately makes your stomach twist. You try calling him again. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then goes to voicemail.

“Crap.” Your smile fades and you sit up quickly, suddenly wide awake. Another call—no answer. You swing your legs off the bed, grabbing your phone and starting to pace. The texts didn’t sound urgent, but they were spaced apart, and the last one was ten minutes ago.

That’s long enough to set something on fire, your brain unhelpfully supplies.

"Okay, okay," you mutter to yourself, heart starting to race.

You scramble to your feet, grabbing last night’s dress and tugging it on in a rush. Your heels are somewhere near the couch—you’ll find them later. You barely run a hand through your hair before slipping your phone into your bag and heading for the door, fingers trembling slightly as you try calling him again and still no answer.

“Please don’t burn the house down, Chris,” you murmur under your breath as you tug the bedroom door open. “I swear, if I walk in and the smoke detector's going off…”

-

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Chris hobbles out of his bedroom, his cast thumping against the floor with every step. “Hello?” he calls, voice echoing through the empty space.

No answer. He checks the living room, then the kitchen, peering down the hallway just to be sure. Still no sign of you. He sighs, reaching for his phone. A couple of missed calls, a few texts sent your way already. All still unread. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You didn’t come home last night.

His thumb hovers over your name again, but he doesn’t call. Instead, he grabs the crutch and limps over to the kitchen. He’ll just make breakfast and deal with the radio silence later. Except—he doesn’t know where anything is.

He opens cabinet after cabinet, drawers clicking and clattering as he searches for the frying pan, the oil, the damn spatula. Nothing’s where he remembers it, or maybe it never was. The ache in his leg flares up the longer he stands, and when he finally locates everything he needs, he’s already drenched in frustration and sweat. One more step and a jolt of pain shoots through his knee.

“Forget it,” he mutters, grabbing the cereal box and slamming it on the counter. Milk. Bowl. Spoon. Fine.

He eats standing by the sink, crunching angrily through mouthfuls of cereal that taste like defeat. His leg throbs. His pride stings worse. All this because he couldn’t make himself a proper breakfast.

Chris pushes the bowl away and rubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. He feels useless. Pathetic even. Like he’s become a burden to himself. And with the house empty, your absence pressing on every wall like a bruise, that feeling only digs deeper. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he misses you and it’s barely 9 AM.

An hour later, Chris hears the front door open, followed by the distinct click of your heels on the floor and the rustling of something heavy in your arms. Then a dull thud as you drop a package on the kitchen island. You’re still in the same dress from last night, your hair tousled and windblown, cheeks flushed like you ran up the driveway.

“It’s for you,” you say, slightly breathless, nodding at the box. “Some music thing—I don’t know but it's from your label. The delivery guy left it on the porch.”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. His eyes scan you, lingering on the smudged makeup under your eyes, the wrinkled dress, the shoes dangling from your fingers. He doesn't mean to, but his frustration speaks first. “You didn’t come home,” he mutters, voice low but sharp.

“I know,” you say, taking a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to stay over—”

“You should’ve planned better,” Chris cuts in, his voice rising. “You could’ve said something.”

Your jaw clenches as you glance away, blinking hard. “I tried calling you—”

“And where were you, anyway? With that potter boy?” He leans against the counter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “You do know your boyfriend is like, what, ten years younger than you? You think he’s going to stick around when the novelty wears off?”

Your head jerks toward him, eyes narrowing. A cold, sarcastic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head in disbelief. “Why did I even apologize?” you mutter, more to yourself than him. “Why am I explaining anything when I came back to my own house?”

Chris opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already past the point of listening.

“You know what?” you snap, your voice cold now, sharp. “I’m not responsible for your reckless decision to try and play acrobatic at your daughter’s wedding. It's not my job to take care of you. But I still rushed back. Still tried to make things easier for you. And this—this is what I get?”

You clutch your heels and purse in your arms like a shield, fury radiating off of you in waves. “I try so hard to be good to you,” you continue, voice shaking with emotion, “but clearly, that’s not enough.”

And with that, you storm past him, heels thudding against the floor. “Such a nuisance,” you mutter loud enough for him to hear.

Your footsteps growing louder as you stomp your way up the stairs and disappear into your room, slamming the door behind you.

Chris stays rooted in place, staring at the box on the counter and for once, he doesn’t feel triumphant for speaking his mind. He just feels... empty.

-

The silence that hangs in the house is deafening. Chris lies back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling, the weight of silence pressing down on him like a second blanket. No faint music playing from your phone, no clinking of dishes from the kitchen, not even your light footsteps moving from one room to another. Nothing. Just stillness. And he knows it’s because of him.

After this morning’s blow-up, you’ve been avoiding him—steering clear like he’s radioactive. He can hear you downstairs sometimes, your movements careful like you're making sure you won’t cross paths with him. You’ve barely said a word to him. Not a glance. Not even a sigh in his direction.

Chris hates it. He hates how cold the house feels without your presence filling it. And more than anything, he hates himself for making it that way. He runs a hand over his face, jaw clenched tight.

“God, I was such an asshole,” he mutters into the silence. His voice is small, as if even he’s afraid of hearing himself admit it.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t owe him an explanation. You were kind. Thoughtful. Rushed back home when he didn’t answer his phone. And how did he repay that? By lashing out like a bitter, insecure idiot. He squeezes his eyes shut, every word he’d spat at you replaying on a loop in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. You’re too old for him. He’s just using you. What if he gets bored?

None of that was true. It was just fear. And jealousy. Ugly things that came out of his mouth because for one second, he felt helpless—because of a damn broken leg and a bowl of cereal. You were just trying to take care of him.

Chris lets out a long sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. If he could punch himself, he would. Hard. So instead, he stays in his room. Keeps his distance. He doesn’t want to upset you more than he already has. You need space, and he owes you that much—no, more. He owes you a real apology. But for now, he lets the house stay quiet, even though it kills him.

But then, Chris’s stomach growls—loud and insistent, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything since that sad bowl of cereal this morning. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, listening. No sound from downstairs so he figures it’s safe to come out of his bedroom.

Chris pads quietly out of his room, careful not to make any noise. He knows you're still home—he heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom earlier. But the silence between you has stretched long and heavy, and he doesn't want to intrude on your space unless he has to. He makes his way to the kitchen, limping slightly, his crutches tucked under his arms. The plan is simple: grab something from the fridge—leftovers, maybe an apple—and head back to the safety of his room, but then he stops.

There, on the dining table, is a plate of dinner. His dinner. A warm meal served neatly, steam still rising from it, and next to the plate, a folded napkin, his pain meds, and a glass of water. No note. No fanfare. Just quiet care. The kind that breaks his heart more than any fight ever could.

Chris stares at it for a long second, his throat tight. He doesn’t hear you—he doesn’t need to. He knows you left this out after he locked himself away all day. He knows you did it without saying a word, not for thanks or acknowledgment, but because despite everything, you still care. A quiet curse slips from his lips, full of regret. “Damn it.”

He sits down heavily at the table, setting his crutches aside and running a hand through his hair before picking up the fork. The food is warm, flavorful, perfectly cooked, but it tastes bittersweet. Because all he can think about is how you still made him dinner—even when he didn’t deserve it and that thought stays with him long after he finishes every last bite.

-

That night, sleep doesn't come easy to you. You're lying on your side, staring at the wall in the dim light of your bedroom, the silence pressing down like a weight on your chest. You've tossed and turned so much the sheets are a mess around your legs, and no matter how many times you close your eyes, your mind keeps going back to this morning. To the things you said to Chris. The way your voice shook in anger. The sound of your heels stomping up the stairs. Did I go too far? Did I say something I shouldn’t have?

You replay every word, overanalyzing each line and expression, each moment of silence that followed. He was frustrating, yes, but you knew he was hurting. You knew he was struggling. And maybe… maybe you should’ve been softer, should've been more understanding. With a heavy sigh, you roll over and grab your phone, blinking at the time. It’s late. Too late. Hyunjin’s probably already asleep. Still, you tap his name and call.

He picks up after a few rings, his voice soft and raspy with sleep. “Hey, beautiful.”

You press the phone to your ear, your voice low. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” he lies, and you can tell he’s smiling. “I was just lying here thinking about you.”

That makes you giggle, quiet and shy. “What about me?”

“About last night. And everything we did. On this very bed.” His tone dips slightly, playful but full of warmth, and it sends a tingle through your chest.

You bury your face in your pillow to muffle your laugh. “Hyunjin…”

“Don’t go all shy on me now,” he teases. “You were a lot braver last night.”

You sigh, smile lingering on your lips. “I’m sorry, by the way… for leaving in such a hurry. I didn’t even eat the breakfast you made.”

“It’s okay,” he says easily. “I’ll make you breakfast again. But—” he pauses, then grumbles, “—you didn’t even kiss me goodbye. I was robbed.”

That makes your smile falter just slightly, your thoughts drifting back to how rushed and frazzled you were this morning. “I know… I’m sorry.”

There's a beat of silence, then Hyunjin speaks again, softer this time. “Is something bothering you?”

You're just about to answer—to let it all out, to tell him how badly you feel, how heavy it’s been sitting on your chest—when you hear the unmistakable sound of your car engine roaring to life. You bolt upright. “What the hell—”

You jump out of bed and rush to the window, heart hammering. “Hyunjin… I have to call you back.”

“What? Wait—”

You hang up without answering, panic crawling up your spine as you see someone in your driveway turning on your car. Barefoot and breathless, you grab your robe and dash downstairs, not even bothering to tie it properly, just praying you’re not too late—

You burst out the front door, feet slapping against the pavement, robe fluttering wildly around your legs. Your heart’s in your throat as you rush toward the car, shouting, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

The driver’s side door swings open—and your breath stumbles when you see who it is. Chris. Just sitting there, behind the wheel, completely nonplussed, with his casted leg awkwardly hanging out of the car and one hand loosely resting on the steering wheel like he’s about to take a casual Sunday drive.

You stop short beside the car, panting. “What the hell, Chris?”

He flinches slightly, then gives you a sheepish little grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I wanted to drive somewhere.”

You blink at him, completely dumbfounded. “You wanted to drive? With a broken leg?”

He shrugs. “I thought I’d figure it out.”

You stare at him. “Figure it out? Chris, you can’t even stand for more than five minutes without groaning like an old man!”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, eyes flicking away, “I got bored. The house was too quiet.”

You let out a long exhale, tugging the robe tighter around your waist. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I am kind of charming,” he says with an innocent grin, and that earns him a glare.

“Move,” you say firmly, jerking your thumb toward the other side. “Passenger seat. Now.”

Chris blinks. “What? Why?”

“I’ll drive,” you say, opening the door and gesturing for him to scoot. “Clearly you’re on a mission. Let’s go before you end up reversing into the neighbor’s mailbox.”

He hesitates, then sighs and hobbles over to the other side without another word. You slide behind the wheel, trying not to roll your eyes too hard as he settles in with a grunt. His cast bumps the dashboard, and he winces, but says nothing.

Once you start the car and pull out of the driveway, you finally glance over at him. “So… where exactly are we going?”

-

Chris stays quiet, hands resting on his lap as the streetlights painted soft orange patterns on the dashboard. The air in the car is still tense, but not sharp anymore—more like static, waiting to settle. He steals a few glances your way as you drive, noticing how your jaw tightens every time the silence stretches a little too long.

When the familiar glowing sign of a fast food chain appears, he mumbles, “Can we stop there?”

You don’t say anything, just pull into the drive-thru without comment, the tires crunching over gravel and painted lines. As the car rolls to a slow stop in front of the glowing speaker, you reach for the button to lower the window and say flatly, still not looking at him, “Go ahead. Tell them your order.”

Chris leans forward with an easy grin, eyes fixed on the menu board. “Okay, uh… one double cheeseburger with large fries, a six-piece nugget, a spicy chicken sandwich, oh—and a chocolate shake. Large.”

You shoot him a look, but he just shrugs. “I’m starving.”

Then he turns to you, voice gentler. “You want anything?”

You’re silent. Chris doesn’t press. He knows you’re still mad—and you have every right to be. Still, he tries. “C’mon… I know you can’t say no to a cheeseburger and fries.”

Your expression doesn’t budge, but then, after a beat of silence, you finally turn to the speaker and calmly add your own order—cheeseburger, fries, and a drink.

Chris grins, triumphant. “Knew it.”

You sigh like you’re annoyed, but the corner of your mouth twitches just enough to betray you. Turning to him, you arch a brow. “You’re paying for this.”

Chris stifles a laugh, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of making you pay for your own peace offering.”

The salty air stings a little as it whips past his face, but Chris doesn’t really mind it. He’s too busy chewing on a burger that tastes far better than anything he’s managed to scrounge up at home lately. The two of you sit on the hood of the car, legs dangling as the sea stretches out endlessly in front of you, glimmering silver under the moonlight.

It’s quiet—just the faint crash of waves below and the crinkle of fast food wrappers between you. He knows he should say something. The words have been brewing since you pulled out of the driveway, since he saw your shoulders tense behind the wheel, your silence stretching longer than it ever should between two people who used to be everything to each other.

“I, uh…” Chris swallows thickly, then clears his throat. “I need to say something.”

You glance at him, not saying anything but not stopping him either.

“I was a dick this morning,” he admits. “And I said some really shitty things about you and your boyfriend. That wasn’t fair. Not to him—and definitely not to you.”

The burger suddenly doesn’t taste so good. He sets it down on the wrapper in his lap, staring out at the water like it might give him the right words. “It’s just… this broken leg, the meds, being stuck inside—I’m losing my mind a little. But that’s not an excuse. I lashed out because I was frustrated. And insecure. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. He wonders if you’re going to stay silent. If he deserves it. But then you turn to him, your expression softer than he expects. “I accept your apology,” you say, voice gentle.

His eyes flick to yours, surprised. But you’re not done.

“And I’m sorry too. For saying mean things. For storming off like that.” You glance away, your voice quieter now. “You’re not a nuisance, Chris. I actually… like having you around.”

You actually like having him around? Before he can grin or say something stupid that might ruin the moment, you add flatly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He lets out a low chuckle, warmth bubbling in his chest. He picks up his burger again, the bite he takes somehow lighter, easier. “Too late,” he says with a smirk.

The ocean glows faintly ahead, but he’s not looking at it anymore. His gaze lingers somewhere between the horizon and the truth that’s been sitting heavy in his chest for weeks now.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been feeling like everyone’s leaving me behind.”

You turn to look at him, and he feels your eyes even though he’s still staring ahead.

