#training scene slow motion

[nameless-network]

i think this is the most terrified ive ever been for a minecraft server

[mooningningg]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🕳️ What to Write When You Have No Idea What Happens Next

aka: you’re staring into the creative abyss and the abyss is not only staring back, it’s asking for a rough draft

hi writer. welcome to that fun little liminal space in your project where ✨absolutely nothing✨ makes sense. you wrote the last scene. you know you’re not at the end. but suddenly your characters are just standing there like NPCs waiting for a quest marker and your brain is doing the spinning beachball of death.

so. what now?

let’s break down some actually useful strategies for when you hit That Point™️. not vibes. not ✨manifest your way out✨ energy. not the “just keep writing” slog. here’s what to do when your story is refusing to tell you what happens next:

———————————————

zoom out: do a “scene audit” ———————————————

you don’t need a full outline to do this. take five minutes and sketch a bullet list of every scene that’s happened so far. not just what happened, but why it mattered.

like this:

MC lied to their boss (sets up stakes re: trust/power)

antagonist shows up at cafe (establishes tension + location crossover)

best friend gets suspicious (emotional complication, adds pressure)

this gives you a birds-eye view of what you’ve set in motion. often you’re stuck because you’ve lost sight of the threads you were pulling, your own story has momentum, you just need to feel it again.

—————————————————————

try “ghost drafting” (aka fake writing) —————————————————————

open a doc. start typing what would happen, if you were writing. super casual. something like:

“okay i think the next scene is maybe them at the train station?? or wait--maybe we need to see the fallout of the argument. i don’t really know what x character wants rn but i think y might be planning something…”

this trick works bc it removes pressure. no fancy prose, no perfect structure. it’s literally you telling yourself what might happen. and weirdly? your brain will often finish the scene for you without asking. (the number of times I’ve ghost drafted myself into 800 usable words… witchcraft.)

——————————————————————————

pin your characters to a corkboard and interrogate them ——————————————————————————

not literally. (unless you're into that. i don’t judge.)

but seriously: when you’re stuck, it’s often because your character has no immediate goal or emotion. pause and ask:

what does this character want right now? like, in this moment?

what are they trying to avoid?

what’s keeping them from getting either?

character-driven scenes are rarely static. even if it’s just an awkward dinner or walking to the store, someone’s always trying to do or hide something. if everyone in the scene is just reacting or waiting, you’ve got fog. bring in the fire.

—————————————————

don’t skip the “boring” stuff--weaponize it —————————————————

sometimes we’re stuck because we think the next scene is dull. like “ugh i guess they just… travel to the manor” or “they regroup at the safe house.” but these slow beats are GOLD if you embed purpose.

try giving the “boring” scene:

a time limit or interruption (they’re hiding but someone knocks)

a secret (someone is lying about something small but important)

a reversal (what they expected is the opposite of what happens)

even if it’s a quiet scene, layer it. conflict isn’t just yelling or action. it’s discomfort. it’s misalignment. tension between what’s said and unsaid.

—————————————————————

when all else fails: write the next emotional beat —————————————————————

strip it back. forget plot. forget pacing. ask yourself:

then write that. a monologue. a journal entry. an outburst. a line of whispered dialogue.

sometimes it’s not that you don’t know what happens next. it’s that your character hasn’t processed what just happened, and until they do, the story can’t move forward.

✨✨✨

the void is normal. getting stuck doesn’t mean you failed or picked the wrong idea or that the muse packed up and left for a better writer’s house. it just means your brain needs space to regroup.

writing isn’t linear. stories aren’t built in perfect lines. they loop. they stall. they circle back. and that’s okay.

if you’re in the middle of nowhere, here’s your sign to sit on the side of the metaphorical road, open your weird little notebook, and write anyway. write wrong. write messy. write ghost drafts. the path shows up when you start walking.

🕳️ you got this, writer.

tag me if you end up crawling out of your stuck scene with a little victory paragraph. i’ll bring snacks for the next one 🧃✨

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[lux-astrorum]

man Road to Boston was so good

[regressionschool]

The Challenge

You’ve worked at Regression School for over a decade. You’ve seen all kinds of Littles—reluctant ones, rebellious ones, even clever manipulators who smiled sweetly and plotted potty escapes the moment your back was turned. But none—none—had ever been quite like Melanie.

She didn’t cry when she was admitted. She didn’t protest during orientation. No, Melanie had stared you down, pacifier clipped neatly to her alphabet-print shirt, and simply stayed silent.

Day one had passed uneventfully. She’d sat quietly through nap time, toddled obediently through the halls in her light-up shoes, and even colored neatly within the lines. But she hadn’t asked for the potty. Not once.

You made a note of it in her chart, just like all the others.

But day two had been… different.

The scene replays in your mind like a snapshot—Melanie in the middle of the reading circle, crinkling just slightly in her training pull-ups, legs crossed daintily and an air of defiance in her every motion. The class was quiet, listening to Miss Jenny read "The Little Bunny’s Big Day", and Melanie had shifted once… then again… and then—

A soft hiss.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Her pull-ups bloated subtly under her sundress, then darkened. You watched the creeping stain, the slow sag. By the time she stood up, it was clear—too clear.

“Oh no, sweetie,” Miss Jenny had said gently, taking her hand. “Looks like you need a change.”

Melanie’s eyes found you across the room.

It wasn’t an accident. That much was obvious.

She wanted you to see.

There wasn’t embarrassment or shame in them. Only a glint of challenge.

And so, on day three, you did what any seasoned caregiver at Regression School would do when confronted with such behavior—you removed the option for rebellion.

No more training pants. No more pull-ups. Melanie was returned from the changing room swaddled securely in a thick white medical diaper, double-taped at the hips, with a telltale yellow wetness indicator running down the center.

She didn’t say a word about it.

But her eyes found yours again.

Still challenging.

Still daring you.

You called her to your office after lunch. Not because of misbehavior—she’d followed every rule to the letter—but because you needed to understand her. Littles who gave up too easily were boring. Ones who resisted forever were exhausting. But Melanie… she was something else.

The door to your office clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. Melanie didn’t flinch. She didn’t even glance at the plush pastel posters or the stack of reward stickers lined up like medals on your shelf.

She flopped into the chair across from your desk with practiced ease, legs parting carelessly, the thick white diaper beneath her riding high and proud, crinkling as she settled in.

“Well?” she asked, eyes steady on yours. “Gonna give me another sticker for coloring inside the lines?”

You folded your hands on the desk.

“No,” you replied, voice calm but firm. “That’s not the point. Most Littles need days—sometimes weeks—before they finally let go. They cling to their old habits, clutching at that last shred of potty training like it’s sacred. But you…” You let your eyes travel down briefly to the faint yellow bloom beginning to show on her diaper. “You gave it up from the start.”

Melanie didn’t look away. But the corner of her mouth twitched half amusement, half bitterness.

“So what do you want?” she asked, voice low and cool, though her fingers fidgeted slightly on the soft pink arms of the chair. “A tantrum? Some tears? You won’t get them.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her.

“Why you’ve surrendered so easily… but still look at me like you're winning.”

That cracked something. A flicker behind her eyes. She sighed and reached up to brush a lock of auburn hair off her cheek, the pacifier bouncing lightly on its clip.

“You think I had a choice?” she said finally. “We both know what Regression School is. No one gets enrolled and leaves with their potty training intact."

“So that’s it, then?” you asked softly, watching her shift again in the chair. “You’re just going to go along with it? Play the perfect Little, as long as you get to pretend you’re still in control?”

Melanie’s eyes sparked again, her lips curling—not sweetly, not submissively, but with a slyness that could cut.

“I never said I was pretending.”

The silence was punctuated only by the quiet hum of the overhead fan. And then—

She shifted her weight with deliberate slowness, planting her feet on either side of the plush chair, knees spread wide. The pacifier on her clip bobbed gently with the motion. Her hands slid to the cushioned arms, steadying herself, and her gaze never left yours.