“It started when Rowan and I separated. Even though it was mutual, it still felt like this… severing. Of everything. Of home. Of normalcy.” He lets out a breath. “Then Tigerlily got married. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of her. So damn proud. But suddenly she’s not just my little girl anymore. She’s someone else’s now, too. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and he swallows it down. “And Rowan’s been calling, trying to take Riley with her for a while. Wants her to stay with her. And I get it, she’s her mother, she has a right, but I just…”

He pauses. You’re listening. That’s what gets to him the most. You’re actually listening. “I feel so alone, most days. Despite the music, despite the name, the fame, all of it. It means nothing when you’re eating cereal in an empty kitchen with a broken leg and no one to talk to. I don’t know who I’d even be right now if I wasn’t staying with you.”

He finally turns to you. “I got really happy when you let me stay,” he says honestly. “Like, actually happy. And—” he chuckles softly, “I don’t know if this makes me a complete idiot, but… I’m kinda glad I broke my leg.”

You swat his arm, just like he hoped you would. “Hey! Don’t even joke about that.”

But he catches your eyes, holds them there with something real. “I mean it,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m happy I’m here. With you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. Raw and unfiltered. And for a second, he sees something flicker in your expression—something unspoken but shared. Then you laugh. “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you’ve got ketchup on your face.”

Chris blinks. “Wait, what?”

You’re already reaching over, grabbing a napkin from the bag and dabbing gently at the corner of his mouth. Your touch is careful. Familiar. Kind.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, that fluttering feeling—like something starting again inside him—rushes in all at once. It’s the same feeling he had when he first met you. But for now, Chris keeps it tucked away, tucked quiet in the center of his chest. For now, being here—sharing a quiet moment under the stars with you—is enough.

-

The afternoon sun casts golden streaks across the kitchen counter as you line it with bowls, measuring cups, and a fresh bag of chocolate chips. You hum to yourself while tying the strings of your apron behind your back, the scent of vanilla already floating faintly in the air.

After everything Chris shared last night, something settled in your chest. A quiet understanding. He’s been feeling stuck—helpless, in a way that doesn’t sit well with someone like him. Chris is someone who likes being needed, who feels most like himself when he can be useful. And though he's never said it out loud, you know his broken leg has been making him feel anything but.

You peek down the hallway and call out, “Chris! Come help me bake cookies!”

There's a beat of silence before you hear his voice reply with a spark of interest, “Am I seriously just got promoted from kitchen DJ to a kitchen assistant now?”

“Let's see how well you do in the kitchen first,” you playfully reply.

Soon, you hear his crutches tapping against the floor as he makes his way to the kitchen. He enters with his hair slightly messy and a curious look on his face, like he’s not entirely sure if you’re kidding or not. But once he sees the counter full of ingredients, his grin stretches wide. “Oh, we’re really doing this.”

You hand him a spoon and flick the speaker on, the sound of soft upbeat music filling the room. It doesn’t take long for the mood to lift—Chris is dancing awkwardly while stirring the batter, and you’re laughing as he keeps snacking on chocolate chips from the bowl.

“Chris!” you scold, slapping his hand lightly. “Stop eating them—we need those!”

He grins like a guilty kid. “Quality control. Someone’s gotta make sure they’re safe.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finish mixing the dough and start rolling it into neat balls. Chris joins you, carefully shaping them with one hand while balancing his crutch with the other. You slide the first tray into the oven, then take out a warm, golden batch, setting it to cool by the window. The scent of melting chocolate and warm butter wraps around you like a hug.

“Okay,” you say, watching him as he sets the next batch on the tray, “I think you’re officially hired as my sous chef.”

Chris smirks. “Does that come with benefits? Like… extra cookies?”

You shake your head, laughing. “Only if you stop stealing from the chocolate chip stash.”

You move around each other with ease, bumping elbows, exchanging smirks and floury fingerprints. And in that moment—just the two of you in the kitchen, music playing, cookies baking—you feel it. The way things feel light again. Like maybe, just maybe, Chris is starting to feel a little less stuck.

After the first batch of cookies is out of the oven, you and Chris sit side by side at the kitchen island, each of you with a plate of warm cookies in front of you. The smell is divine, the chocolate chips still melty in the center, and every bite feels like a reward. Chris licks a smudge of chocolate from his thumb and hums in satisfaction.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you,” he says, leaning back with a content sigh. “These might be the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

You smile and offering your fist at him. “We made a great team!”

Chris chuckles before gently hitting your fist with his. He then gets up from his chair, pushing his plate aside and getting up. “I’ll get the milk. Cookies this good deserve milk.”

As he opens the fridge and grabs a carton, you check the oven again. The timer’s nearly up, and you watch the cookies through the glass like a hawk, not wanting to burn even a single batch. Just as you pull them out onto the cooling rack, your phone rings. It buzzes on the counter, right beside Chris’s, and before you can slip your mittens off, he picks it up, peeking at the screen.

“It’s Hyunjin,” he says with a mischievous grin. Then, into the phone: “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

You immediately shoot him a glare, snatching one mitten off. “Chris!”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Kidding, kidding! Here.” He passes the phone to you with a sheepish smile.

You finally tug the other mitten off and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

Hyunjin’s voice is soft and familiar. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“Just baking some cookies,” you say, already smiling again.

There’s a pause. “Sounds like you and Chris are having fun,” he says, and there's something in his voice—light, but unmistakably tinged with jealousy.

You laugh gently. “He’s just on a sugar high from all the chocolate chips he’s been snacking. I’ve had to swat his hand five times.”

Hyunjin chuckles quietly on the other end. “Can I come over?”

Your smile grows. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he says warmly.

“See you soon” you reply, heart fluttering just a little as the call ends.

You set your phone down and turn to find Chris already pouring milk into two glasses. He gives you a look as he hands one over, a raised brow and a half-smile like he knows something’s brewing beneath the surface. But for now, you sip your milk, munch your cookie, and let the warmth of the moment settle in your chest.

-

Chris licks melted chocolate from his thumb, leaning back in his chair with a soft exhale. The cookies are warm and gooey in all the right places, the milk is cold, and the soft hum of music mixes with the occasional clink of plates and your quiet laughter. It’s simple. Easy. And for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

He watches you from across the island—hair tied up messily, sleeves dusted in flour, a smudge of dough on your cheek. You look… peaceful. Happy. And God, he didn’t realize how much he missed seeing you like this. Seeing himself like this, too. It makes him wonder how the hell he ever let you slip through his fingers.

Your phone buzzes beside him on the counter, screen lighting up with Hyunjin’s name. Chris hesitates. A small, petty part of him wants to let it ring. Just one more quiet minute. One more bite of warm cookies before the real world knocks again. But instead, he sighs and taps “accept,” lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. “Uh… Chris?”

Chris smirks. “Sure is.”

“…Where’s—uh, is she around?”

Chris leans back in his chair and tosses the words out casually. “She’s a little busy right now—in the kitchen with me. I'm tasting her cookie right now.”

Your head snaps up immediately, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Chris!” you say, voice low and warning, already reaching for the phone.

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning as he passes it to you. “She’s all yours.”

You take the phone, mittens off now, pressing it to your ear like it belongs there. “Hey…” you say, voice soft, warm in that way that’s unmistakably for Hyunjin.

Chris turns back to his half-eaten cookie, chewing slowly. He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s nothing. That he’s being ridiculous. But watching the way you smile as you talk, hearing the way your voice dips into something just a little sweeter—it knots something sharp and jealous low in his chest. He hates to admit it, but it stings.

Hyunjin shows up not long after the call ends. He walks into the kitchen with that easy grin, kissing your cheek before helping himself to a cookie off the tray like he’s always belonged here. Chris watches the way you look at him—soft, familiar—and it pulls at something in his chest he’s not quite ready to name. He keeps it cool, making room for Hyunjin and even pouring him a glass of milk. They chat, the three of you, nibbling cookies and laughing at how many chocolate chips Chris stole before the dough even hit the oven. Then Chris’s phone buzzes this time and he glances at the screen. Riley.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says, already stepping toward the back porch for some privacy.

The cool air outside hits him as he slides the door open and leans against the railing. “Hey, Riley bear. Everything okay?”

Riley’s voice is upbeat. “Yeah! I was just wondering if I could have a sleepover this weekend?”

Chris chuckles. “How many friends?”

“Just… five?”

Chris groans. “Five? Riley, that’s a whole squad.”

“But Dad,” she whines, dragging the word out.

He negotiates, like always. They settle on three friends, no loud music, and lights out by midnight. “And steer clear of my studio,” he adds.

By the time Chris hangs up, he’s smiling, but that fades the second he steps back toward the kitchen. He stops in his tracks. Through the doorway, he sees you and Hyunjin, kissing with your hands gently curled behind his neck, his hand on your waist. Chris instinctively ducks out of view, pressing himself back behind the wall, heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. But he can’t help it.

“Just for ten days,” Hyunjin murmurs against your lips.

“Ten?” you echo, brows knit with concern.

Chris hears the sound of another kiss. Then Hyunjin’s voice, low and affectionate. “I’ll be back before you know it. Can’t wait to take that trip and finally be alone with you.”

More kisses. The wet, soft kind. Chris closes his eyes. That same burning feeling blooms in his chest again—jealousy or something dangerously close. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s there, bitter on his tongue.

He takes a breath, then deliberately stomps his way back toward the kitchen, exaggerating his steps loud enough to warn you both. By the time he walks in, you and Hyunjin are standing apart, faces flushed. Chris doesn’t comment. He just saunters to the counter like nothing happened.

“Riley’s having a few friends over for a sleepover,” he says, grabbing another cookie. “I’m ninety percent sure they’ll break the house apart.”

You chuckle. “Let her have some fun.”

Chris grins. “With me not around, that should be fun for everyone.”

That earns a laugh from both you and Hyunjin. Chris joins in, but only half-heartedly. He doesn’t say it, but that burning in his chest still lingers.

-

You walk Hyunjin out to his car with a warm jar of cookies pressed into his hands, the lid tied with a little ribbon you found in the kitchen drawer. He cradles it like a gift and leans in to kiss you—slow, deliberate, a long peck on your lips that makes you want to hold him there just a few seconds longer.

"Don't go getting back together with your ex-husband while I’m gone," he teases, eyes twinkling.

You laugh against his lips. "Only if you promise to turn away every time you see an older woman."

Hyunjin barks out a laugh, his hands still resting lightly on your hips. "You wound me."

You give him one last kiss—short, sweet, maybe a little reluctant—and then step back as he opens the car door. He gets in, his window still rolled down as he gives you a little wave. “Ten days,” he says. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Oh, no. What should I do? I miss you already,” you tease him.

With that, Hyunjin walks to his and gets in. You smile, watching his car roll down the street and disappear around the corner.

The house feels quieter when you walk back in. A little colder without him in it. You kick off your shoes and wander into the kitchen, finding Chris at the sink, stacking the dirty dishes from your baking session. He’s got the sleeves of his hoodie shoved up, one hand awkwardly holding a plate, the other trying not to knock over a glass.

You come up beside him and lean your hip against the counter. “Since we’re both too tired to even think about cooking after all that,” you start, voice playful, “how about we just order something for dinner?”

Chris turns to you with a grin, towel slung over his shoulder. “Oh, thank God! Finally. I don't have to lie and say that your cooking is good,” he says with a rather dramatic tone.

Later that night, you both huddled over the dining table, sleeves rolled up, newspapers spread beneath metal trays filled with steaming seafood boil—shrimp, mussels, crab legs, corn, and potatoes all soaked in garlicky, buttery sauce. Chris insisted on it for dinner, and now he’s grinning like a kid in a candy store, elbow-deep in shellfish. You munch on a piece of corn, watching as Chris meticulously peels shrimp after shrimp—not just for himself, but for you too. He quietly places a perfectly peeled one on your plate, then another, and another.

“You know I can do that myself,” you say between bites, amused.

“I know,” he shrugs, all smug and proud as he wipes his fingers on the edge of the napkin and goes right back to peeling more for you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You eat like a child.”

Chris pauses, mid-bite. “What?”

You point with your greasy finger. “You’ve got sauce on the corner of your mouth.”

He tries to lick it off, tongue darting out to the side. He misses completely. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.”

“Well,” he leans in toward you, eyes gleaming mischievously, “help me out then.”

You snort, eyes widening as you look at both of your hands coated with the sauce. “My hands are dirty.”

“Just lick it off then,” he deadpans, tapping his casted leg under the table. “Come on. I'm injured.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—his face is close, and you catch the faint scent of lemon and garlic and something warm and familiar that’s just him. You hesitate only for a second before you lean in and lick the corner of his mouth quickly, your lips brushing his skin.

Chris looks shocked and then smug. “You missed a spot.”

He swipes more sauce with his finger, smearing it deliberately across the corner of his mouth like a child trying to frame a moment. “Guess you’ll have to clean it again.”

You gape at him in disbelief, grab a shrimp from your plate, and shove it into his open mouth before he can say another word.

He hums exaggeratedly as he chews. “Worth it.”

You can’t stop laughing and for a minute, it feels like the two of you are back in some lighter, simpler version of your lives—sleeves rolled, hands messy, hearts full. You hum softly to yourself as you clean up after dinner, wiping down the sticky table and putting away the dirty dishes into the sink. Chris is moving slower behind you, his cast dragging just a little, but he insists on helping despite your protests. Then, as you're about to rinse the last dish, he opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of ice cream with a grin.

“Dessert?” he offers, wiggling his brows.

You glance at the tub, then at him, and shrug. “Why not? We’ve already made a mess.”

So the two of you settle back at the dining table, this time with two spoons and a tub of chocolate ice cream between you. You sit side by side, legs brushing, both a little warm from the food and laughter still lingering in the air.

Chris scoops the first bite, moaning dramatically as he eats it. “God, I missed this.”

You laugh. “What? Ice cream?”

“No. Eating dessert with someone and not having to share with a teenager who hogs the last bite.”

That makes you smile. “Speaking of—how’s Riley?”

He leans back with a sigh. “She’s good. She called earlier to ask if she could have friends over. We negotiated.”

“Negotiated?”

“I’ve had to learn,” he says with a smirk. “Parenting a teenager is like hostage diplomacy. You give an inch, they want a concert ticket.”

You chuckle. “That’s good for you, though. Builds character.”

He grins. “Also found out she snuck a drink from my liquor cabinet a few weeks ago.”

You snort. “Classic teenager behavior.”

“She’s sneaky.”

“We’ve done worse,” you say playfully, nudging his shoulder with yours.

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh god. You remember that time we snuck into that concert pretending to be part of the crew?”

You burst into laughter. “And you carried a random amp just to sell the lie!”

He grins wide, cheeks slightly flushed as you both tumble down memory lane. The conversation flows easily, laced with laughter and little looks that linger too long. You feel it—the atmosphere changing. Getting quieter, softer, more intimate. Then Chris shifts, turning slightly toward you. “Hey… that package from yesterday? It was a bottle of liquor. A ‘Get well soon’ gift from my label.”

You raise a brow. “Fancy.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe we could open it. You know… share a glass?”

You glance at the clock, then back at him. The warm food still weighs on your belly. You offer him a soft smile. “I feel kind of full, honestly. Maybe another time?”

Chris nods slowly. “Yeah. Of course. Another time.”

You rise from your seat, brushing invisible crumbs off your clothes. “I’m gonna head to bed early.”

“Okay,” he says, standing as well despite the awkwardness of his cast. You meet in a loose embrace near the kitchen doorway, and as you pull away to wish him goodnight, Chris places a kiss that lands on the corner of your lips. It’s soft, brief—but enough to steal your breath. You step back, eyes flicking to his for a second, searching for something you’re not ready to name.

“I didn’t mean—” He stammers, “I was going for a full on, lips lock... kiss.”

You shake your head and chuckle at him, “Goodnight, Chris.”

You don’t look back as you head upstairs, your heart picking up pace like you’re running from something—maybe the feeling blooming somewhere deep inside, somewhere you told yourself you’d locked tight.

-

There’s something about this house that always feels a little warmer in the late morning light. Maybe it’s the way the house always bathed in sunlight, or maybe it’s just you. Chris leans quietly against the doorway, his arms folded as he watches you in your reading nook. You’re sitting with your legs stretched out in front of you, tucked under a soft throw blanket, completely immersed in a book. You don’t notice him, and he doesn’t call out to you. He doesn’t want to break the moment.

He’s seen you do a thousand beautiful things—over five years of marriage, you were always dazzling in a way that pulled him in without trying. But somehow, watching you like this—quiet, relaxed, just being—feels different. Feels deeper. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the tassel of your blanket. Your brow furrows a little, then lifts as you read between the lines. Chris watches the way your toes curl and uncurl, like they’re reacting to the tension in the story. It’s cute. All of it. It shouldn’t make his heart thump the way it does, but it does. He could watch you for hours like this, then your eyes lift and catch his, and it feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You tilt your head. “Do you need something, Chris?”

Chris clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Uh—yeah. Just wondering if you remember about my doctor’s appointment?”

Your eyes widen as you check the time on your phone. “Oh my god—I totally lost track of time.”

You close the book quickly, already rising from the nook. “Let me get ready, I’ll be quick!”

He just nods, lips twitching with a faint smile as he watches you rush out of the room. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling—but it’s warm and heavy in his chest, and for a fleeting second, it almost feels like the past, like something familiar and tender that he didn’t realize he missed until just now.

Chris doesn’t really need your help walking, not this much at least. The crutches work fine and the doctor even said he’s healing faster than expected. But still… he likes it. The way your arm is linked with his, your other hand gently resting over his as the two of you make your way down the hospital corridor.

It’s slow and quiet, just the faint squeak of his crutch against the linoleum floor and the soft echo of your steps beside him. And he can’t help but wonder what people see when they pass by. To anyone else, it probably looks like you’re his wife. The devoted one. The one who still sticks around even when he’s limping through life—literally and metaphorically. And god, he likes that thought way more than he should.

You lean in a little closer when a nurse pushes a cart past you both, and Chris feels your shoulder brush against his. His heart does this dumb little stutter in his chest, like it still hasn’t figured out that this kind of intimacy is borrowed now, temporary. Still, he clings to it.

“You okay?” you ask, glancing up at him with that soft concern that always seems to undo him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower than he means for it to be. “I’m good.”

Chris should want to go home. He should be tired after the appointment, after walking more than he probably should have. But there’s this ache in his chest that’s got nothing to do with his leg, and everything to do with the fact that he just… doesn’t want this to be over yet. So he clears his throat, casual like he's not already thinking too much about how to say it. “Hey,” he says, turning his head a little toward you. “You hungry?”

You briefly glance away from the road ahead “A little. Why?”

“I was thinking…” He pauses for dramatic effect, because he knows you hate that. “Early dinner? I'm thinking Italian, pasta or maybe steak?”

You squint at him for a second, like you’re trying to read between the lines. He shrugs, looking out the window, like it's not a big deal. “Only if you're not in a rush to get home.”

You’re quiet for a beat, and he doesn’t even breathe as he waits for your answer. Then you sigh, a soft little smile curling on your lips. “Yeah. Sure,” you say. “You can just say that you don't want to eat my cooking, Chris.”

He grins, relief and something warmer blooming in his chest. “You read my mind,” he teasingly says.

The restaurant isn’t crowded, just the way he likes it. There’s a gentle breeze sweeping through the outdoor patio where the two of you sit, your hair moving with it, catching bits of sunlight. Chris leans back in his chair, his cast resting comfortably, and watches as you open the menu with a kind of focus he swears you used to reserve only for editing scripts or assembling furniture. Your eyes scan the options like it’s a high-stakes test. He smirks to himself, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table as he rests his chin in one hand, just watching you.

You hum thoughtfully, then glance at him. “Okay, hear me out. If we get the grilled octopus, the sea bass, and the truffle fries, we can split them and still have room for dessert.”

Chris nods solemnly. “Smart. Strategic.”

“I know,” you say with a satisfied grin, then turn back to the menu. “Also, we should get the mussels.”

“That’s four dishes,” he teases.

“We’ll pace ourselves.” You flip a page. “And we’re getting the wine. That red blend we tried that one time—remember?”

He remembers everything. “How could I forget?”

The waiter comes, and you order with such certainty, like you’ve already envisioned the entire meal playing out. Chris can’t stop smiling. Something about the way you talk to the waiter—clear, kind, decisive—makes something settle warm in his chest. You’ve always been like this. Always good at taking care of people, of moments, of making things feel easy without trying. And he thinks—yeah. He’s going to enjoy every damn second of this. Not just the wine, or the food, or the sunset that’s slowly dipping behind your shoulder. But this. Sitting across from you. Listening to you talk. Watching you reach for your glass and wrinkle your nose as you swirl the wine, pretending to be a snob about it before breaking into laughter. It’s all so familiar. And god, he’s missed it more than he’s willing to admit.

The food is incredible and the wine is warm in his chest, loosening things that he usually keeps tucked away. "If this is what we would've been like back then," Chris says, voice low, casual but meaning every word, "maybe we never would’ve gotten divorced."

You look up at him, your fork pausing midair. Your eyes catch the light — same as they always have — and something in Chris's chest aches. "Yeah," you murmur, setting your fork down. "Maybe."

He toys with the edge of his wine glass, tracing it with his finger, pretending he’s not hanging onto every second of your silence. "Sometimes I think about it," he admits. "If we’d just waited a little longer. Grown up a little more. If we hadn’t been so damn stubborn about everything."

You smile — a little sad, a little knowing — and Chris swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen all night. "We were so young," you say, your voice gentle. "We didn’t know how to fight for the right things."

Chris chuckles under his breath, remembering all the late nights and slammed doors, the pride that always came first. "We knew how to fight, though," he jokes lightly.

Your laughter is soft, almost tender. It hits him harder than he expects. "Yeah. We were good at that."

For a moment, the world goes quiet around you — just the hum of the restaurant, the flicker of the candle between you, the way your eyes hold his like they’re remembering too.

"I don’t regret it," you say, your voice steady. "Not meeting you. Not marrying you."

Chris's heart knocks hard against his ribs. He drinks you in — the curve of your mouth, the quiet way you look at him, like you mean it. "Me neither," he says, and it comes out rougher than he intended. "Not even for a second."

Without thinking, Chris reaches across the table — maybe to grab another plate, maybe to get your attention — but instead, his fingers brush against yours. You freeze, looking up at him.

Chris’s mouth goes dry. His hand lingers over yours for a second longer than necessary. He half-expects you to pull away. Tease him. Make a joke like you always do, but you don’t. You just look at him with that quiet, familiar softness. The same one you used to look at him with in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and no walls between you. He feels his heart thudding in his ears. Slowly, he curls his fingers around yours. Testing. Asking. You don't pull away. You smile — a small, secret thing — and let your thumb lightly brush over his knuckles. It’s nothing. Barely anything, but to Chris, it feels like everything.

He swallows hard and forces a chuckle, squeezing your hand once before letting go — before he does something stupid like pulling you across the table just to kiss you. "You know I was reaching for the fries, right?" he muses, picking up his fork again to distract himself.

You laugh softly, reaching for your glass of wine. "Yes. And I successfully stopped you from taking it."

Chris grins despite himself, heart too full, hands still tingling where they touched you. Maybe he’s a fool, maybe he’s setting himself up to get hurt all over again, but right now, he doesn’t care about all of that. He just wants more of this — more of you.

-

Toward the night, the weather turns bad. The rain comes fast, a steady drum against the windshield as you pull into the driveway. You shift the car into park, turning to Chris.

"Stay put," you tell him firmly, already reaching for the umbrella behind your seat. "I'll come around and help you."

Chris opens his mouth, probably to protest, but you shoot him a look that makes him snap it closed again, grinning helplessly instead.

You shove the car door open and dart out, the cold rain immediately soaking into your clothes. You wrestle the umbrella open, fighting the wind for a second before managing to steady it, then hurry to the passenger side.

Chris is already half out of the car, and you have to laugh a little under your breath because he's stubborn even now.

"Hold on," you say, breathless from the run and the rain, as you wedge yourself between him and the car, the umbrella awkwardly angled over the both of you. One hand gripping the umbrella handle, you extend the other to him. "Okay, come on."

Chris leans heavily into you as he swings his good leg out. His cast bumps clumsily against the door, and you wince for him, but he just chuckles low in his throat and wraps an arm around your shoulders without hesitation.

"Gotcha," he murmurs into your ear, his voice warm despite the chilly rain.

You cling to each other, awkward and close under the flimsy umbrella as you make your way up the driveway. Every step has you practically pressed chest-to-chest, Chris clutching you for balance and you gripping his waist tightly, both of you half laughing as you stumble once, twice, splashing through shallow puddles. The front door never looked so far away.

By the time you get inside, you’re both half-soaked, your shoes squelching against the floor. You slam the door shut behind you, breathing hard from the run and the cold. Chris's arm is still around you, your bodies still pressed close as if neither of you quite wants to let go yet. You feel his chest rise and fall against yours, the shared breath between you heavy with something that feels... different. You tilt your head back to look up at him, and for one suspended second, neither of you says a word.

Chris’s gaze lingering on you, heavier than before. It’s not playful or casual like it’s been lately. It’s intense, almost like he’s seeing right through you. It’s the way he used to look at you years ago, back when the world felt small and safe because you had each other. Back when just one look from him could tell you everything he was feeling and right now, it’s telling you too much. You feel your heart clench, your chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid between you. The conversation you had over dinner still hums in the air, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. You swallow hard, breaking your gaze away before you can let yourself drown in it.

"I'm gonna head upstairs and dry off, and uh... sleep," you say lightly, forcing a small smile as you step away from him, peeling off your damp jacket and hanging it by the door.

You don’t miss the quick flicker of disappointment that crosses Chris’s face. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced with that familiar, easy smile he always wears when he’s trying not to show too much.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little rougher than before. "Goodnight."

You nod, hugging your arms to your chest. "Goodnight, Chris."

You don’t dare look back as you head for the stairs, your footsteps soft against the wood. You can feel his eyes on you until you disappear from view, the pull between you stretching thinner and thinner—like a rubber band waiting to snap. Behind you, the house feels too quiet, and somehow, you feel like you’re running away from something you’re not ready to face.

The rain drums steadily against the windows, a constant, restless sound. You lay curled under the covers, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never comes. When the thunder cracks again, louder this time, you sigh and reach for your phone on the nightstand. Instinctively, your fingers find Hyunjin’s name and you press call. It rings once, twice, three times. No answer. You chew on your lip for a moment, then quickly type a text instead: "Just checking on you... hope you haven't found another older woman to steal your attention. :)"

You smile softly to yourself as you hit send, imagining him rolling his eyes with that fond little grin of his. Setting the phone back down, you exhale a long breath and stare into the darkness. But the thunder keeps coming, low and rumbling, rattling the windows. It’s clear you’re not going to sleep through this. You throw the blanket off and slip out of bed, shivering slightly as your feet touch the cool floor. You pull a bedrobe over your nightdress, tying it loosely at the waist, and quietly head for the stairs.

When you reach the first floor, you catch Chris stepping out of his room with his hair tousled wildly, sticking out in every direction. You both stop and chuckle when your eyes meet, the absurdity of the timing not lost on either of you.

"Can’t sleep, huh?" you ask, your voice low, almost conspiratorial against the storm’s noise.

Chris scrubs a hand through his messy hair, his mouth curling into a tired smile. "Yeah. Guess not."

He glances toward the kitchen, then back at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Maybe this is the perfect time to crack open that 'Get well soon' gift," he suggests.

You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider it, then shrug. "Why not," you say, the words feeling lighter than the knot sitting in your chest.

Chris grins, his face lighting up for real this time, and you follow him into the kitchen—both of you barefoot and slightly disheveled, like two teenagers sneaking around past curfew.

-

Chris is back in his room to get the bottle of liquor, finding it still tucked in its box. It’s a fancy-looking thing, something expensive if the weight of it in his hand says anything. When he turns around, he finds you already poking through the pantry, pulling out a bag of chips and a container of peanut butter-filled pretzels. You flash him a triumphant smile, and he can't help but grin back. It’s stupid how easily you make him feel lighter, like the two of you are just kids up too late, sneaking junk food behind your parents' backs.

You both settle onto the sofa, the movie playing quietly in the background, though neither of you are really paying attention to what’s on. You tuck your legs underneath you, pulling the blanket over the both of you without a second thought, and Chris shifts closer, careful with his leg. You pour the first two shots, and you clink glasses with a soft clink.

“To thunderstorms," you say, grinning.

"And insomnia," Chris adds, smiling back at you.

You both down the shots and immediately reach for the snacks, laughing at the way the liquor burns its way down. You make a face, sticking your tongue out dramatically, and Chris nudges your side with his elbow, pretending to scold you.