Then came the sound.

It started soft. A barely audible grunt from Melanie, low and unhurried, followed by a sudden crackle, muffled by layers of thick padding. Her brow furrowed slightly, not in discomfort, but focus. A long, hot breath escaped her lips, and the unmistakable squish and squelch of her diaper filling echoed faintly between the walls.

You watched as the pristine white bulk beneath her dress puffed outward at the back, sagging visibly, discoloring slightly around the edges. The wetness indicator had already begun to blur from yellow to green, but now—now it was joined by a bulging distortion that left no doubt. The smell followed quickly, sweet and sour, familiar.

And Melanie?

She grinned.

“Oops,” she said, voice syrup-sweet and mock-innocent. “Guess I really am settling in.”

You stared at her, half in disbelief and half in awe.

Most Littles hid it the first few times. Curled up, covered their faces, whimpered. But Melanie—Melanie leaned back, legs spread, a fresh mess ballooning softly in the seat of her now thoroughly used diaper, sagging and squishing as she shifted her hips just a little more.

“This what you wanted to see?” she whispered.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because this—this wasn't surrender. It wasn’t defeat.

It was power.

And Melanie knew it.

“Well,” you said finally, rising from your seat and circling your desk slowly. “I think it’s time for a fresh diaper, little one.”

Melanie just smiled wider, utterly unashamed. “Then you better bring the thick ones. I don’t think I’m done yet.”

She wasn’t embarrassed.

She wasn’t broken.

She was in control of this, of you, of the moment.

[i2rizz]

No Way He Pulled That

Synopsis-No one believed Bachira had a girlfriend-until they saw you, effortlessly stunning at the beach.

|masterlist

->|masterlist #2

The scorching sun beamed down on the golden sands of the beach, reflecting off the crystal-clear waves lapping at the shore. It was the perfect day for a break from the grueling training at the Neo Egoist League, and the Blue Lock boys were ready to unwind. The air buzzed with laughter, the scent of salt and sunscreen mixing in the breeze as the players staked out their territory along the coast.

And then there was Bachira.

"You guys don't believe me when I say I have a girlfriend?" Meguru huffed, kicking at the sand. "You’ll see! She’s real! And she’s amazing!"

The rest of the players groaned. They'd heard this a hundred times before. Rin scoffed, arms crossed over his chest, while Kaiser smirked with an expression that screamed, "Sure, buddy"

"Bachira, we've known you for years," Isagi chuckled. "If you had a girlfriend, we'd know"

"Yeah, just admit it, you’re making it up for attention," Sae quipped lazily, adjusting his sunglasses. (Js pretend he's also in the NEL or smth)

"Oh yeah? LOOK OVER THERE!" Bachira suddenly shouted, pointing wildly toward the volleyball courts.

All heads snapped in the direction he indicated, and suddenly, the playful chatter among them fell silent.

There, in the middle of a heated game of beach volleyball, stood the very definition of summer beauty. You.

The sunlight kissed your skin, accentuating every perfect curve. Dressed in a fitted bikini top that left little to the imagination, paired with barely-there shorts with the strings of your swimwear peeking out, you exuded effortless confidence. Your hair cascaded in tousled waves, a few strands sticking to your sun-kissed cheeks. A small sheen of sweat clung to your collarbones as you moved with ease, toned legs flexing as you chased after the ball. Every step was like something out of a slow-motion movie scene.

And then—the ball bounced right at your feet. You bent down, arching your back slightly as you picked it up, completely unaware of the jaw-dropping spectacle you had just caused.

A sharp inhale passed through the group.

"No. Fucking. Way," Kaiser murmured, visibly shaken.

Sae’s cool façade cracked just slightly, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Rin’s arms fell from his chest, his fingers twitching at his sides as if trying to process what he was seeing. Isagi had forgotten to breathe.

"She's—she’s unreal," Chigiri whispered, shaking his head like he was seeing a mirage.

Meanwhile, Barou just clicked his tongue. "Tch. There’s no way Bachira pulled that"

And then—then you looked up, locking eyes with Bachira, and a slow, breathtaking smile stretched across your lips. With effortless grace, you strode toward him, the sunlight illuminating your every move.

The guys stood frozen as you reached Bachira, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a quick but affectionate hug. Before they could even process that, you placed a soft, playful kiss against his cheek.

"Hey, Meguru. Missed me?" you said, voice smooth like honey.

A shit-eating grin spread across Bachira’s face. "Told you, boys. My girlfriend’s the real deal!"

Silence.

Pure, stunned silence.

And then—

"EXCUSE ME?!" Kaiser practically screeched, gripping his hair in disbelief.

"No, this has to be some kind of social experiment," Isagi muttered, looking personally victimized.

Sae was still silent, lips slightly parted as he processed what he had just witnessed. Rin, on the other hand, had turned away completely, face twitching as he glared at the sea as if it had personally offended him.

Barou clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Bullshit. What kind of witchcraft did you use, Bachira?"

"HAHA! The power of my monster, obviously!" Bachira cackled, wrapping an arm around your waist with unfiltered pride.

Chigiri blinked. "Are we in an alternate timeline?"

Gagamaru just nodded solemnly. "We have to be"

Meanwhile, you simply looked at all of them, lips twitching in amusement. "So, you guys didn’t believe Meguru?"

"WE STILL DON'T!" They all shouted in unison, still unable to process the reality before them.

But as you laughed and pressed another teasing kiss to Bachira’s cheek, there was no denying the truth:

Bachira Meguru had, indeed, pulled the hottest girlfriend they had ever seen. And it was breaking their brains.

[shelovesosa]

Toji Drabble.

Taking care of you while on your period.

a/n: I’m on my period and I need a man with a bush.

The cramps hit like a truck that morning.

You’d barely opened your eyes before you curled into yourself with a groan, arms wrapping around your stomach, legs tangled in the sheets. The sky outside was still gray, a slow drizzle tapping against the windows. You didn’t have the energy to move, and you didn’t need to—because Toji was already up.

He’d noticed the moment you shifted under the blankets.

“Again?” he murmured, voice low and raspy from sleep, his hand brushing your shoulder as he leaned over you.

You let out a weak hum, your face scrunching with discomfort. “Mm-hmm. Day one.”

Toji sighed softly, and you thought he’d complain or tease you—he always joked about how dramatic you got—but instead, he tugged the blankets back up over you and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t move,” he said gruffly, already rolling out of bed in his sweatpants and that stupid white tank he always wore.

A few minutes later, you could smell something warm. Cinnamon? He came back balancing a heating pad, your favorite snacks, and a hot mug of chamomile tea.

You blinked. “You made tea?”

“It’s in a Totoro mug, too,” he said dryly, setting it down on your nightstand. “Show some respect.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little. “When did you become the Period Whisperer?”

Toji just gave you a look, eyes soft despite his usual gruffness. “I live with you. I pay attention.”

He tucked the heating pad gently under your hoodie, careful not to press too hard against your sore belly. When you winced, he paused. “Too hot?”

“No, it’s perfect…”

He slid under the covers beside you, pulling you into his side. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back while the other played with your fingers.

“You wanna watch somethin’?”

You nodded, and a few clicks later, the theme song to Nana echoed softly from the TV at the foot of the bed.

Toji groaned immediately. “This anime is so stupid.”

You smiled.

“You say that every time, and yet here you are.”

“Because you get all sad and dramatic if you’re not watching your punk girl soap opera.”

“It’s art,” you said with a sniffle.

“It’s two girls cryin’ in slow motion every episode.”

He still watched it with you anyway, even adjusted the volume so it wouldn’t bother your head. When you shifted again and winced, his hand came back to your stomach, gently rubbing in circles. You let out a soft sigh of relief and leaned back against his chest.

"Better?" he asked, voice quieter now, like he was afraid too much sound might make it worse.

"Yeah... thanks, Toji."

He kissed the top of your head.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled, right as the scene cut to Hachi crying dramatically on a train.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, “Do you think we’re more like Nana and Ren or Nana and Hachi?”