"Lightweight," he teases.

"You wish," you shoot back, tossing a pretzel at him. It bounces off his forehead, making both of you burst into laughter. It feels easy. So easy.

As the storm outside grows wilder, you lean into him a little more, warm and soft under the blanket. Chris drapes his arm across the back of the sofa, pretending it’s casual, though really he’s just hoping you’ll lean even closer. You hand him another shot, and this time you both sip it slower, letting the conversation drift from silly things—bad reality TV shows, your weird obsession with true crime podcasts—to the movie still flickering in the background, some terrible romcom neither of you can take seriously.

"You would totally be the guy who trips over himself trying to win the girl back," you tease, smirking over your glass.

Chris scoffs, feigning offense. "I’m way smoother than that."

He then leans his head back against the couch, feeling the pleasant buzz of the alcohol seep into his veins, making everything a little hazy around the edges. His leg is stretched out carefully in front of him, the blanket pooled over his lap, and he watches you talk animatedly, your face flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the room.

"You know," you say, pointing a finger at him, your words just slightly slurring, "you were so bad at being romantic sometimes. Like—so bad."

Chris chuckles under his breath, lifting his glass lazily. "That’s not true. I was plenty romantic."

"You were not!" you argue, scoffing as you grab a handful of chips and shove a few into your mouth. "You forgot our anniversary once."

"It was one time!" Chris defends, laughing, though his protest is weak at best. "And I made it up to you."

"You bought me a hairdryer!" you say, throwing your head back against the couch dramatically. "A hairdryer, Chris!"

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his drink. "Hey, that was a very expensive hairdryer. Top of the line."

You glare at him, though the way your mouth twitches betrays your amusement. "That’s not the point," you mumble, poking his arm with your finger. "I wanted, like... romance. Flowers. Grand gestures."

Chris lifts his hands in surrender, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Okay, okay. Maybe I wasn’t exactly Romeo."

"Not even close," you mutter with a huff, your words dragging adorably.

He watches you as you curl deeper into the blanket, your frustration fading into giggles you can’t hold back. Chris can't help it—he laughs too, the sound low and fond. You're slurring more now, your sentences wandering, but Chris listens anyway, his heart squeezing a little tighter with each teasing complaint you toss at him.

Somewhere between the drinks and your sleepiness, Chris finds it hard to focus on anything other than the curve of your smile and the way you keep stealing glances at him through heavy lids. He wants to defend himself more, maybe argue that he did love you deeply even if he showed it clumsily—but he figures it’s a lost cause tonight. He shifts slightly, his voice light and teasing.

"You know," he says, nudging you gently with his shoulder, "I might’ve been bad at the whole romance thing, but I don’t remember you ever complaining about the... sex."

You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes without lifting your head. "I admit, you were good back then," you say with a mischievous glint in your eye as you glance down meaningfully at his injured leg. "But who knows if you still are. You're not exactly young anymore, Chris."

Chris gasps in mock offense, his mouth falling open dramatically as he clutches his chest. "Wow. Wounded physically and emotionally in the same month," he says, pouting exaggeratedly. "I’ll have you know that with age comes experience. I’m very, very good now."

You turn your head toward him, and Chris feels your warm breath brush across his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. Your lips curve into a sly smile. "Very good at making terrible choices, you mean?" you muse, voice soft and teasing.

Chris narrows his eyes at you, the playful challenge sparking between you like static electricity. "You won’t believe me," he murmurs, his voice dropping low, "until I show you."

Before you can react, Chris reaches up and gently grabs your chin, holding your head steady. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. His lips brush yours, soft and careful, and for a heartbeat you don't kiss him back. Chris almost pulls away, heart thudding painfully in his chest—

But then you part your lips slightly, letting him deepen the kiss. His hand slides along your jaw, cradling you like something precious. It's unhurried, tender, a kiss that feels more like a memory than a temptation.

When you finally pull back, your laughter is warm and soft against his mouth. "Okay," you murmur, teasing. "You’re not that bad... but not that good either."

Chris lets out a low, breathless laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that so?"

Without giving you time to think, he leans in again and catches your mouth in another kiss—this time bolder, surer, stealing the breath right from your lungs and this time, you don't hesitate at all.

-

Chris can’t seem to stop himself. The second your lips part beneath his, something primal wakes up in him — something he’s been keeping buried, locked up for so long. His kisses grow hungrier, deeper, each one a little more desperate than the last, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again. His hand slides from the nape of your neck, fingers skimming down the line of your throat to your shoulder. You shiver against him, and it only spurs him on. His touch is deliberate but unhurried, tracing the curve of your collarbone through the soft fabric of your robe.

Chris shifts closer, his good leg anchoring him while he leans into you, his hand finally finding the loose belt of your robe. His fingers toy with it for a moment, giving you a heartbeat’s worth of time to stop him if you wanted to — but you don't. So he tugs, slow and certain, pulling the knot free. The robe falls open around you with a whisper of fabric against skin, revealing the silky nightdress you’re wearing underneath.

Chris exhales shakily against your mouth, his hand gliding under the open folds of your robe to settle at your waist, feeling the warmth of your body through the flimsy fabric. His forehead rests against yours for a beat, both of you breathing hard, the air between you thick with the heat of everything unspoken.

He drags his voluptuous lips down your neck, kissing a slow, reverent trail along the delicate curve of your throat. He feels you breathing harder, each soft exhale fanning across his hairline, sending a rush of heat through him. When he nips lightly at your skin, he hears the faintest sound escape you—a breathy gasp that curls something wild and reckless in his chest.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek. Your eyes meet his, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, Chris feels the weight of everything that could fall apart if he takes this any further.

"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Stop me. Please stop me here… because if I kiss you again, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

The room crackles with tension. Chris watches the emotions flicker in your eyes—hesitation, longing, that same undeniable pull he's feeling too. He knows you’re both standing on the edge of something you might not be able to come back from.

And then you move. You don't answer him with words. Instead, you slide your hand into his hair, pulling him down, and crash your mouth against his with a desperate kind of hunger.

Chris groans low in his throat, the last thread of his restraint snapping as he kisses you back just as fiercely. Your kiss tells him everything he needs to know—no second-guessing, no going back. You're choosing this. You're choosing him. And he knows with absolute certainty: he’s about to lose himself in you all over again.

-

✨ Evermore: Chapter III is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[confettiandroses]

[ms-snape]

Ok I have the sweetest idea! Can you please write severus with a female reader who is just fascinated with his long hair and asks to style it for him, nothing crazy but you know bows like lucius or braids

Title: For me?

Warning: None, just pure fluff

Words Count: 1000+

Masterlist

---

In the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where shadows danced in the flickering candlelight, Y/N flitted through the halls like a vibrant breath of fresh air. As the Herbology professor, she was well-versed in nurturing both plants and the students who so often found themselves enchanted by her passion. However, it was not just her lessons that captured the attention of those around her; it was the way she lit up at the mere mention of Severus Snape, the brooding Potions Master with a heart as deep as the dungeons he called home.

Severus, with his raven-black hair that cascaded like a dark waterfall, was a source of quiet intrigue. Though he preferred solitude, he found solace in Y/N’s company. Her laughter echoed like music, warming the cold stone walls of the castle. But there was one aspect of Severus that Y/N simply could not resist—his hair. To her, it was not merely an accessory but a canvas, a tapestry waiting for her gentle hands to weave magic into it.

“Severus, please,” Y/N implored one evening, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they lounged in the cozy confines of their shared place. A fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow that illuminated her face, highlighting the way her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Just let me style it once! I promise you’ll love it.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, his usual expression of stoic annoyance morphing into mild amusement. “I do not believe that would be appropriate, Y/N,” he replied, his voice low and measured, though there was an undeniable softness to his tone. “My hair is not a toy for your amusement.”

With a dramatic pout that could rival even the most skilled of performers, Y/N crossed her arms, her lower lip jutting out in a way that made her look irresistibly adorable. “But it would be so much fun! And you have such beautiful hair! It deserves to be styled, not left to hang limply like a neglected broom.”

Severus fought to suppress a smile, the corners of his mouth betraying him. She had a way of disarming him, of stripping away his defenses with her infectious enthusiasm. “It is merely hair,” he muttered, attempting to maintain his facade of indifference.

“But it’s your hair,” she insisted, her voice rising slightly in excitement. “It has character! Just think of the potential!”

He sighed, knowing full well that her stubbornness would not easily be swayed. “Y/N,” he began, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone, “I hardly see how this is—”

“Just once!” she interrupted, leaning closer, her eyes wide and pleading. “For me?”

For a moment, the world outside their bubble faded away. Severus felt the weight of her gaze on him, filled with an earnestness that tugged at something deep within his chest. He took a breath, allowing himself to be swept up in the moment. “Fine,” he relented, the word escaping his lips almost against his will. “But only for a moment.”

Y/N’s face lit up with unrestrained joy, and in that instant, all of Severus’s reservations melted away like snow beneath the sun. He could not deny her anything when she looked at him like that.

“Yay!” she squealed, her voice a melody of delight. She quickly ushered him to a nearby chair, her hands moving with purpose as she began to untangle the strands of his hair. As her fingers slipped through the silky locks, Severus felt a strange mixture of vulnerability and warmth. He was accustomed to being the one in control, yet here he was, yielding to her playful whims.

“Your hair is so soft,” she remarked, a hint of awe in her voice. “Have you been using that conditioning potion I recommended?”

“Perhaps,” he replied, feigning nonchalance even as he felt his heart rate quicken at her touch. The way she concentrated, her brows slightly furrowed, made her even more endearing. He watched as she sectioned his hair, her movements precise and graceful.

“Now, let’s see,” she murmured to herself, her focus unwavering. “A braid? A twist? No… I know!” With a burst of inspiration, she began to weave his hair into intricate patterns, her fingers dancing like a skilled artist. Severus felt a surge of warmth at her dedication, each tug and pull both comforting and invigorating.

As she worked, they exchanged soft, teasing banter, laughter spilling from their lips like the most precious potion. Y/N’s enthusiasm was contagious, and soon even Severus found himself enjoying the process. She recounted tales of her students’ antics in the greenhouse, her expressive gestures painting vivid images that made him chuckle despite himself.

“I’ve decided this is the look you should adopt,” Y/N announced triumphantly, securing the final braid with a delicate ribbon. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, her eyes sparkling with delight.

Severus caught his reflection in the nearest mirror, and for the first time, he saw something different—something that spoke of connection, of warmth, and of a world beyond the cold, dark potions and brewing shadows that had long defined him. “It appears I have been transformed into a woodland sprite,” he remarked dryly, but the corners of his mouth betrayed the fondness he felt.

Y/N clapped her hands, bouncing on her heels. “You look incredible! I can’t believe you ever doubted this.” She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against his cheek as she leaned in, eyes softening. “I love seeing this side of you.”

In that moment, the air crackled with an unspoken truth. Severus felt an overwhelming swell of affection for her—how she brought light into his otherwise somber existence. Her laughter filled the silence he had grown so accustomed to, and he couldn’t help but admire the way her passion made even the darkest corners of the castle feel alive.

“Perhaps,” he began, the words feeling foreign yet exhilarating on his tongue, “I could tolerate such transformations more often, provided it remains… just between us.”

Y/N beamed, her joy radiant and uncontained. “Deal! But next time, I’m trying out a crown braid!”

As she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, Severus felt the weight of his walls crumbling further. In her presence, he was not merely the Potions Master; he was something more—something hopeful, something cherished. Together, they sat in the soft glow of the firelight, a tangle of hair and heart, weaving a bond that transcended the very magic of the world around them.

[the-kr8tor]

Hello! I wanted to request for a fluffy Hobie x reader <3 One where the reader is someone he became friends with through the Spider Society, so the two have yet to properly get to know each other, but reader has a terribly hidden crush for him. But the main thing is that, out of everyone in their friend group, the pair are huggers so they naturally gravitate to one another for hugs or to just be close. - 💜💛

Hello!! I hope you love it!! And thank you for reading my work! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except hobie is mentioned taller), spider person! Reader, spider trio cameo, established relationship, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff!

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The portal opens right in the middle of spider society. Its warbling orange glow glimmers against the white floors as the whole squad exits the portal.

You immediately bolt towards the team, eyes looking for the familiar pair of boots to step out of it.

“Hey!” Gwen smiles, taking off her mask as she tiredly hugs you. You pat her back, and she looks at you suspiciously. “I have a feeling the welcome committee isn't just for me.”

You wince, giving her an awkward smile. “What— no way, Gwen. I'm here for you!”

“Hobie's right behind us, Y/N.” Pav says tiredly, arms stretching as your face brightens up from the mention of the punk spider.

Gwen scrunches her nose, scoffing as she lets you go. “Really? You don't even hide it well.”

You try to save face. “I'm here for…all of you.” You bounce on the balls of your feet as you hear footsteps exit out. Your smile flickers away for a second when Miles appears from the portal, rubbing along his aching wrist.

Miles notices along with Gwen and Pavitr. “‘I’m glad you're safe, Miles!’” He mocks your voice. “Really, you don't even hide it anymore.”

“That's what I said!” Gwen agrees, huffing with her hands placed on her hips.

The familiar thump of the pair of boots has you turning towards the source, arms gravitating to the pair of arms ready to receive you.

“It's just hurtful, y’know— oh come on!”

The trio turns to you and Hobie, embracing like you haven't seen each other in years. When in fact that you literally saw him before he went on the mission, and was hugging you just like this.

His chin is propped atop your head, arms squeezing you and slightly lifting you up on your feet while you hide in the crook of his neck. He smells of post battle adrenaline and coconut from his (Pav’s) oil.

“How's my favourite spider?” Hobie says, eyes darting towards the three, who are brooding in place. He clearly did that on purpose, where's the lie though when he's wrapped around your finger.

“Good,” you say against his skin, lips barely brushing along his neck, and barely appropriate for ‘just friends.’ “I broke my record at the training grounds.” Leaning away to his disappointment, your smile has his slight frown fade away. “The tip you gave me worked really well!”

“Augh, get a room already.” Miles says in disgust while Gwen acts like she's gonna barf.

“I think it's sweet!” Pav exclaims while you and Hobie are stuck in your little bubble of affection.

Gwen and Miles stare Pav down.

“Really? It disrupts the friend group.” Gwen argues.

Miles loops his arm over Gwen's shoulder, nodding along. “I agree!”

Pav gives them a look. “Hypocrites!”