Toji just stared at you. “…I think you need to stop watching this shit when you’re in pain.”

But he tightened his arm around you. And didn’t change the channel.

As the rain drummed against the windows and the pain dulled under his warmth, you drifted off with your head on his chest. And even though Toji was far from the mushy type, he stayed perfectly still the whole time—so you could sleep, so the cramps wouldn’t wake you again, so you'd know without a doubt:

Even the toughest guys have a soft spot. And yours just happened to bring you tea in a Totoro mug.

[gf2bellamy]

hello!

I sent a request some time ago but not sure if you saw it 💞could you do one where the reader is the one infected with anthrax instead of reid? maybe they are already a official couple? or not- whichever is fine. Fluffy at the end 💞bonus points for Hotch worried for both of them

Thanks love!

anthrax — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is infected with anthrax , mention of being dizzy and exhausted , mention of fever, mention of nasal cannula, reader passing out , reader ends up in hospital a/n: hiii!!! i'm so sorry it took so long <3 also i rewatched the scenes on youtube ( instead of the entire ep ) so if i got something wrong i'm vv sorry !! hope you like this :)

Spencer frowned, mid-sentence, his words faltering. "What do—" He turned instinctively, expecting to see you beside him. But you weren’t there.

His stomach twisted as he spun in place, scanning the area. Derek was a few steps away on the sidewalk, wearing the same confused expression. You had been right there just moments ago.

Then Spencer's gaze snapped to the house. The front door was swinging shut.

He surged forward, reaching the door just as it latched shut. His hands pressed flat against the wood before he fumbled with the handle, rattling it frantically.

“Hey! What are you doing?” His voice wavered as he rattled the door handle, his hazel eyes wide with panic. He could see you clearly through the glass pane. 

Derek was right behind him now. “Open the door. What the hell are you doing?” His voice was demanding, but Spencer could hear the underlying fear laced in it. 

That’s when he saw it. 

The small, shattered vial on the floor. 

Tiny, glimmering shards of broken glass spread across the tile, barely catching the light. But Spencer didn't care about the glass—he cared about what had been inside of it. 

Anthrax. 

The realization hit him like a freight train. His mind, always so quick, always analyzing, now felt sluggish, as though he were processing everything in slow motion. 

The room you were in had been compromised. You had inhaled it. 

“No,” Spencer whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. 

His hands pressed against the cool surface of the glass, as if he could reach through it and pull you back to him. Derek muttered a curse under his breath, his jaw tightening, but even he knew—there was nothing either of them could do. Not right now. 

You swallowed hard, blinking up at Spencer. He could see the fear in your eyes, the resignation settling in. 

"I’m sorry," you murmured. 

A lump formed in his throat. His fingers curled into fists against the door. 

“Don’t. Don’t say that.” His voice cracked. “You’re going to be okay. We can fix this. We can—” 

Your lips trembled, and though you tried to smile, it faltered. 

Spencer had never felt so helpless in his entire life. His mind screamed at him to think, to find a solution, to do something.But for the first time, he had no answer. 

And that terrified him. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? An hour? The room felt both too hot and too cold at the same time. Your head rested against the door, your body slumped slightly as exhaustion settled into your bones. You weren’t in pain, but you felt weak—like all the energy had slowly been draining out of you. 

Through the glass, Spencer was still there. 

He hadn’t moved an inch. 

Derek had tried—more than once—to get him to step away, but Spencer refused. His back was pressed against the door, his knees pulled up as he sat on the floor, staring at you like if he blinked, you might disappear entirely. 

“I’m not leaving,” he had said, voice quiet. And that was that. 

You exhaled softly, letting your fingers trace invisible patterns against the cool surface of the glass. Spencer noticed immediately. His gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your face. 

“You’re sweating,” he murmured, concern evident in every syllable. 

You gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. I guess breathing in bioweapons does that to a person.” 

Spencer frowned. “That’s not funny.” 

“Little funny,” you teased, tilting your head to look at him. 

He sighed, but you could see the slight twitch of his lips, like he wanted to scold you and smile at the same time.

A comfortable silence settled between you two, despite the chaos unfolding around you.

“You’re okay,” he said suddenly, more to himself than to you. “Your symptoms aren’t progressing rapidly. That’s… that’s a good sign.” 

You raised a brow. “You’re diagnosing me through a glass door now, Doctor Reid?” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Actually, rapid-onset symptoms from inhalation of anthrax typically appear within a few hours. Since you’re only experiencing mild weakness and slight sweating, it’s possible that the exposure was minimal. And if that’s the case, early treatment should be highly effective—” 

“Spence,” you interrupted gently. 

He stopped rambling. 

Your voice was softer this time. “I know you’re scared.” 

His eyes darted away for a split second, but then he sighed and met your gaze again. “Of course I am,” he admitted. “I—” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before resting his palm against the door, mirroring your position. “I can’t lose you.” 

Warmth spread through your chest, even as your body trembled slightly from exhaustion. 

“You won’t.” 

You weren’t sure if it was the truth or just something to comfort him, but you needed him to believe it. And maybe, just maybe, you needed to believe it, too. 

Spencer took a slow, shaky breath. “Just… keep talking to me, okay? Stay awake.” 

You smiled. “Only if you promise to stay with me.” 

His eyes softened, his fingers twitching slightly against the glass. 

“I promise.” 

Your body felt heavier now. The exhaustion was creeping in faster than before, and you could see the way Spencer’s expression kept shifting—his mind was racing, cataloging every symptom, analyzing every possible outcome. You knew what he was doing. He was trying to calculate how much time you had, how bad it would get. 

You couldn’t let him spiral. 

“Spence,” you said, voice softer than before. You blinked a few times, trying to focus, forcing yourself to sit up straighter. He immediately caught on, his hands pressing against the glass like he could hold you up through sheer willpower alone. 

“I’m here,” he reassured, but his voice was tight. 

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Do you remember our first date?” 

Spencer’s forehead creased. “Why—why are you bringing that up right now?” 

“Because I want to talk about something good,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, “and because I want you to stop staring at me like I’m a math equation with a really bad solution.” 

Spencer’s lips parted like he wanted to argue, but then he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not how I look at you.” 

“Little bit,” you teased. 

He sighed, but his shoulders relaxed—just a fraction. “Of course I remember our first date.” 

You smiled, waiting for him to continue. He shifted slightly, his eyes flickering over you, still scanning, still worried. But he played along, just like you wanted. 

“I was terrified,” he admitted after a beat. 

Your brows lifted. “You were terrified?” 

“More than you could ever imagine,” he said, his lips twitching at the memory. “I had wanted to ask you out for months, but every time I got close, I chickened out. Then one day, you just—” 

“I made the first move,” you finished for him, grinning. 

Spencer rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. “You didn’t ask me out. You just—assumed we were going on a date.” 

You laughed, though it was weaker than usual. “Because I knew you wanted to. You weren’t exactly subtle.” 

“I thought I was,” Spencer muttered. 

“You were not.” 

His cheeks flushed slightly, and even though you felt awful, you still found the energy to appreciate how endearing he was. “Okay, fine. But that didn’t make the date any less nerve-wracking.” 

You hummed. “Yeah? What part was the worst?” 

Spencer barely hesitated. “When I spilled coffee all over my shirt before we even sat down.” 

You giggled, your fingers tapping lightly against the glass. “I remember that. You looked so horrified.” 

“I was mortified,” he corrected. “And then you just… laughed. Not at me, but—you laughed like it was the best thing that had happened all day.” 

You grinned. “Because it was adorable. You were so worried about being perfect, but I already liked you, Spence. The coffee disaster just made you even cuter.” 

Spencer exhaled a slow breath, his eyes studying you. The warmth of the memory had softened the tension in his face, but not entirely. “I didn’t think you could like me back,” he admitted quietly. “Not like that.” 

Your chest ached—not from the anthrax, but from him. 

You pressed your palm against the glass, mirroring his. “I always liked you. I was just waiting for you to catch up.” 