They continue to argue in the background while Hobie's arms are still around you. The continuous hugs remind you of those stuffed animals with the long arms and velcro on them so they'd stick to your clothes and hug you the entire time. Hobie's hugs feel the same, soft and comforting. Without the prick of velcro of course.

“D’you think they'll stop arguing?” You ask, head lifting up to gaze into his warm eyes.

Hobie beams at you, hand placed in the back of your head while his nose nudges your temple. “Maybe once we tell ‘em that we're datin'”

“Date, we went on one date.” You correct him, but your bashful grin and clammy hands that are still holding on to him says that there will be more in the future.

“It would be plural if someone confessed a lot sooner.” A smirk plays on his lips as you smack his chest playfully, palm hitting hard muscle underneath his suit. You suddenly feel incredibly warm. “They're right, you didn't hide it very well.”

“Y–You know why!”

“No, I don't.” His lopsided smirk says otherwise. He's playing with you, and you're loving every minute of it. “Can you tell me again, just like last night?”

[lamour-est-pur]

A/N bonjour! welcome back, Ace is my favorite character so the next few post will likely be him unless someone else is requested❤ my first language is not English please be patient ❤

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Ace X Reader

Reader and ace get stuck in a snow storm together during a mission

genre-> Fluff

warnings-> use of Y/N

word count-> 4497

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The wind howled like a banshee, whipping snowflakes into a frenzy around you and Ace. You squinted, trying to make out the path ahead through the swirling white. What had started as a light snowfall just hours ago had escalated into a full-blown blizzard. The mission, originally planned to be a quick raid on a winter island notorious for its black market, was now a desperate struggle for survival.

"We can't stay out here much longer," Ace yelled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. His normally fiery hat hung to his neck by the thin string, revealing windblown black hair plastered to his forehead. Concern etched lines on his freckled face.

Your teeth were chattering, despite the thick winter gear you wore. You cursed inwardly for underestimating the island's weather. "Do you see any shelter, Ace?" you shouted back.

A dark shape loomed up ahead. Ace, with his superior vision, spotted it first. "There! Cave entrance," he pointed, leading the way with newfound urgency. 

The cave was a small opening in a rocky cliff face. You practically tumbled inside, collapsing onto the hard, thankfully dry, ground. Relief washed over you as the biting wind died down to a low moan at the mouth of the cave. Inside, it was dark and cold, but a vast improvement over the icy blizzard outside.

The dim light filtering through the entrance barely illuminated the interior. You fumbled in your pack, desperate for any source of warmth. But your fingers brushed against empty compartments – the precious oil lamp you usually carried, lost somewhere in the storm's fury. Panic pricked at your heart.

"Don't worry, (Y/N)," Ace said, his voice steady despite the urgency in his eyes. With a practiced ease, he started rummaging around the cave floor. You watched, a sliver of hope flickering within you, as his gloved hands brushed over the rough, cold rock.

Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow. The silence was broken only by the dripping of water somewhere deep within the cave and the occasional groan of the wind outside. Just as despair threatened to extinguish the spark of hope, Ace let out a triumphant shout.

"Gotcha!" he exclaimed, emerging from the shadows with a handful of dry twigs clutched in his hand. A sense of awe washed over you. You hadn't noticed any loose branches on the cave floor before. It felt like magic, a testament to Ace's resourcefulness and his unwavering focus on keeping you safe.

He carefully arranged the twigs into a small pile, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. You knelt beside him as he lit the sticks alight with his devil fruit power. 

the fire sputtered to life, casting flickering shadows on the cave walls, you felt a sense of gratitude blossom within you. It wasn't just the warmth radiating from the flames, but the silent camaraderie, the unspoken understanding that bloomed between you and Ace in the face of adversity.

He glanced at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Your eyes met, and for a long moment, the world outside seemed to fade away. The storm raged on, but in that small, fire-lit cave, a different kind of warmth bloomed – a slow burn of unspoken emotions, fueled by shared vulnerability and the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

You shifted closer, seeking the warmth radiating from his body, and he didn't pull away. The fire crackled softly, a counterpoint to the storm's fury, as you sat huddled together, a silent conversation flowing between you in the flickering light. You knew this moment, this unexpected intimacy carved from the blizzard's wrath, could change everything. But for now, you were content to simply be there, in the warm embrace of the fire and Ace's reassuring presence, 

As the fire died down to embers, Ace kept you close, his steady heartbeat a reassuring presence against the howling wind outside. You leaned against him, drowsiness creeping up on you as the warmth slowly seeped back into your body. Your eyelids fluttered closed, and the last thing you registered was the faint scent of woodsmoke and Ace's comforting presence.

Dawn arrived, painting the sky outside in hues of pink and orange. The storm had passed, leaving behind a world of sparkling white. You stretched languidly, only to realize you were still nestled in Ace's warm embrace. He was fast asleep, a peaceful expression on his face.

A blush crept up your cheeks as you watched him. This unexpected blizzard had forced you closer, a closeness neither of you had dared to acknowledge before. You gently traced your thumb down his cheek, a silent thank you for keeping you warm through the night.

Ace stirred at your touch, his eyes fluttering open. A slow smile spread on his face as his gaze met yours. "Morning,beautiful," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

"You know," he began, his voice low and husky, "being stuck in a blizzard with you isn't so bad after all." A shy smile spread across his face. You couldn't help but return it, your heart skipping a beat.

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss was hesitant at first, then deepened as you both melted into it. It was a kiss filled with unspoken emotions, a promise of something more waiting to bloom when the storm finally passed.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. "I never thought I'd say this," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes, "but maybe getting caught in a snowstorm has its perks."

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(A/N) Thank you for reading❤ REQUEST ARE OPEN please give me your ideas, I write for the one piece characters (Fluff, angst, comfort, smut) once again I do have post lined up that will be going up this week ❤ so please enjoy❤->

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[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 7✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ A heart can beat, even for the hated one...♡ Tag list: @irlandajacquelinne-blog

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Unbound Tensions‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 9k+ [Part 7] ☆ TW: fluff (mainly Lensless Mark) ☆ Author's Note: I wrote 22,072 words for this chapter. YES, you heard me. Why? Because, I wanted to include smut!!! AH, I talked with a lot of people, and everyone said I should split it (╥﹏╥) so here's the lead-up to the smut chapter, pleaseee give it some love <3 I worked really hard on this...

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The silence was a physical weight, a suffocating blanket woven from the threads of destruction.

Not the peaceful hush of a forest at dawn, but the hollow stillness that follows a storm's brutal rampage. Dust motes, like tiny, restless spirits, danced in the slivers of weak sunlight filtering through grimy, cracked windows. Their ethereal ballet cast long, skeletal shadows across the room's battered floor.

Y/N lay on the remnants of a broken bed frame, springs jutting out like the ribcage of some forgotten beast, the torn mattress a testament to the room's violent history.

Distant explosions, muffled thunder in the ruined landscape, vibrated through the weathered walls of the abandoned house. Smoke, thick and ashen, billowed against a sky the color of a bruised plum, visible through a jagged crack in the half-drawn curtains.

Consciousness returned slowly, a reluctant swimmer surfacing from murky depths. The room spun, a dizzying kaleidoscope of faded floral wallpaper, cracked plaster, and forgotten, overturned furniture. Her muscles screamed, a symphony of throbbing pain that spoke of brutal battles and forced, rapid healing.

The memory of the raw, blazing power that had erupted from her, the desperate grasp of the variants as she faltered, and Omni's tear-streaked face flashed behind her eyelids.

A ragged breath, a broken sigh, shattered the oppressive quiet. Y/N's eyelids fluttered open, her gaze snapping to the source of the sound. Her pupils dilated, adjusting to the dim light, and her heart clenched.

Lensless Mark sat against the far wall, a prisoner in his own skin. Heavy, industrial-grade chains, thick as her wrist, wrapped around his body like metallic serpents, binding him from shoulders to ankles. Each link, precision-welded, gleamed with a cold, surgical intensity. The metal crisscrossed his torso in an intricate, punishing web.

His luchador-style mask, usually a symbol of his arrogant swagger, was askew, revealing a landscape of mottled bruises blooming across his cheekbones like dark, grotesque flowers. One eye was swollen shut, the skin around it a bruised purple-black, a testament to the brutal beating he'd endured. A trail of dried blood, like a macabre paint stroke, ran from his split lip to his chin. His single visible eye, however, burned with a fierce intensity that belied his vulnerable position. A fresh bruise, a dark purple blossom, marred his jawline—a souvenir from the other variants' fury after his attempt on her life.

Y/N's muscles coiled, her instincts screaming for defense. Her fingers curled into half-fists, ready to unleash the power that still hummed beneath her skin. But Lensless Mark wasn't lunging. He wasn't attacking. He was simply watching, his gaze a silent, smoldering question.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, that single eye glinting with a mix of sardonic humor and barely contained rage. "Sleeping beauty finally graces me with her presence."

His nostrils flared slightly, his upper lip curling into a brief, almost involuntary sneer. "Wonderful performance back there, by the way. Real fuckin' heroic."

The sarcasm dripped from his words, but beneath it, Y/N detected an undercurrent of something else—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps, or a grudging respect. The chains rattled softly as he shifted, a metallic whisper in the oppressive quiet.

"Your Marks were... thorough," he remarked, his one good eye tracking her movements as she examined him. His voice carried a note of grudging respect. "Bunch of overprotective bastards."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin, hard line. "You tried to kill me."

"Fair point." A sharp, unexpected laugh escaped him, a sound that was part genuine amusement, part something darker, almost feral. "But where's the fun in killing you quickly?"

Ignoring him, she traced the intricate pattern of the restraints with her gaze. They weren't just simple bindings; they were a statement, a message from the other variants: You are not to be trusted. Each link, custom-forged and precision-engineered, spoke of a desperate need to contain someone with superhuman strength. A Viltrumite's handiwork.

"Comfortable?" she asked, her voice raspier than she expected, her throat dry and raw.

Lensless Mark let out a sharp bark of laughter, tilting his head back to expose the bruised column of his throat. "Oh, absolutely. Nothing says 'five-star accommodation' like being chained up by my multiversal doppelgängers."

Despite the humor, tension radiated from him like heat. His unrestrained eye darted around the room, assessing, calculating. The trademark cocky swagger of his personality, usually a roaring fire, was now a smoldering ember, struggling beneath a glass dome.

"They could have killed me," he said suddenly, his shoulders pulling against the chains as he leaned forward. "But no. Chained me up like some... pet." The last word dripped with contempt, his teeth bared in a brief, almost involuntary snarl.

Y/N shifted, wincing slightly as a jolt of pain shot through her side. The memory of her recent power surge, of the blinding moment of self-healing, was still vivid. She could feel the residual energy humming beneath her skin, a subtle vibration that spoke of untapped potential.

"Why didn't you try to escape?" she asked, her head tilting to one side, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

Lensless Mark's lips curled—part smirk, part snarl. "And go where, exactly? I'm stuck in THIS universe. THIS world!" His good eye widened with emphasis, veins standing out on his neck as anger flashed across his face.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. Y/N's fingers traced absent patterns on the worn fabric of her partially torn suit, a nervous habit honed through years of survival.

Her eyes continued to study Lensless Mark, searching for something beyond the surface bravado.

"You want to know about the GDA," she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a question.

Lensless Mark's eyebrow arched, a micro-expression of surprise quickly masked by his characteristic smirk. "Well, aren't you a mind reader?"

A humorless laugh escaped her, a dry, brittle sound. "Trust me. If I could read minds, I'd have escaped that hellhole years ago."

Her gaze grew distant, her eyes unfocusing as they fixed on a point beyond the room's peeling wallpaper. The chains binding Lensless Mark seemed to fade into background noise as memories surfaced—sharp, jagged things that cut like broken glass.

"They didn't just experiment," Y/N began, her voice taking on a clinical detachment that spoke of practiced self-preservation. "Experimenting implies scientific method. What they did? That was torture disguised as research."

Lensless Mark remained silent, his good eye fixed unblinkingly on her face.

Her fingers unconsciously traced a thin, barely visible scar along her forearm—one of many hidden beneath her suit. "Viltrumite physiology is... complex. Unpredictable. The GDA wanted to understand its potential. To create something controllable. Something they could weaponize and use."

Her jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing at her temple. The chains nearby seemed to vibrate with her rising emotion, though whether from residual power or pure psychological intensity was unclear.

"They'd inject me with different variants of Viltrumite blood," she continued. "Mark Grayson... Nolan Grayson... and they watched how my body responded. Rejected. Adapted. Died. And then brought back." Her laugh this time was closer to a sob, her eyes glistening briefly before she blinked the moisture away. "Regeneration was both a blessing and their favorite torture method."

Lensless Mark's eye had lost its sardonic gleam. Something darker moved behind it—recognition, perhaps. A flicker of something that might have been empathy, quickly buried beneath his trademark cynicism.

"Sounds fun," he muttered, but the words lacked his usual bite, his gaze dropping momentarily to the floor.

Y/N's head snapped toward him, her eyes blazing with an intensity that made the air between them seem to shimmer. "Fun? You think this was fun?"

The chains binding Lensless Mark seemed to shift almost imperceptibly. Not from his movement—he remained perfectly still—but from the charged energy suddenly filling the room.

Her hands, which moments ago had been trembling slightly, now looked frighteningly steady. The same hands that had unleashed that devastating energy against Lensless earlier. The same hands that had survived countless GDA experiments.

"I'm not looking for your pity," she said quietly, her chin raised, her eyes hard as flint. "I'm telling you so you understand. I'm not a victim. I'm a fucking survivor... And the only one who lived out of every one of their goddamn experiments."

A long moment passed. The dust motes continued their silent dance. Outside, the world remained in total destruction—unaware of the complex drama unfolding in this forgotten room.

Finally, with a heavy grunt of pain, Y/N pushed herself up from the broken bedframe. Her legs trembled beneath her weight, muscles quivering with the effort of supporting her still-recovering body. Each step toward Lensless Mark sent shockwaves of pain through her healing tissues, but she refused to show weakness, her face a mask of determination.

Lensless Mark raised a brow as she approached, his one good eye tracking her movement with predatory attention. The dark swelling around his other eye had begun to recede slightly—the accelerated Viltrumite healing already at work.

Her fingers hovered near the industrial-grade chains, tracing their intricate welding without touching. The metal gleamed coldly in the dim light, each link casting its own small shadow. She could feel the energy signature of the other variants on them—their anger, their protective fury encoded in each precision weld.