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “God, I love you.” 

Your breath hitched, just slightly. Even though you’d heard those words before, they always felt brand new coming from him. You let them settle in your heart.

“Good,” you whispered, your eyelids growing heavier. “Because I really, really love you too.” 

Spencer noticed immediately. The slight droop in your posture, the way your blinks lasted just a second too long. His body tensed. 

“No, hey, stay with me,” he urged, his voice sharper now. “You have to stay awake.” 

You forced a smile, tilting your head against the door. “I’m still here, Spence. Just a little tired.” 

Spencer’s jaw clenched. He turned his head sharply toward the nearest agent. “Where the hell is the medical team?” 

“They’re almost here,” someone answered. 

“Not fast enough,” Spencer muttered under his breath before looking back at you. His fingers curled into fists against the glass. “You have to stay with me.” 

“I will,” you promised, though you weren’t entirely sure you had a say in it. 

Spencer sucked in a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Tell me more about our first date.” 

You blinked up at him. “You remember it all.” 

“Tell me anyway.” His voice cracked. 

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “Okay,” you whispered, gripping onto his voice like a lifeline. “We got ice cream after coffee. You ordered vanilla.” 

Spencer exhaled a small laugh. “It was the safest option.” 

“And then I let you try mine, and you hated it.” 

“It was mango,” he scoffed. “It tasted like… tropical regret.” 

You giggled again, your body sagging just slightly more against the door. Spencer noticed. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach through the glass and pull you up, hold you steady. 

“Keep going,” he urged desperately. 

You blinked. “We… we sat at the park for hours.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded sleepily. “You kept talking about stars.” 

Spencer swallowed thickly. “Because I wanted to impress you.” 

“You already had.” You smiled softly, the memory flickering in your mind like an old film reel.

"Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?" 

Spencer's lips parted, his brows knitting together as he searched his mind. He was stalling. 

"You do," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper. "You just don’t want to admit how ridiculous it was." 

A faint blush crept up his neck. "It wasn’t ridiculous." 

You let out a weak chuckle. "Spence. You said it because you were delirious from a fever." 

Spencer groaned, tipping his head back against the door for a brief second before looking at you again. "It still counts," he muttered defensively. 

You grinned, the exhaustion pressing heavy on your limbs, but you fought to stay awake—if only to see the way his ears turned pink at the memory. 

"You were so stubborn," you mused. "You refused to admit you were sick, and then, the second I forced you to lay down, you grabbed my hand and just—" 

"I love you," Spencer murmured, finishing the sentence before you could. 

You blinked at him. 

"You didn’t even remember saying it the next morning," you reminded him, smiling despite the heaviness weighing down on you. 

Spencer huffed. "That part was unfortunate." 

"I don’t know," you teased. "I kind of liked getting to tell you that you'd confessed your love to me in the middle of a fever dream." 

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers twitched against the glass, his entire body taut with barely restrained panic. 

"Tell me more," he said suddenly. 

You blinked. "About what?" 

"Anything. Everything. Just keep talking." 

He was trying to keep you awake. 

You knew it. 

But you didn’t argue. 

You smiled softly and whispered, "Okay," before slipping into another story, your voice carrying through the glass like a lifeline. Spencer held onto every single word. 

At some point, though, Spencer had to move when the medical team came rushing in. You barely registered it—just the sound of frantic voices, the distant feeling of your body being dragged into motion. You were barely holding on, your eyes fluttering shut despite Spencer calling your name. 

Then— 

Water. Cold, drenching, shocking. 

You remembered that much. The hazmat team had hosed you down. There was vague, fleeting awareness—Spencer shouting at someone about being gentle with you, the sting of something against your skin, and then— 

You were drenched, clothes clinging to your frame, hair plastered to your face, looking equal parts miserable and very out of it. 

Then—nothing. 

When you woke up, everything felt… hazy. Heavy. Your body ached, your limbs stiff as if you’d been asleep for days. A nasal cannula rested under your nose, cool oxygen flowing through it, making each breath feel easier. 

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the hospital room. The beeping of monitors filled the space, and— 

Spencer. 

He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, staring into the air, his hands clasped together tightly. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his usually neat curls disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. 

“Spencer?” 

Your voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but the second it reached him, he jolted upright. His head snapped toward you, his breath catching in his throat as he stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. 

For a moment, he just stared down at you, his hazel eyes wide, disbelieving—like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if his mind was playing some cruel trick on him. 

Then, in a rush, his hand was on yours, gripping tightly, his fingers trembling slightly. 

“You’re awake,” he breathed, like he had been holding those words in his chest for hours. 

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hey, Spence.” 

He let out a choked breath, his free hand pushing through his hair, trying to keep himself together. 

“You—God, you scared me,” he whispered, his voice raw. 

Your fingers twitched against his, a weak attempt to squeeze his hand. “Sorry.” 

Spencer let out something between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then you gestured vaguely toward the hospital bed. “So… can I get a hug, or are you just going to stand there looking like a lost puppy?”

Spencer hesitated, his eyes flickering to the monitors and wires surrounding you. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not made of glass. Hug me.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He leaned down carefully, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace. You sighed, melting into him, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He smelled like coffee and antiseptic, and his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, but you didn’t care.

“I was so scared,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair.

You tightened your grip on him as much as your weakened body would allow. “I know. But I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

Spencer pulled back slightly, his brows furrowed. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You stayed with me,” you said simply, your voice soft. “That’s not nothing.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, and he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

“And you didn’t,” you said, smiling up at him, though your smile wavered slightly as you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

You watched him carefully, taking in every little detail—the way his fingers curled tightly around yours, the lingering fear in his eyes, the exhaustion weighing down his entire body. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“How long?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away for a moment before meeting yours again. “20 hours.”

Your chest tightened. No wonder he looked like he hadn’t slept.

“You stayed?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course I did.”

You let his words settle over you, the warmth of them sinking into your skin. Slowly, you turned your hand, just enough to thread your fingers through his. His grip tightened instantly.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the fatigue pulling at you.

Spencer exhaled shakily, nodding, but his eyes betrayed him—he was still scared.

“Yeah,” he whispered, squeezing your hand like he needed to convince himself. “You are.” And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he finally let himself believe it.

The door creaked open, and both of you turned to see Hotch stepping into the room. His usual stoic expression softened slightly as his eyes landed on you.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of relief. “How are you feeling?”

You managed a small smile. “Like I got hit by a truck, but… I’ll live.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze flickering to Spencer for a moment before returning to you. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“Sorry about that,” you said, your tone light. “I’ll try to avoid inhaling bioweapons in the future.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you were likely to get from him. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused, his expression growing more serious. “The medical team said you’re responding well to treatment.”

You nodded, feeling a small weight lift off your chest. “That’s good to hear.”

Hotch glanced at Spencer again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the young agent’s disheveled appearance. “Reid, when was the last time you slept?”

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I, uh… I’m not sure.”

Hotch sighed. “Go home. Get some rest. I’ll stay with her.”

Spencer shook his head immediately, his grip on your hand tightening. “No. I’m not leaving.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “You’re no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion. Go home, shower, eat something, and then you can come back.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off.

“He’s right, Spence,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Go take care of yourself. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Spencer hesitated, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he finally relented with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m coming back as soon as I can.”

You smiled. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Hotch stepped aside as Spencer reluctantly stood, his movements slow and stiff. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before straightening up and heading for the door.

Once he was gone, Hotch moved closer to your bed. “He didn’t leave your side the entire time,” he said quietly. “Not even when the medical team told him to.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, but you swallowed it down, nodding. “I know.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re important to him. To all of us. Take care of yourself.”

You smiled faintly. “I will. Thanks, Hotch.”

He nodded once, his usual stoic demeanor returning. “Get some rest. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

As he left the room, you leaned back against the pillows, letting out a long breath, as you fell asleep once again.

And when Spencer returned an hour later, looking significantly more put together and carrying a cup of coffee for you (decaf, because he insisted), you couldn’t help but smile.

“Miss me?” he asked, setting the coffee on the table beside your bed.

“Always,” you said, reaching for his hand.

[rootedinrevisions]

Through the Wreckage

SUMMARY: When a devastating tornado tears through town, Tyler Owens faces his worst nightmare: the woman he loves is missing. Tyler is thrust into a desperate search through the wreckage to find her. As the storm's aftermath unfolds, it forces him to confront his fears, regrets, and hopes for the future.

A/N: So got inspired for this after watching Twisters earlier today. Just the anguish that we saw from Tyler when he realized Kate was driving into the tornado made me wonder what would happen if the person he loved was missing or in danger. Hence where we ended up here.

WARNINGS: Destruction (ie: a tornado hit so damaged buildings, smoke, dust, sparks, etc.), Blood, Minor Injuries.

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

The tires screeched as Tyler pulled up to the scene, gravel crunching beneath his truck. He barely shifted into park before throwing the door open and jumping out. His boots hit the ground with a thud, and the first thing his eyes locked on was the building—partially collapsed, its front wall completely gone. The inside was exposed like a broken shell, with beams hanging at jagged angles and smoke or dust curling into the air from where drywall and bricks had crumbled. His heart sank like a stone in his chest. This wasn’t good.

Behind him, Boone’s truck came to a stop, followed by Dani, Dexter, and Lily piling out of their vehicles. Tyler barely registered the sound of their voices calling his name as they ran toward him. His world had narrowed to the destruction in front of him, and one thought pounded in his mind: She’s in there.

Pulling his phone from his pocket with shaking hands, Tyler checked the last location pinged from your phone. His stomach twisted. It matched this address. He swallowed hard, the weight of dread pressing down on him as his eyes scanned the crowd of people that had been pulled from the building and huddled together on the other side of the street. His pulse quickened as he searched for you, desperate for even a glimpse of your face. But you weren’t there.

“Tyler, man, slow down,” Boone said, gripping his shoulder as he came up beside him. “Let’s figure out what’s going on—”

“She’s not out here,” Tyler cut him off, his voice tight and raw. “She’s not with them.” He gestured toward the crowd of people being tended to by paramedics. 

His chest heaved as the realization hit him like a freight train: You were still inside.

Without another word, he turned and made a beeline toward the first responders standing near the edge of the debris. His strides were long and determined, his jaw set in grim determination as he ignored Boone’s calls to slow down. 

The closer he got, the more chaos surrounded him. The air smelled of smoke and damp concrete, and the sound of crackling debris mixed with shouts from firefighters. But none of it mattered.

“Did everyone get out?” Tyler shouted, his voice hoarse as he reached the nearest firefighter. “Did you see a woman—about this tall, light hair?” He motioned frantically, his green eyes darting around. 

He already knew the answer from their hesitant expressions, but he refused to accept it.

“Sir,” one of them started, stepping forward, “it’s not safe—we weren’t able to get to everyone.”

“Where. Is. She?” Tyler growled, his frustration boiling over. His voice cracked, raw with fear and desperation. “Her phone’s still pinging from here! I need to know if she made it out!”

Another firefighter shook his head grimly. “We’re still doing sweeps, but the building’s unstable. Most of the front wall came down in the collapse. We can’t risk—”

“Bullshit!” Tyler snapped, cutting him off as he took a step toward the wreckage.

Boone and Dexter were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms to hold him back.

“Tyler, don’t,” Boone urged, his voice low and firm. “You can’t go in there, man. It’s not safe. They’ll handle it.”

“She’s in there!” Tyler shouted, wrenching free from their grip. His voice cracked as he pointed toward the ruined building. “I know she is, Boone! I’m not waiting around while they do their sweeps!” His voice was shaking now, and for a moment, the raw emotion broke through his resolve. His chest heaved, his shoulders trembling as he ran a hand over his face, trying to block out the fear clawing at his mind.

The building groaned, a deep, unsettling sound that warned of further collapse. Tyler’s eyes darted toward it, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. 

If you were inside, he wasn’t about to stand by and let the clock run out.

“I’m going in,” he muttered under his breath, and before anyone could stop him, he broke into a sprint toward the wreckage.

“Sir! Stop! You can’t go in there!” a firefighter yelled, his voice sharp with authority.

Another called out, “It’s too dangerous! The structure’s not stable!”

But Tyler didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The sound of boots pounding behind him told him Boone or Dexter was probably trying to catch him, but he didn’t care. All he could see was the shattered entrance ahead, the gaping maw of destruction that had swallowed you whole.

As he crossed the threshold, the air inside hit him like a wall—thick with dust and smoke, making it hard to breathe. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, squinting to see through the haze. The floor was littered with debris—chunks of drywall, splintered wood, and jagged shards of glass. Wires hung loose from the ceiling, some sparking as they dangled.

The creak of shifting metal echoed through the space, and Tyler froze for a moment, his eyes darting upward. A beam groaned overhead, threatening to give way. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to move, stepping carefully over a fallen section of wall.

“Darlin’,” he shouted, his voice hoarse and strained. “Where are you?”

His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the wreckage, his eyes darting from one pile of debris to the next. The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of sparks or the distant shouts of first responders outside.

“Come on, darlin’. Give me something,” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He tried to focus, to ignore the dread clawing at the edges of his mind.

Tyler’s boot crunched on something, and he looked down to see a broken picture frame, the glass shattered across the floor. Around it were scattered papers, children’s drawings, and a few books covered in dust. He swallowed hard, the small remnants of normal life a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

Pushing forward, he weaved through the destruction, stepping over overturned chairs and avoiding the sharp edges of broken furniture. The air grew hotter the deeper he went, the faint smell of something burning making his stomach churn.

And then he saw it.

A shoe.

Tyler’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized it—your shoe, half-buried beneath a pile of rubble. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees as his shaking hands reached for it.

“Sweetheart?” he called, his voice breaking. He tossed aside chunks of drywall and splintered wood, the sharp edges cutting into his palms. Blood smeared across the debris as he worked, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to you.

Finally, he uncovered your leg, and his heart seized. You were pinned beneath the debris, your body motionless. Dust and grime streaked your face, and your hair was tangled with bits of plaster.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers were gentle, but his hands shook uncontrollably.

Leaning closer, he pressed his fingers to the side of your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. And then he felt it—a faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips.

Relief flooded him, and a choked sob escaped his lips. 

“Thank God,” he breathed. “I’ve got you, darlin’. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

At the sound of his voice, you stirred faintly, your head shifting against the debris that cradled it. The faintest groan escaped your lips, so quiet he almost missed it. Tyler froze, his heart skipping a beat as his eyes shot to your face.

“Darlin’?” He said, his voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear. He cupped your face with one dirt-streaked hand, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Hey, hey, it’s me. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Your brow furrowed slightly, and your lips moved, though no sound came out at first. He leaned closer, his ear inches from your face.

“Ty...” The broken syllable fell from your lips like a lifeline, and his chest ached at the sound of it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly, just barely cracking open, but it was enough. Enough to send relief crashing over him in a wave so powerful it left him dizzy.

“Oh, thank God,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip yours. He squeezed it gently, willing his strength into you. “Stay with me. Keep those eyes on me, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

You tried to say something else, your voice a faint whisper he couldn’t quite make out. He shook his head, tears pricking his eyes as he crouched lower to meet your gaze.

“Don’t try to talk,” he urged softly. “Just save your strength, darlin’. I’m getting you out of here. Just stay with me, okay? That’s all I need you to do. Stay with me.”

The faintest flicker of a nod came from you, but it was enough to shatter the fragile composure he’d been clinging to. His free hand pressed to his mouth as he choked back a sob, his chest heaving with the weight of his fear and relief.

The building groaned again, a deep, ominous sound that sent a shiver down his spine. He knew he didn’t have much time. He slid his arms beneath you, cradling you against his chest as he stood.