"Admiring the jewelry?" Lensless drawled, that single eye glinting with humor. His chest rose with a deep inhale, nostrils flaring slightly.

"No… It just looks like you lost a fight with a garbage disposal," Y/N's lips quirked, a flicker of amusement in the dim light. "I've seen cleaner dumpsters."

"Cute," Lensless Mark retorted, the single visible eye rolling with exaggerated disdain. "Real original. You want a medal, or just a participation trophy?"

Their banter, sharp and laced with unspoken tension, filled the room. Outside, the world burned, a stark counterpoint to their delicate dance of words. Each jab, each retort, was a subtle negotiation, a drawing of invisible lines in the dust-laden air.

Her fingers, light as a feather, traced the cold metal of the chains. Not sympathy, but a clinical curiosity drove her touch. She tested the links, feeling for weaknesses, gauging the resistance they would offer to her enhanced strength.

"You want out?" The question, deceptively casual, carried the weight of unspoken conditions.

A sharp, barking laugh echoed off the cracked walls. "Out? I want to not be a goddamn ornament in this charming apocalypse-chic bedroom." He leaned forward, the chains biting into his bruised flesh, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

Y/N arched a brow, a flicker of a smirk playing on her lips. "Conditions, then."

"Always," he hissed, the word a rasping promise. His good eye narrowed, calculating, predatory.

"A pinky promise." She extended her smallest finger, the gesture absurdly childish in their brutal reality. For a fleeting moment, a hint of something softer, almost playful, flickered across her face.

Lensless Mark stared, his jaw slack, the single visible eye widening in disbelief. "A what?"

"You heard me." The playful glint vanished, replaced by a hard, unwavering stare. "Pinky promise you won't immediately try to kill me, or anyone else, when I release you."

He laughed, a startled, genuine sound that rattled the chains around him. "Are we children playing in a sandbox?"

"Promise, or stay chained." Her voice held a steel edge, the extended pinky a silent challenge.

Slowly, deliberately, he extended his own pinky, a gesture that was both ridiculous and utterly serious. "Pinky. Fuckin'. Promise."

Their smallest fingers locked, an absurd pact sealed in the heart of a shattered world. The brief contact, surprisingly warm, lingered as she turned her attention to the chains.

Her fingers closed around a link, thumbs tracing the metal's cold, unyielding surface. She felt for weaknesses, pressure points where the metal might yield. Her grip tightened, the chain feeling like a throat beneath her fingers.

Muscles coiled, Viltrumite strength surging through her arms. Veins, dark and prominent, mapped the pathways of her enhanced power. She applied pressure, a slow, inexorable force.

The first chain snapped, a sharp, gunshot-like crack that echoed through the room.

Metallic links scattered across the worn floorboards, catching the weak light. They skittered into shadowed corners, disappearing like fleeing insects. Y/N's movements, precise and fluid, spoke of countless hours spent understanding mechanisms, a skill honed in the GDA's brutal laboratories.

Lensless Mark watched, his single eye narrowed, lips parted slightly. The bruising around his socket began to yellow, the first signs of rapid Viltrumite healing pushing through the battered skin. "Impressive," he muttered, "didn't know they programmed lockpicking into their little science project."

Her hands stilled, her eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. "I learned a lot in the GDA. Survival wasn't a choice; it was the only option."

Another chain yielded, the sound softer, almost intimate. The metal twisted and deformed, giving way under her relentless pressure.

Outside, the world continued its fiery death throes. Distant screams and explosions painted a hellish soundscape, a constant reminder of the multiversal war raging beyond their sanctuary. The other variants—Omni, Mohawk, Sinister—remained locked in their negotiations with Angstrom Levy, their voices a distant, indistinct rumble.

"So," Lensless Mark drawled, breaking the silence, his head tilting to one side, "you're not curious why they left me here? Chained up like some… personal project?"

A flicker of humor touched Y/N's lips. Her fingers moved with methodical precision, each link yielding to her strength. "Maybe they thought you needed a timeout." A soft giggle escaped her, surprising even herself.

"A timeout?" His single eye narrowed, a muscle twitching in his bruised cheek. "Because chaining up a multiversal Mark Grayson variant is standard procedure."

Another chain fell, joining the metallic graveyard around them. Each broken link was a promise, a step into the unknown.

"They beat the shit out of me," Lensless Mark said, his voice losing its edge. His gaze fell to the floor, his shoulders slumping. "Not just a fight. A statement."

Her hands paused. Her gaze locked with his, the single eye burning with an intensity that cut through the dim light.

"Because you tried to kill me." She stated the fact, not an accusation.

"Because you're a fucking clone," he spat, his voice raw with rage. "A disgusting imitation wearing her face."

Y/N's fingers froze on the chains, her mouth falling open in shocked confusion. "What?"

He turned away, jaw muscles working furiously. "Forget it."

Her grip tightened, knuckles whitening. "No. No more chains until you explain." Her voice was hard, all humor gone. "You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you shit!" he snarled, yanking against his restraints. The chains held, barely. His eye blazed, and Y/N braced herself.

"FINE!" he exploded, the word echoing in the room.

"My Y/N was HUMAN!" The confession tore from him, his voice cracking. "Just a normal, beautiful human. She didn't need superpowers," a brittle laugh escaped him, his head shaking. "... she looked just like you. Exactly. But she didn't have Viltrumite blood. She was perfect, not like…"

His words trailed off, his jaw clenching. The unspoken venom hung heavy in the air.

The confession hung between them—raw, unexpected. A glimpse beneath the sardonic exterior that showed something more complex than the sadistic killer the other variants had described.

Her fingers silently resumed their work. Another chain fell, the metal giving way with a soft, metallic groan. Y/N's face remained unreadable, eyes focused on the task at hand rather than on his face.

"And that's why you hate me," Y/N said softly, the realization settling like cold steel. "I'm her echo, but distorted. A version you deem... wrong."

Lensless Mark remained silent, his posture shifting subtly. The defiant edge, while still present, was softened by a flicker of something akin to vulnerability. His shoulders slumped against the wall, the fight draining from him like air from a punctured lung.

The final chain fell with a heavy clank, joining its brethren in a metallic heap on the floor.

Freedom waited, a tangible presence in the room. Potential crackled in the air, a silent, volatile energy.

Lensless Mark slowly brought his arms forward, rubbing at the raw, chafed skin where the chains had bitten into his wrists and chest. His fingers probed gingerly at the bruises marring his torso, wincing at particularly tender spots. He flexed his muscles experimentally, gauging their response after hours of confinement. Despite the lingering weakness, a predatory grace underlay his movements—a hunter assessing its strength before the kill.

"Well," he purred, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he looked up at her through his lashes, a smile playing on his lips that didn't reach his eyes, "about that pinky promise..."

The air thickened, charged with a palpable tension. Y/N's muscles tensed instinctively, her body reacting to the predatory gleam in his eye before her mind could fully process the threat.

His bruised face transformed, the fleeting vulnerability vanishing, replaced by a cold, calculating mask. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he slowly, deliberately, rose to his full height.

The broken chains lay scattered around his feet, discarded metallic snakeskins. The afternoon light caught each link, casting distorted, elongated shadows across the worn floorboards.

Lensless Mark rolled his shoulders, his neck cracking with a satisfying pop as he tilted his head from side to side. His single good eye never left Y/N's face. The swelling around his other eye had receded, revealing a sliver of iris, giving him an unsettling, lopsided gaze. He ran his tongue over his split lip, tasting copper and a hint of victory.

"I did promise not to kill you," he whispered, taking a step forward that closed the distance between them. His boot crushed a chain link underfoot, the metal yielding with a dull crunch. "Immediately."

Y/N didn't flinch. Her feet remained rooted to the dusty floor, her weight subtly shifted to the balls of her feet, poised for action. Her chin lifted, nostrils flaring as she inhaled deeply, registering the scent of his sweat, blood, and something uniquely him. Her eyelids lowered slightly, her gaze sharpening with focused intensity.

"So, that's it?" Her voice, deceptively soft, held the edge of a honed blade. "First taste of freedom, and you're already breaking your word?"

A harsh laugh reverberated through the room, devoid of mirth. It grated against the silence like fingernails on slate.

"My word?" Lensless Mark's chest expanded with a sharp inhale, the bruises on his torso shifting with each breath. "You dare speak of words and promises? That's rich."

Another step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath his boot.

"In my world," he continued, his tongue darting out to touch his split lip again, "the GDA took her too." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words hanging in the air like poisoned darts. "But she didn't survive. She didn't become… this." The last word dripped with contempt, his hand gesturing toward Y/N with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Y/N's eyes narrowed, her pupils dilating and contracting as she processed his words. A tiny muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth, the only visible sign of the emotional impact.

"I didn't ask to be their experiment," she said, each syllable precise and measured. The veins in her forearms became more pronounced as her hands curled into loose fists. "I didn't choose this."

Lensless Mark's gaze raked over her, taking in the subtle signs of her enhanced physiology—the unnatural grace, the contained strength, the too-perfect healing of old wounds. His lip curled, revealing his teeth in a predatory snarl.

"But you survived it," he hissed, bitterness etched in the lines around his mouth. "You thrived on it. Became exactly what they wanted."

Before Y/N could respond, a chorus of angry voices erupted outside, distant but distinct. Both occupants of the room froze, heads turning toward the window. The abandoned house suddenly felt paper-thin, the walls barely containing the sounds of the apocalyptic world.

"That's Mohawk," Lensless Mark muttered, his good eye narrowing as he cocked his head, listening. His earlier aggression momentarily receded, replaced by a flicker of concern.

Y/N moved to the window, careful to stay to the side of the grimy glass. Her fingers curled around the peeling windowsill, wood flaking beneath her touch. The sky had darkened to a bruised purple-black, smoke spiraling upward from multiple points across the devastated landscape. Several blocks away, floating figures hovered in the haze.

"Something's happening," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. Her enhanced vision picked out details—Sinister's distinctive black and yellow suit, Omni Mark's red and white insignia, and a smaller figure with a bulbous head surrounded by portal drones. "Angstrom."

Lensless Mark appeared at her side, his proximity sending a shiver down her spine. He shouldered her aside, pressing his face to the glass. His breath quickened, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Well, well," he drawled, the forced casualness failing to mask the tension in his voice. "Looks like the family reunion is getting heated."

The voices rose again, carried on the smoke-laden air—anger, threats, demands. The hostility vibrated through the very foundation of their sanctuary.

Y/N turned from the window, her mind racing. Her gaze swept over the broken chains, the splintered bed frame, the peeling wallpaper—evidence of a world unraveling. Determination hardened her features.

"We need to go there," she said, the words dropping into the charged silence.

Lensless Mark's head snapped toward her, his expression shifting from surprise to disbelief to mocking amusement. "We? There's no 'we' here, sweetheart. I tried to kill you. Multiple times."

Y/N stepped closer, invading his space. Her eyes locked with his, unflinching.

"And yet here I am, unchaining you," she countered, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "Something's happening with Angstrom. Something that has all of them," she gestured toward the window, "in an uproar. Don't you want to know what it is?"

A muscle ticked in Lensless Mark's jaw, his gaze flicking between her and the window. Outside, a flash of blue light illuminated the sky, followed by Mohawk Mark's enraged bellow.

"I'd rather be anywhere but helping your little boyfriend squad," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt even as curiosity flickered in his visible eye, warring with the hatred that had become his constant companion.

Y/N sensed the opening and pressed her advantage, closing the distance between them. The floorboards creaked beneath her careful steps. "They're not my boyfriends," she said, her voice dropping to a honeyed whisper that seemed to reach past his defenses and resonate somewhere deep within him. "They're using me to replace someone they lost. Just like you said."

A subtle change rippled across Lensless Mark's features—his pupil dilated, the one visible eye darkening with an emotion he couldn't quite conceal. His lips parted involuntarily, the slightest tremor passing through them as her words found their target with unerring precision.

"And if Angstrom gets what he wants," she continued, her gaze steady and unflinching as it locked with his, "we all lose. Including you." Her hand hovered near his bruised forearm, not quite making contact but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "You want revenge for your Y/N? Angstrom is the architect of all this destruction. Of all these universes colliding. He's the reason we're all here, suffering."

Something shifted beneath the carefully constructed mask of disdain Lensless Mark wore—a flicker of genuine emotion breaking through like sunlight through storm clouds. His nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath, shoulders squaring beneath the tattered remnants of what had once been an immaculate suit.

"Fine," he spat, the single word seeming to cost him physically. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped along its edge as he practically vibrated with the storm of conflicting emotions battling for supremacy within him. "But this doesn't make us allies. This doesn't make us anything."

Y/N's smile appeared briefly—genuine despite its fleeting nature, a flash of relief that vanished as quickly as morning dew under a harsh sun. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Without further conversation, she moved to the window with fluid, purposeful strides. The hinges protested with a rusty screech as she pushed it fully open, the metallic sound slicing through the heavy silence hanging over the room. Cool evening air rushed in, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of destruction—smoke and dust intermingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Y/N paused at the threshold, glancing back once at Lensless Mark. Her expression remained unreadable in the fading light, shadows playing across the contours of her face. Then she stepped onto the windowsill and launched herself skyward, her body cutting through space with the effortless grace of a predator taking flight.

Lensless Mark watched her disappear, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He stood motionless for a heartbeat—just long enough to mutter a string of creative curses under his breath, each syllable laden with frustration—before following her lead.

They soared above the devastated landscape, twin shadows against the darkening canvas of the sky. The city sprawled beneath them in ruins—buildings reduced to skeletal frameworks, streets split open like wound-like gashes across the face of the earth. Bodies of fallen civilians painted macabre patterns on the ground below, while fires burned unchecked in several districts, their orange-yellow flames serving as beacons in the gathering gloom.

Y/N maintained a slight lead, her body positioned to minimize wind resistance, arms extended at her sides. Her hair streamed behind her like a battle standard, dancing and whipping in the turbulent currents.

Lensless Mark kept pace a few feet behind and to her right, his movements marginally less fluid, the grace in his flight hampered by injuries that refused to be ignored. The exposed portion of his face remained locked in a grimace of concentration, jaw muscles bunching as he clenched his teeth against the pain radiating through his body with each powerful thrust through the air.

They approached the gathering of variants with tactical caution, using the smoke-filled sky as natural camouflage. Below them, the confrontation unfolded above the skeletal remains of what had once been the Grayson family home, its once-welcoming structure now reduced to little more than ash and memory.