With you in his arms, Tyler turned toward the exit, his focus unwavering despite the chaos around him. All that mattered was getting you out of here alive.

Tyler adjusted his grip on you, holding you closer as he stepped carefully over the uneven ground. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The air inside the building was suffocating. Smoke and dust hung thick like a heavy fog, clawing at his lungs with every breath. His throat burned, and each inhale felt like dragging sandpaper across raw skin. He coughed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before forcing them open again. He couldn’t lose focus—not now.

Sparks rained down from a severed electrical wire overhead, the sharp sting biting into the exposed skin of his arms. He flinched, gritting his teeth as the acrid smell of singed fabric filled the air. 

“Stay with me, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough and desperate as he looked down at you. “We’re almost out of here.”

Your body shifted slightly in his arms, and a soft, raspy cough escaped your lips. Tyler’s heart jumped at the sound. Panic surged through him, as he saw how shallow your breathing was.

“You still with me?” He called, his voice cracking. “Hey, can you hear me? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You coughed again, your eyelids fluttering briefly but not opening. A weak, almost inaudible groan escaped you.

“That’s it,” Tyler said, his tone urgent but soft like he was coaxing you back to him. “You’re doing good. Just keep breathing for me, okay? We’re getting out of here.”

He stumbled slightly as the ground beneath him shifted—a section of flooring sagging under the weight of the debris. Tyler’s knees buckled for a moment, and he tightened his grip on you, his heart racing.

“Dammit,” he muttered, steadying himself before pressing forward.

The building groaned around him, the sound of metal twisting and concrete cracking growing louder. He could feel time running out.

Another section of ceiling collapsed behind him, sending a fresh plume of dust into the air. Tyler ducked instinctively, shielding you as debris rained down. A sharp edge grazed the back of his neck, and he winced, but he didn’t stop moving.

The exit was just ahead—a faint sliver of light visible through the haze. Tyler pushed toward it, his legs trembling with exertion. His vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges as the lack of clean air began to take its toll.

His steps faltered, and he coughed violently, nearly doubling over. For a moment, he thought his legs might give out, but then he felt a small, trembling hand against his chest. Your hand gripped weakly at his shirt, your head lolling slightly against his shoulder.

“T-Tyler...” you rasped, your voice barely audible. 

His breath hitched, and he forced himself to keep moving. 

“I’m here,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ve got you, darlin’. Just hang on.”

The exit grew closer, but the smoke thickened, clawing at his throat and lungs. Tyler stumbled again, his knees hitting the floor as his body screamed for oxygen.

“No,” he growled, shaking his head as he clutched you tighter. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the way his legs trembled beneath him.

The light from the exit grew brighter, and he could hear the distant shouts of first responders outside. They sounded muffled like he was underwater, but it gave him just enough hope to keep going.

Sparks rained down again, burning his exposed arms and neck, but Tyler turned his body to shield you, hunching over as he pushed through the final stretch. His back felt like it was on fire, the fabric of his shirt sticking to blistering skin, but he didn’t slow down.

Finally, he broke through the haze, stumbling out onto the pavement. The fresh air hit him like a punch to the chest, and he gasped, his knees giving out as he sank to the ground.

“Help! Somebody—” he coughed violently, his voice raw and barely audible. “Somebody help her!”

Paramedics rushed toward him, but Tyler’s focus was on you. Your face was pale, streaked with dust and sweat, but your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He reached up to brush a trembling hand against your cheek, his fingers stained with soot and blood.

“Stay with me, sweetheart. You’re safe now.” He whispered, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes. 

Tyler cradled you in his arms, his knees rooted to the pavement as the chaos of the world around him blurred into background noise. His only focus was you.

Your head lolled weakly against his chest, and your breaths were growing more shallow and uneven by the minute. A fresh wave of panic crashed over him as your eyelids fluttered, threatening to close.

“Hey,” he called softly, his voice trembling. “No, no, darlin’, stay with me. Look at me.”

Your eyes opened slightly, your gaze unfocused as you struggled to lift your head.

“I… can’t,” you murmured, the words barely audible.

“Yes, you can,” he said, his tone firm but full of emotion. “You’re not quittin’ on me now, you hear me?”

You coughed softly, your body trembling in his arms. Tyler adjusted his grip, pulling you closer as if he could shield you from the pain and the fear.

“We have plans, remember?” His voice cracked as he spoke, tears welling in his eyes. “Dinner tonight, just you and me. You told me you wanted to get dressed up, and said I needed to wear that tie you like. I’m not lettin’ you out of that, sweetheart. You still owe me a dance.”

A weak smile tugged at the corners of your lips, but it quickly faded as your eyelids grew heavier.

“And the church,” he continued, desperation lacing his words. “The little church your parents got married in. We’ll get married there, just like you’ve always wanted. You can wear that lace dress you talked about, the one you saw at the boutique last spring.”

You made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and your fingers twitched weakly against his chest.

“And kids,” Tyler added, his voice breaking completely now. “Two–hell, however many you want. We’ll give ‘em the best damn life, I promise you that. Just… just stay with me, darlin’. Please.”

Your eyes fluttered open again, glassy but fixed on him.

“Three or four?” you rasped, a faint hint of amusement in your tone.

Tyler let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over him like a flood. He cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt from your cheek.

“Yeah, three or four is perfect, darlin’,,” he said, his forehead pressing against yours as his tears mingled with the soot on his face. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Just tell me the names you’ve got picked out, and I’ll make it happen.”

You gave a weak, tired smile, and he could feel the slight rise and fall of your chest against his. But your body still felt too limp, too fragile in his arms.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Stay with me.”

Your gaze flickered once more, but before he could plead again, the paramedics swarmed around you.

“Sir, we need to take her now,” one of them said urgently, but Tyler’s arms tightened instinctively around you.

“I’m not leavin’ her,” he said fiercely, his eyes wild as he looked up at them.

“We need space to help her,” the paramedic insisted, their tone gentle but firm.

Tyler hesitated, his heart warring with his head as he realized he had no choice. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“You hang on, you hear me?” he whispered, his voice shaking.

Reluctantly, he let them take you from his arms, his hands trembling as he watched them load you onto the stretcher. His heart clenched painfully as he saw your pale, dust-streaked face disappear behind the blur of paramedics working to save you.

* * * *

The waiting room of the hospital felt like a void. Time moved differently here, stretching out each second into an eternity. Tyler sat hunched over in a plastic chair, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. Boone, Dani, Dexter, and Lily sat nearby, their voices low and subdued as they tried to offer support. But Tyler didn’t hear them. His mind was stuck in the chaos of the collapsed building, the sound of your ragged breaths, the weight of your fragile body in his arms.

He stared at the double doors down the hallway, willing someone to come through them with news. Good news. Any news. His burned skin throbbed beneath the bandages the ER nurses had wrapped around him, but he didn’t care. The only pain that mattered was the fear clawing at his chest. The fear of losing you.

“T,” Boone said quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong. She’s gonna pull through.”

Tyler nodded absently, his throat too tight to respond. He wanted to believe Boone, but the image of you lying so still, your face pale and streaked with dust, was seared into his mind.

The doors finally swung open, and a doctor stepped into the waiting room. Tyler shot to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Tyler Owens?” the doctor asked, glancing around the room.

“That’s me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The doctor smiled softly, and Tyler’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “She inhaled a lot of smoke, and there’s some bruising from the debris, but no major injuries. She’s going to be okay.”

Tyler exhaled a shaky breath, his hands dragging down his face as the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

“Can I see her?” Tyler asked, his voice cracking.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “She’s awake, but she’s still weak. Try to keep it short for now.”

Tyler nodded, barely hearing the last part as he followed the doctor down the hallway. His boots echoed on the tile floor, the sound somehow both grounding and surreal.

When he stepped into your room, his chest tightened at the sight of you. You were propped up in the hospital bed, an oxygen mask resting lightly over your nose and mouth. The faint beeping of the monitors was a comforting reminder that you were still here, still breathing.