The variants hovered in a loose circle around Angstrom Levy, whose bulbous head glistened with a sheen of nervous sweat. His beady eyes darted between the assembled Marks, constantly calculating as he manipulated a constellation of glowing green portal drones that floated around the group like mechanical fireflies, their emerald light casting eerie shadows across the faces of the gathered variants.

Y/N signaled to Lensless Mark with a quick gesture, indicating a partially collapsed rooftop nearby. They descended in perfect silence, landing in a crouch behind a chimney stack that had somehow survived the destruction intact.

"—you promised us anything we wanted!" Mohawk Mark's roar cut through the evening air, each word punctuated by flecks of spittle flying from his contorted lips. The mohawk crowning his head seemed to bristle with his rage, while veins pulsed visibly at his temples. "And now we get nothing?"

Angstrom's laugh—nasal and grating—bounced off the ruins surrounding them as his abnormally large head tilted backward. Sweat trickled down his bulbous forehead, catching the green light of the portal drones as his eyes continued their nervous dance between the variants. "I promised you new universes to conquer. But first, you need to complete your part of the bargain."

"We've done enough," Omni Mark grunted, his powerful frame rigid with barely contained violence. His fists clenched at his sides, the red material of his gloves straining across the knuckles as though struggling to contain the force within. The black lenses of his mask gleamed with menace as he leaned forward, shoulders hunched like a predator preparing to pounce. "This world is in ruins, and we already lost half of us. Invincible's reputation is destroyed. It's time for you to pay up."

Sinister's laugh shattered the moment like broken glass, sharp and dangerous. "Or should I rip that swollen head off your shoulders and be done with it?" His fingers flexed with deliberate slowness, a silent promise of violence to come.

Emperor Mark floated slightly higher than the others, positioning himself with the natural authority of one accustomed to command. His voice cut through the tension like a well-honed blade. "You're stalling, Angstrom. That makes me wonder what you're hiding."

Phantom Mark hovered silently to the side, his full-face mask rendering his expression unreadable, but his body language—head tilted at a calculating angle, arms crossed over his chest—radiated cold assessment.

Prisoner Mark spat on the ground below, his scarred face twisting into a mean grimace that pulled at the puckered tissue crisscrossing his features. "If you think you can double-cross us after everything we've done—"

"Maybe he needs a reminder of who he's dealing with," Viltrumite Mark suggested, his voice a study in deceptive calm. One by one, he cracked his knuckles, each pop carrying ominously through the still air like distant gunshots.

No Mask Mark's lips curled into a cruel smile, his eyes reflecting the sickly green glow of the portal drones as he edged closer to Angstrom. "I've been wanting to get my hands on you since day one."

From their vantage point, Y/N's fingers curled around the rough edge of the chimney, knuckles whitening with pressure as she observed the confrontation unfolding above them. Beside her, Lensless Mark's breathing had become a carefully measured rhythm, each inhale and exhale a deliberate exercise in control.

"Something's wrong," she whispered, the words barely audible even to Lensless Mark's enhanced hearing. "Look at Angstrom's portals."

Lensless Mark narrowed his eyes, focusing on the glowing rifts surrounding the variants. Several of the portal drones pulsed with an erratic rhythm, the edges of their projections wavering and fluctuating as though struggling to maintain coherence. A discordant humming filled the air, the vibration setting teeth on edge and raising the fine hairs on the back of the neck. Behind each variant—all of whom had their attention fixed on Angstrom—additional portal drones were silently rising into position, their movements deliberate and predatory.

"He's losing control," Lensless muttered, a note of grudging respect coloring his voice. "Too many portals open at once, too many dimensions bleeding into each other."

Y/N's gaze flicked to him, surprise momentarily widening her eyes. "You know about dimensional physics?"

His lips curled in a sardonic sneer, though a glint of dark humor danced in his good eye. "I've hopped more dimensions than you've had hot meals, sweetheart. You pick things up."

Their attention snapped back to the confrontation as Mohawk Mark's voice rose above the others, slicing through the cacophony with razor-sharp clarity.

"Enough talk!" he shouted, his dark suit blending with the gathering shadows. "Either you send us where we want to go, or we tear you apart."

Angstrom's expression twisted—fear and calculation battling for dominance across his features. His hand slipped into his pocket with practiced smoothness, withdrawing what looked like a small remote control. Behind the variants, the drones began to rise higher, their movements synchronized with cold precision.

"I believe in contingency plans," Angstrom said, his voice suddenly steadier than it had been moments before. "You want new worlds to conquer? Fine. But not the ones you're thinking of."

His thumb descended on a button, and the drones surged forward, surrounding the variants in a complex geometric pattern. Green energy crackled between them, forming a lattice of dimensional power that began to constrict around the assembled Marks.

"He's going to send them all away," Y/N breathed, her body coiling with tension. "To some hell dimension where they can't threaten him anymore."

Lensless Mark's hand shot out with surprising speed, fingers closing around her wrist with undeniable strength. His eye locked with hers, something unreadable flickering in its depths.

"Let him," he hissed, teeth bared in a feral grin that spoke of old hatreds and deeper wounds. "Less competition for me."

Y/N yanked her arm free, disgust flashing across her face like summer lightning. "They're you. All of them. Different versions, but still you."

"Exactly," he countered, leaning closer until she could count the flecks of gold in his irises. His visible eye narrowed to a dangerous slit, while the corner of his mouth curled upward, revealing teeth stained with dried blood. "And I hate myself more than anyone."

The air between them vibrated with unspoken tension. Y/N's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin of her cheek. Her pupils contracted then dilated as she made her decision.

"I'm going," she stated simply, her voice brooking no argument as her body tensed like a spring.

Lensless Mark's curse disappeared into the wind as Y/N launched herself skyward. Her body sliced through the smoke-laden air, arms extended at her sides, hair streaming behind her like a battle flag. The bruised sky seemed to darken further around her as she rocketed toward the confrontation, a living missile aimed at its heart.

Below, Lensless Mark's features contorted in frustration, nostrils flaring as he dragged in a ragged breath. The swelling around his injured eye had receded enough to allow him to squint through it, giving him a lopsided, dangerous gaze. With a growled string of profanities that would have made hardened criminals blush, he pushed away from the rooftop with enough force to cause the decaying structure to crumble further beneath his departure.

The variants remained oblivious to Y/N's approach, their attention locked on Angstrom. The villain's fingers danced across his remote control with manic energy, sweat beading on his forehead as he manipulated the floating drones. Each mechanical orb pulsed with increasingly erratic energy, the portals they generated flickering and destabilizing as they formed a tightening net around the assembled Marks.

"—tired of your games!" Omni Mark's voice carried over the electric crackle of dimensional energy. His fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, tendons standing out like cords beneath the material of his gloves.

"You promised us new worlds!" Mohawk Mark snarled, his teeth flashing dangerously in the sickly green glow of the portals. Jaw muscles bunched beneath his skin as rage contorted his features.

Sinister Mark hovered slightly apart from the others, his yellow cape billowing behind him like wings of sulfur. His shoulders hunched forward, head lowered in the posture of a predator preparing to charge. A savage grin split his face beneath the black lenses of his mask, teeth gleaming as a low, menacing laugh bubbled from deep within his chest.

"You lying piece of shit," Sinister hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm going to enjoy peeling your skin off strip by strip." His yellow-gloved fingers flexed and curled in rhythmic anticipation, as if already feeling Angstrom's throat beneath them.

Angstrom's lips peeled back from his teeth in a nervous grimace that tried and failed to masquerade as confidence. His thumb hovered over the central button of his remote, eyelids flickering with anticipation. "You'll get your worlds," he said, voice pitched higher than normal as adrenaline coursed through his system. "And you'll die there."

Y/N's approach created a subtle displacement in the air, a whisper of movement that Omni Mark detected first. His head snapped toward her, eyes widening beneath his mask as recognition dawned.

"Y/N, NO!" His arm shot outward, fingers splayed in desperate warning as he tried to alert her to the danger.

Angstrom pivoted with unexpected agility, eyes bulging as he spotted Y/N hurtling toward him. His finger jabbed frantically at the remote, redirecting one of the drones into her flight path. The device responded with a mechanical whir, positioning itself directly before her. Green energy coalesced around it, swirling into a vortex that yawned open like a hungry maw.

Y/N's pupils contracted to pinpoints as she registered the trap too late. Her momentum carried her forward despite her best efforts, muscles straining as she attempted to alter her trajectory. The portal reached for her with invisible fingers, the air around it warping and distorting with dimensional instability.

Lensless Mark streaked through the air to her left, the remnants of his mask fluttering away from his face, revealing more of his features than he had exposed in years. His hand dipped into a pocket, producing a shard of mirror—a makeshift weapon salvaged from the abandoned house. The setting sun caught it at precisely the right angle, creating a blinding flash that struck Angstrom's eyes with surgical precision.

Angstrom's head jerked backward, eyelids squeezing shut against the sudden assault on his vision. His grip on the remote faltered, thumb slipping across its surface. The drone pattern wavered in response, creating a momentary opening in their formation.

Y/N seized the opportunity, twisting her body mid-flight to avoid the portal directly in her path. Her trajectory shifted, bringing her around behind Angstrom. The air parted before her fist as she drove it forward with all her strength, connecting with Angstrom's skull. The impact reverberated up her arm, bone meeting bone with a sickening crack that echoed across the ruined landscape.

Angstrom plummeted, his body spiraling toward the devastation below. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a fine crimson mist, catching the light of the surrounding portals. His fingers maintained their death grip on the remote, thumb pressing a sequence of buttons as he fell.

The variants roared in unison, breaking free of the destabilized portal net. They remained hovering above, their attention fixed on the spectacle below rather than pursuing Angstrom themselves. Their expressions ranged from surprise to excitement, but all shared one common element: bloodthirsty anticipation.

"Finish him!" Mohawk Mark shouted, fist pumping the air as he destroyed a nearby drone with his other hand. His mohawk seemed to bristle with bloodlust, eyes wide and feverish with excitement.

Prisoner Mark's chains rattled melodically as he crushed a drone between his palms, the metal links of his restraints clinking against each other like wind chimes. "Don't let him escape!"

"Watch the drones!" Emperor Mark warned, his voice carrying the authority of command as he blasted one out of the air with his heat vision, the red beam cutting through the darkening sky like a laser scalpel.

No Mask Mark grinned savagely as he kicked one drone into another, creating a small explosion of green energy that illuminated the scars crisscrossing his face. His eyes glittered with malice, reflecting the dimensional energy surrounding them. "Show him what happens when you cross us!"

The variants focused on destroying the remaining drones, smashing them with fists, feet, and energy blasts. Green sparks and fragments of metal rained down upon the devastated landscape below, a strange technological hailstorm over the ruins.

Y/N dove after Angstrom, her body streamlined for maximum velocity. Wind roared past her ears, heart hammering against her ribcage as she accelerated downward. Her hand reached out, fingers stretching toward Angstrom's falling form.

Too late, she saw what he had done.

A new portal opened beneath him, swirling with sickly purple energy—different from the familiar green of his standard portals. This was something else, something engineered for a specific purpose. His thumb caressed the remote one final time, altering the destination encoded in the vortex.

Angstrom's eyes locked with Y/N's as he plunged toward the portal. Blood bubbled between his lips, spattering across his chin and neck in a grotesque parody of a beard. His mouth stretched into a rictus of hatred, teeth stained crimson with his own life essence.

"Enjoy your trip," he spat, the words barely audible over the roar of the portal's energy.

Y/N tried to pull up, to change course, her muscles straining against her own momentum. Too late—the portal expanded like a hungry beast, swallowing Angstrom and reaching hungrily for her.

The variants froze in mid-air, horror dawning on their faces as they realized what was happening. Omni-Mark's arm extended toward her, fingers outstretched in futile desperation. Lensless Mark hovered nearby, both eyes now visible and widened with what might have been concern, his hand reaching toward her in an unconscious gesture.

Sinister Mark, who had been hanging back observing, suddenly became aware of a drone hovering unnoticed behind him. His attention had been entirely focused on Y/N, his black lenses reflecting her plummeting form. For a split second, his normal vigilance lapsed, his body frozen as he watched her fall. The drone's circuitry hummed as it targeted his distracted form. The device activated, creating a second portal that intersected with his flight path.

"Son of a—" His curse was cut short as the portal's energy engulfed him, pulling him inexorably in the same direction Y/N had vanished.

The sensation was like being flayed alive while simultaneously being compressed into a space far too small for a human body. Colors that existed in no known spectrum swirled around Y/N, pressure building against her eardrums until she thought her skull might shatter from the force.

Then, abruptly, release.

Y/N tumbled through open air, disoriented and gasping. Her body struck the ground with bone-jarring force, enhanced physiology absorbing an impact that would have pulverized ordinary human anatomy. Dust billowed around her, a cloud of gritty particles that coated her sweat-dampened skin and invaded her lungs with each desperate breath.

She rolled onto her hands and knees, fingers digging into alien soil as her vision swam and finally began to clear. Her head lifted, eyes widening as she took in her surroundings.

A wasteland stretched in every direction—not the devastated cityscape she had left behind, but something far more alien and terrifying. The sky above hung low and oppressive, a sickly shade of yellow-green that reminded her of infected tissue. Three moons of varying sizes and colors suspended in that alien firmament, casting overlapping shadows across the barren landscape. Jagged rock formations jutted from the earth like broken teeth, their surfaces gleaming with an oily iridescence that suggested something beyond normal geology.

And moving across that landscape—massive shapes that defied classification. Creatures composed primarily of teeth and claws and hunger, their bodies shifting and reforming with each lumbering step. Smaller, quicker things skittered between the giants, gleaming carapaces reflecting the eerie light of the alien moons.

Y/N pushed herself to her feet, muscles trembling with the effort. Her heart hammered against her ribs as understanding crystallized in her mind. This wasn't just another Earth, another timeline. This was something else entirely.

A monster universe. A place where the laws of nature had taken a different, nightmarish turn.

The largest of the distant shapes changed direction, its hulking form now moving purposefully toward her. The ground trembled beneath its approach, vibrations traveling through the soil and into Y/N's bones. Her muscles tensed in response, body automatically shifting into a defensive stance despite her exhaustion.

From three other directions, more creatures noticed her presence, their misshapen heads swiveling toward her with predatory interest. The smallest was still twice her height, its body a writhing mass of tentacles supporting what appeared to be a cluster of jawless mouths. It moved with surprising speed, covering ground in undulating lurches that ate up the distance between them.

Y/N's fists clenched at her sides, knuckles whitening as she prepared for a fight she wasn't sure she could win. Four against one, each creature more nightmarish than the last, and her body still recovering from the dimensional transition.

The monsters closed in, forming a ring around her. The largest towered at least thirty feet high, its body a grotesque fusion of insectoid and reptilian features. A cluster of milky eyes tracked her movements, pupils contracting to vertical slits in the dim light. Its maw gaped open, revealing row upon row of serrated teeth arranged in concentric circles that extended deep into its gullet.

Y/N circled slowly, keeping all four creatures in her field of vision. Her breathing steadied, muscles warming as she gathered her remaining strength. If this was to be her last stand, she would make it count.

The tentacled monster lunged first, appendages whipping toward her with the speed of striking snakes. Y/N leapt skyward, barely avoiding the attack. Her fist connected with what might have been the creature's head, the impact sending shockwaves up her arm. The monster stumbled but didn't fall, tentacles reconfiguring to maintain its balance.

Before she could press her advantage, the largest creature's arm shot out—a limb that seemed to elongate impossibly, ending in razor-sharp claws that raked across her back. Pain lanced through her body, hot blood soaking through the torn fabric of her suit. She spun in mid-air, teeth gritted against the agony, and delivered a retaliatory kick to the monster's forearm.

The third creature spat a stream of caustic fluid that struck her left shoulder, eating through fabric and searing the skin beneath. Y/N bit back a scream, the smell of her own burning flesh filling her nostrils. She dropped lower, trying to use the tentacled monster as a shield against further chemical attacks.

The fourth monster, a quadrupedal nightmare with a body structure suggesting both canine and arachnid heritage, circled warily, looking for an opening. Its face split horizontally, revealing not a mouth but a writhing nest of smaller, worm-like appendages that reached toward her hungrily.

Y/N fought with everything she had, each blow delivered with precision and desperate strength. Her fists created craters in monstrous flesh, her kicks shattered what might have been bones. But for every creature she staggered, another pressed forward. For every attack she evaded, two more connected.

Her stamina began to flag, muscles burning with exertion. Blood ran freely from multiple wounds, her accelerated healing struggling to keep pace with the damage. The monsters seemed to sense her weakening, their attacks becoming more coordinated, more precise.

A tentacle wrapped around her ankle, yanking her downward. She twisted, breaking free, but the motion left her open to the quadruped's charge. Its multi-jointed limbs propelled it forward with startling speed, body colliding with hers in mid-air. They crashed to the ground together, Y/N pinned beneath its considerable weight.

The worm-like appendages in its face writhed closer to her skin, exuding a paralytic toxin that numbed wherever they touched. Y/N struggled beneath the creature, muscles screaming with the effort as she tried to heave it off. Her vision began to dim at the edges, consciousness wavering as the other monsters closed in for the kill.

This was it. After everything she'd survived—the GDA experiments, the variants, Angstrom's traps—she would die here, torn apart by monsters in an alien dimension.

A dark blur streaked across her fading vision—something moving too fast to track properly. The weight pinning her suddenly vanished, the quadruped monster flying backward as though struck by a wrecking ball. The sound of impact echoed across the barren landscape, followed by an inhuman shriek of pain.

Y/N rolled onto her side, blinking to clear her vision. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, she made out a familiar silhouette standing between her and the remaining monsters. Armored and imposing, his black and yellow suit gleamed in the light of the three moons, lenses reflecting the creatures' movements.

Sinister Mark.

His masked head didn't turn toward her, attention fixed on the creatures regrouping before him. His stance radiated aggressive confidence, arms hanging loose at his sides, shoulders squared beneath his dark armor. His yellow cape fluttered in the alien breeze, torn but dramatic against the wasteland backdrop.

"Stay down," he commanded, voice tight with barely contained rage. The words emerged as a snarl, every syllable vibrating with violent intent. Gone was the mechanical calm she'd heard from other variants, replaced by raw fury barely contained within human form.

The largest monster roared, the sound vibrating through Y/N's bones like a physical force. Sinister Mark didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head slightly, a wide, savage grin splitting his face beneath his lenses.

"You can't touch what's mine," he laughed, the sound cold and menacing. His body tensed, poised like a coiled spring. "My turn."

What followed wasn't just a fight—it was a massacre. Sinister Mark moved with lethal precision, each blow calculated for maximum damage. His laughter rang out with every strike, a sound of pure joy at the carnage he created. He didn't waste energy on showy techniques or unnecessary movements. His fighting style was brutally efficient, almost surgical in its application of violence.

The tentacled monster exploded in a shower of viscera as Sinister's fist punched clean through what passed for its central mass. "Too easy!" he cackled, lenses glistening with alien blood as he shook gore from his yellow glove with a flick of his wrist.

The acid-spitting creature's head separated from its body before it could unleash another chemical attack, Sinister's hand moving too fast to see properly. "Is that the best you've got?" he taunted, voice dripping with disdain as he kicked the severed head toward another approaching monster.

The quadruped that had nearly killed Y/N limped back into the fray, its body structure already realigning from the previous impact. Sinister Mark met its charge head-on, hands gripping opposing sides of its horizontally-split face. His arms tensed, muscles bunching beneath his armor.

"Let me help you with that face," he sneered and then ripped outward with a wet, tearing sound. The creature collapsed, twitching, as Sinister tossed the separated halves of its head aside, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Much better!"

The largest monster hesitated, milky eyes tracking Sinister Mark's movements with newfound wariness. It began to back away, massive feet creating small tremors with each step. Sinister leapt upward, his body a dark projectile against the alien sky. He landed atop the creature's shoulders, hands gripping what might have been its skull.

"Not so fast," he growled, spittle flying from his lips as he snarled the words. "The fun's just starting." With a single, powerful motion, he twisted until something inside the monster gave way with a sickening crack that echoed across the wasteland.

The creature's legs buckled, its massive body crashing to the ground with earth-shaking force. Sinister rode it down, maintaining his position until the last tremor had passed through its dying form. His laughter echoed across the barren landscape, the sound filled with genuine pleasure at the destruction he'd wrought.

Silence descended over the battlefield, broken only by Y/N's labored breathing and the distant calls of other monsters, wisely keeping their distance after witnessing the fate of their brethren.

Sinister Mark turned toward her, his armor spattered with multicolored fluids that dripped slowly to the ground. He approached with measured steps, his silhouette black against the alien sky. Despite having just saved her life, there was nothing reassuring about his advance.

Y/N pushed herself to a sitting position, wincing as her injuries protested the movement. Her eyes never left Sinister's face, searching for some hint of intention behind the blank lenses of his mask.

"You look like shit," he observed, voice sharp and abrupt. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he loomed over her, cape billowing around him like a shroud. "Waiting for a thank you? Or did I interrupt your suicide attempt?"

A bubble of unexpected laughter escaped Y/N's throat, the sound edged with pain and the rising tide of hysteria. "I feel like shit too," she managed, one hand pressed against a particularly deep gash across her ribs that pulsed with each heartbeat.The alien ground lay scattered with dismembered creatures, their multicolored fluids pooling beneath mangled limbs. 

Sinister folded his frame into a crouch beside her, the movement as fluid as the violence had been moments before. His yellow gloves—vibrant against the desolation surrounding them—reached toward her face, the leather catching on her skin as he tilted her chin upward. Blood transferred between them at the contact, a macabre watercolor of her own crimson mixed with the iridescent fluids of the monsters he'd torn apart with disturbing enthusiasm.

"I don't save people," he said. The words slipped from his lips like blades, sharp with an undercurrent of promised violence. Behind the black lenses of his mask, she couldn't see his eyes, but his exposed lower face betrayed him—a twisted grin spreading slowly, pulling at the corners of his mouth until teeth gleamed in the dim light. Her own battered reflection stared back at her from those obsidian lenses. "But these things don't get to have all the fun with you."

His thumb brushed across her lower lip with unexpected delicacy, leaving behind a crimson streak that stood stark against her pallor. 

He cocked his head, a gesture both predatory and curious. The movement caused a ripple through his torn cape, the yellow fabric catching what little light filtered through the alien atmosphere.

"Those idiots lost you," he continued, leaning into her space until his breath warmed her face, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of battle. "Their loss. My gain."

Y/N wrenched away from his grip, the sudden movement sending fresh waves of pain radiating through her battered body. A hiss escaped between her clenched teeth. Her hand flew instinctively to her shoulder where an acid burn throbbed beneath her torn suit, the edges blackened and still smoking faintly. The muscles in her jaw worked beneath her skin as she fought to control her expression, to hide the vulnerability the pain created.

A laugh erupted from Sinister's throat—high and untethered, his head thrown back with manic abandon. The sound echoed across the barren landscape, returning distorted and hollow.

"Still playing tough?" His body shifted closer, bringing with it the scents of battle that clung to him—a heady mixture of sweat, adrenaline, and blood. Something glittered behind the black lenses, something hungry and intent. His smile never faltered. "Reminds me of my Y/N."

Before she could react—before she could even process the possessive claim in those words—his arms slipped beneath her knees and back. He lifted her against his armored chest in one fluid motion, the metal plates cool against her torn suit. Her injured shoulder pressed against him, drawing an involuntary gasp from her lips. Her fingers clutched at his suit, seeking stability in the sudden vertigo.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" His mask remained fixed on her face, head tilting as he studied her reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. "Pain means you're still alive. Be grateful."

Without warning, he launched skyward, the sudden acceleration forcing her body against his. Her arms wrapped around his neck, instinct overriding caution. Her face pressed against his shoulder as the wasteland blurred beneath them. Three alien moons hung overhead, their overlapping shadows creating patterns of darkness across the barren landscape.

"Let me go," Y/N demanded, her voice tight with pain and anger. She pulled back just enough to meet the impassive black lenses of his mask, the wind whipping her hair across her face in wild tendrils.

A laugh vibrated through his chest, genuine in its amusement. The sound rumbled against her body where it pressed against his. "After I went through all that trouble?" His grip tightened, pulling her closer until the yellow of his gloves stood stark against her torn suit. "Besides, those things down there are probably calling their friends for round two."

In the distance, massive shapes undulated across the alien terrain, drawn by the earlier commotion. Sinister adjusted their trajectory toward a jagged rock formation rising from the wasteland. As they approached, the dark mouth of a cave became visible, a shadow deeper than the surrounding darkness.

“How sweet home~”

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☆ YAY! Okay, I hope y'all like this chapter, even though it was just build up... ☆ And mainly fluff cause the next chapter is the main course~ ☆ Good news, I already wrote the next chapter so no waiting!! ☆ Go check it out for some fun with Sinister~ ☆ Pt.8

[revelboo]

It Had to Be You

Megatron x Reader-spark

18+ 🌶️

• It’s amazing that something so precious can even be taken for granted. It’s just there, that sense of connection. Of Cybertron, a living Cybertron, being so much a part of Megatron that he never thought about it. Didn’t understand the extent. None of them had until it was too late.

• How long had it taken to feel that loss after Cybertron was dead, ravaged by their war? A spark-deep ache that echoed through them all with Cybertron’s fall. They'd all lost something they hadn't even realized could be lost. Cybertron wasn't just home- they needed that connection to their source to stabilize their sparks. Consigned to slowly fade away, growing accustomed to the loss. It becomes an old, familiar hurt. But it doesn't stop the fighting, it only fuels the hate.

• The battlefront has changed so many times. So many worlds suffering just because they arrive. He's lost track of all of the broken worlds. That first world, his, is the only one that mattered. And it had been stolen away by what had once been his friend. His brother. It didn't matter if the universe burns now. He can't stop, not when so much is already lost forever. What's one more world he won't remember?

• It’s so hot you can barely breathe, the wind whipping your hair into your face in little stinging lashes. Overhead, the sun bakes the desert, your truck, and the winding road. You'd never meant to end up here in the Midwest, but its where the money had run out in your bid for the coast. Staying hadn't been the plan, either. Everything had gone a bit sideways. You'd dreamed of the ocean, not scraggly nothingness that still somehow managed to catch on fire every year for sheer spite.

• The semitruck that overtakes you on the narrow ribbon of cracked asphalt is speeding, its engine roaring as it passes you in the left lane. In a hurry to be somewhere else. Something you could envy, but then another car, sleek and red is tearing by. And another. It's the weirdest convoy you've ever seen. A police car, several foreign cars, a couple of sports cars, an ambulance. All hellbent on keeping up with that big semi.

• You're speeding, but not nearly like they are. Maybe it's a shoot for a movie? But where are the cameras? Distracted in you musings, you still hear the screaming over your radio. A roaring shriek that makes your skin crawl, then there are jets tearing by overhead. You lean forward, staring up through the dusty windshield as the three fly by so low it’s frightening. It must be a movie. The nearest airbase is in the next state. Why hadn't they shut the road down to film, though? Unease spills through you as you ease up on the gas.

• They're running. It’s stop them now or they just go to ground again. Megatron’s played this game so many times on so many worlds and he’s so tired of it. Once Prime and his followers take alt modes, they disappear and then strike on their terms. Not this time. His Seekers tear after them, loosing a barrage of missiles as he draws near. There’s an almost giddy satisfaction in watching them swerve and dodge as he drops through the clouds, rotors humming. This form isn’t as cumbersome as his last, but it’s still new. It’s only when he releases his own missiles that he feels it.

• A flicker of something that feels like it should be familiar. Something he’s forgotten, but can almost recall. He sees it then, the truck swerving and bouncing off the road. Not an Autobot, but one of the squishy, little natives in the wrong place at the wrong time. Irrelevant, short-lived insects.

• Except, somehow he can feel their biofield pulsing in panic as they go careening. And his own spark constricts with something frightening and hungry. Responding. He’s aware of his Seekers engaging the Autobots. Transforming as he lands, he’s pulled toward that truck as it runs into the rocks and nearly goes sideways. There’s a battle around him, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside him. His spark aches. The metal roof of the truck comes away under his fingers as he stares at the little creature struggling with some sort of restraint. It’s biofield. His spark. He knows this feeling even if he can’t put a servo on it. It hurts. He needs it even as it hurts so much.

• There’s a monster. You can’t breathe and there’s a monster staring down at you from where the roof of your truck’s cab had been five minutes ago. Clawing at the seatbelt, it finally comes loose and you throw yourself at the door handle. Away. That’s all you can think of. Getting away. Things are exploding, there’s smoke, and yelling. And monsters with glowing red eyes. You fall out of the truck when the door opens and that thing is reaching for you, huge fingers snagging you as you finally catch your breath just so you can scream.

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