Your eyes fluttered open when you heard him, and despite the exhaustion etched into your face, you managed a small smile.

“Hey, cowboy,” you whispered, your voice muffled by the mask.

Tyler’s lips curved into a smile, and he pulled a chair up to your bedside, sitting down with a sigh of relief. He reached for your hand, his fingers curling gently around yours.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“I’ll try,” you teased weakly, your fingers giving his hand the faintest squeeze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Tyler’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, his eyes drinking in the sight of you as if to convince himself you were really okay.

“I meant what I said out there,” he finally murmured, his gaze locking with yours.

You frowned slightly in confusion. “What part?”

“All of it,” he said. “The church, the kids, everything. I want it all with you, darlin’. I want to marry you, and I’ll wear whatever you tell me to.”

You laughed softly, the sound raspy but real, and Tyler’s heart swelled.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said, your smile softening as tears welled in your eyes. “I want it all too, Tyler. I always have.”

Tyler leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Then let’s start with dinner,” he said. “Soon as you’re out of here, I’m takin’ you to the nicest place in town. No storms, no distractions, just you and me.”

Your fingers tightened around his as you nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Deal. Can we have Italian?”

For the first time in hours, Tyler let himself relax, a small smile playing on his lips as he whispered, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

[yungistiny]

war room

[ S. Mingi ]

╚═════════

summary: you and mingi have been at each other’s throats at work for over a year until you finally snap

warnings: dom mingi, sub reader, public sex, tongue fucking, fingering, mouth fucking, masturbation, spanking, squirting, slight overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie

genre: enemies to lovers, smut

pairing: mingi x afab reader

word count: 9.9k

note: this was anonymous request as mingi x coworker but I might gotten a little carried away 😭

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You were late. Not “oops I missed the early train” late. You were “sprinting through the glass lobby, iced coffee in hand, praying your boss hadn’t noticed your empty desk yet” late. And of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, that’s exactly when he turned the corner.

Song Mingi. Towering. Short bleached blonde hair. Arrogant. Wearing that smug smirk and a fitted white button down rolled at the sleeves like he was doing everyone a favor just by existing. You’d know that smug smirk anywhere. You saw it every time he interrupted you in meetings or sent a passive aggressive “per my last email” at 11:59 PM.

And now that smirk was directly in your line of fire.

Literally.

You rounded the corner too fast and collided with a solid wall of Mingi, the impact jarring enough to send your iced coffee exploding out of its plastic cup like a crime scene in slow motion. The coffee soaked the front of your blouse, your skirt, your dignity and, to your absolute horror, his pristine white shirt.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, staring in disbelief at the dripping mess down your chest, already forming into sticky brown blotches.

Mingi looked down at himself, his lips pursed in exaggerated disapproval. “Well, that’s one way to start a Monday,” he said dryly, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin.

You scowled, already digging for napkins from your bag. “Maybe if you didn’t walk around corners like you own the damn building!”

“Maybe if you watched where you were going,” he cut in smoothly, brows raised over those annoyingly stylish glasses. “But then again, chaos is kind of your brand.”

You shot him a glare, dabbing at your shirt. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, I don’t know, not here?”

Mingi only grinned, eyes dropping, lingering, for half a second too long at the way your wet blouse clung to your chest before flicking back up with a maddening twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I do,” he said, voice low. “But this was worth the detour.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, something about HR and sexual harassment training, but your voice caught in your throat because why was he still standing so close? And why, beneath all your irritation, was your pulse racing just from the heat radiating off his body?

“Nice of you to mark your territory, by the way,” he added, tugging his tie loose and slinging it around his neck like he had all the time in the world. “Next time, just ask for my number.”

You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a waterless goldfish. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, already backing away, “you can’t stop thinking about me.”

You watched him retreat down the hall, blonde hair tousled, damp shirt clinging to his broad back, and you hated, hated, how right he might be.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You had just finished blotting the last of the coffee from your now semi transparent blouse, thankfully hidden under a spare blazer you kept at your cubicle for “fashion emergencies” (which today totally qualified) when your phone buzzed.

Boss Lady: My office. Now. Bring Mingi.

You stared at the message. Then again. Then audibly groaned. There was only one person on this floor who could ruin your day in a single sentence besides Mingi, and apparently, today was a buy one get one kind of deal.

You found him, naturally, leaning against the edge of the copier like it was a runway, sleeves rolled, top button undone. The smug bastard even had his glasses pushed slightly down his nose as he flipped through a report like he was posing for a Forbes cover shoot.

“Boss wants us,” you announced flatly.

He looked up, a slow smile curling across his lips. “What, already tired of pretending you don’t like me?”

You deadpanned, “I will staple your tie to your desk.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t like it,” he replied, tossing the file down with a wink.

You gritted your teeth, spun on your heel, and marched ahead, fully aware of his long strides catching up just to match your pace, like a tall, smug shadow.

The office was glass walled and way too exposed for comfort. Your boss, Ms. Hwang, was perched behind her sleek desk, hair immaculately pinned, her manicured fingers typing at the speed of judgment.

“You’re late,” she said, not even looking up. Mingi opened his mouth. You jabbed him in the ribs with your elbow before he could make it worse. “Sorry,” you said instead, ignoring his offended glare. “There was… a coffee incident.”

“I see that,” she said dryly, eyes finally flicking up to your still damp blouse. “You two just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way.”

“We really try,” Mingi offered, smiling like he’d just been asked to model for a dating app ad called OfficeFlirt. Your boss sighed and clasped her hands. “Perfect, then. You’ll love this.”

You blinked. “Wait. Love what?”

She leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Corporate just greenlit the launch of the DaVinci Project’s pilot phase. We’re short staffed, and I need my best and brightest working on it. Which unfortunately,” she said, sliding two identical folders across her desk, “means the two of you.”

Silence.

You reached for the folder with a numb hand, cracking it open like it might bite.

“You want us to work together,” you said slowly, trying to process. “On a top level client rollout.”

She nodded. “You’ll be representing the creative and marketing arms together. This is a high stakes project. Big exposure. Don’t screw it up. Mingi’s brows raised just enough to suggest this was the kind of challenge he lived for.

You, on the other hand, felt your soul leave your body. “But…”

“No buts,” she cut in sharply. “You two are oil and fire. But I’ve seen what you’re capable of when you’re competing. Now I want to see what you can do when you’re forced to cooperate.”

You shot a look at Mingi, who smiled back like the devil in designer frames. “Oh, I’m all in,” he said smoothly, grabbing his folder. “I’ve always wanted to know what real teamwork with her would feel like.” His smirk was way too smug.

“I hope HR’s on standby,” you muttered, flipping the folder closed.

“Good,” Ms. Hwang said, already turning back to her screen. “You start tomorrow. Briefing at 8 a.m. Sharp.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Outside her office, Mingi leaned close, voice low and maddeningly amused. “You gonna wear another see through blouse for our first team meeting or should I bring you a splash proof lid this time?”

You turned to him slowly, sweet smile on your lips, voice sugar and steel.

“I hope you choke on a spreadsheet.”

He laughed, genuinely laughed, as you walked away, already plotting how to survive the next however many days without tossing your computer or yourself, out a window.

But beneath all the simmering rage and scathing remarks, one thing was dangerously clear, You were going to kill each other.

Or you were going to fuck.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

Definitely both.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You knew it was going to be a long day the moment you stepped into the elevator.

Not just any kind of long. A wearing heels and a smile while mentally screaming kind of long. The elevator hummed softly as it rose toward the tenth floor, the mirrored interior catching the reflection of your deliberately curated outfit, a curve hugging beige pencil skirt, sheer black tights, a fitted black top tucked in with lethal precision, and heels so sharp they could double as weapons.

Your hair was perfectly styled, makeup flawless, your expression unreadable. You looked like confidence personified. You felt like committing arson. Because today? Today was day one of your partnership with Mingi.

You exhaled through your nose as the elevator doors slid open. It was too early for his voice. Too early for his cologne. Too early for his entire tall, annoying existence.

And yet.

“There she is,” came the voice from your shared project room before you’d even made it to the coffee station. “Looking like she’s about to seduce and fire someone at the same time.”

You paused in the doorway.

And there he was, Mingi, already seated at the long glass conference table, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair, glasses perched on his nose, hair effortlessly tousled and infuriatingly golden in the morning light. His crisp white shirt was half unbuttoned at the top, tie undone and hanging loose around his neck like a fashion statement, not an HR violation.

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered. Mostly. “Did you get here early just to annoy me, or is it a gift?” you said dryly, walking to your seat on the opposite end of the table.

He grinned, eyes raking over you in a slow, unhurried scan that made heat crawl up the back of your neck. “Why choose?”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your bag onto your chair before walking to the coffee bar.

You could feel his gaze trailing after you, and you hated, hated, how smug it made you feel.

“New skirt?” he asked, already halfway through his coffee. “Or just new attitude?”

“New boundaries,” you said sweetly. “Want me to draw them for you? Or would that require more than a single brain cell?”

He chuckled, the low sound irritatingly attractive. “Careful, princess. That skirt’s got claws.”

You froze mid pour, glaring at your reflection in the silver coffee carafe. “If you call me princess again, I will staple your tongue to your desk.”

Behind you, he let out a soft hum. “Kinky.”

You took a very long sip of your coffee before returning to the table, where your shared project folders had already been laid out. You sat. He mirrored you, because of course he did, spinning his pen between long fingers like he was bored already.

“Let’s just get through this,” you muttered, flipping open the folder. “No snide comments. No flirting. No games.”

Mingi leaned forward slightly, his voice low and dark with amusement. “Who said I was playing?”

You looked up sharply, and just like that, the tension thickened, heavy enough to spark.

And the day hadn’t even started.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The project war room, an overly air conditioned, glass walled conference room, much your boss’ office, lined with whiteboards and ego, had never seen this much tension.

You sat across from Mingi, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard as you updated slides for the client pitch deck, each click more aggressive than the last. Your heels were kicked off under the table, blazer folded over the back of your chair, hair starting to frizz slightly from the stress of trying to make any of his ideas fit the actual strategy.

He was sitting just far enough away to be annoying but close enough to make your skin itch, legs spread like he owned the floor, one elbow hooked over the back of his chair, the other hand resting on the edge of your shared table. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and every now and then, he’d push them up without looking away from you.

“So,” he said casually, “what if instead of a voiceover, we pitch a spokesperson? Someone hot. Confident. A little smug.”

You didn’t even look up. “Like you?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it out loud, but yeah.”

You slowly lifted your head, fixing him with a stare that could stop a moving vehicle. “We are not using you as the face of a campaign unless the campaign is, How To Be the Human Equivalent of a Traffic Violation.”

“Ouch,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “That one actually stung. Should I add that to your list of compliments?”

You ignored the heat rising in your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“Because I have no choice.”

“You could’ve called in sick,” he mused, tipping his chair back just enough to be cocky. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in that skirt.”

You froze, fingers stilling on the keyboard.

Mingi leaned forward, the shift making your breath catch before you could stop it. His voice dropped, just a touch lower, enough to hum in your chest.

“Not that you don’t look good every day, but…” He tilted his head, eyes flicking down, slow and deliberate. “Today? You’re kind of killing me.”

You blinked. Then narrowed your eyes. “What’s your angle?”

His lips twitched. “What if I’m just telling the truth?”

“No. You’re trying to mess with me,” you said flatly, spinning your laptop toward him a little too hard. “Focus. We have to have this presentation ready by Thursday and your entire section reads like it was written by a man who thinks synergy is a love language.”

He leaned in again, this time closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, subtle and expensive. “I am trying to mess with you,” he murmured, voice warm now, teasing. “Just not the way you think.”

You frowned, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached past you, his hand brushing yours, and adjusted a slide on the screen like nothing had happened. But his smirk said otherwise.

You sat there, momentarily stunned. Flustered. Angry at yourself for being flustered.

And somewhere across from you, Mingi was quietly losing his entire mind, because your lips were pressed together in a tight little line, your eyes shooting daggers, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to lean in, palm your jaw, and see if you’d still glare at him when your breath hitched beneath his touch.

He’d been pretending for a year. Teasing, bickering, snarking like it was a sport. But now?

Now he was done playing.

And you had no idea.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The office break room was unusually quiet for once, no microwaves humming, no interns whispering over mismatched mugs. Just you, your much needed second, okay, third, cup of coffee, and five minutes of peace before you had to dive back into the war room with him.

You leaned against the counter, mug in hand, scrolling through your phone while the rich scent of hazelnut filled the air, the faint hum of the vending machine behind you the only background noise.

“Didn’t think anyone could make business casual look that good.”

You blinked, looking up to find Eric from IT, tall, charming in a corporate puppy dog kind of way, smiling as he grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t think anyone still used that line in 2025.”

Eric chuckled, pouring his own cup. “Guilty. But I mean it. You’ve been looking… sharp lately.”

You hummed, noncommittal but polite. “Deadlines will do that to you.”

“Still,” he said, stepping a little closer, “you and Mingi on that project? Bet it’s been a fun week.”

You sipped your coffee. “If your definition of fun includes daily homicide fantasies, sure.”

Eric laughed again, easing into your space just enough to suggest interest. “Well, if you ever need to blow off steam, grab a drink after work, maybe…. I’m around.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

What neither of you noticed, at least, not yet, was the very tall, very not amused presence leaning against the wall just outside the doorway, half shadowed by the frame. Mingi had been on his way in, a new pen clenched between his teeth, that usual lazy swing to his step until he saw you.

And him.

His jaw tightened, pen forgotten, gaze locked on the way Eric leaned in. How close he was standing. How you were smiling.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You jumped slightly when a deep voice broke the moment like glass.

“Aren’t you two a little old for flirting over a Keurig?”

Both you and Eric turned.

Mingi stepped fully into the room, straightening his glasses with the most unnecessarily smug look on his face.

Eric cleared his throat, stiffening. “Just talking.”

Mingi smiled, tight, sharp. “Sure. Talking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Mingi replied, walking right up and grabbing the coffee pot you’d just used, reaching around you like he wasn’t halfway invading your space. “Actually,” he added, his voice low and pointed, “I prefer fresh coffee. The burnt kind always leaves a bad taste.”

Your jaw clenched. Eric blinked awkwardly, then coughed. “Uh…. right. I’ll catch you later.”

You didn’t respond. Too busy trying not to throw your scalding mug at Mingi’s face.

When Eric finally left, the room suddenly felt much smaller as You glared up at Mingi. “What the hell was that?”

Mingi shrugged, calm and collected as he poured himself a cup. “Didn’t like the vibe.”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t like the vibe or you didn’t like him?”

He met your gaze, a flicker of something dark behind his eyes. “Is there a difference?”

You scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

“Look,” he said, setting the pot down and facing you fully now, voice quieter. “If some guy’s gonna try to shoot his shot with you, he can at least wait until I’m done with mine.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Mingi leaned in, close enough you could smell the coffee on his breath, feel the heat rolling off his body, close enough to kiss if either of you moved an inch.

“It means,” he murmured, voice like sin, “I’m not playing anymore.”

And then, just like that, he stepped back, grabbed a stir stick, popped it into his mug, and walked out like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade between your ribs.

You stood there frozen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand. And it finally hit you.

He wasn’t just messing with you anymore. He was flirting.

For real.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The second your heels hit the polished floor of the office lobby the next morning, heads turned.

And you knew it.

You didn’t wear the thigh highs and blazer combo for attention. Not really. You wore it because you felt like it. You wore it because you were a grown woman with good taste and zero patience for corporate dress code politics.

You did not wear it because of Mingi.

Absolutely not.

Not because his voice had echoed in your head all night, low and rough and saying things like, I’m not playing anymore.

Not because you had very specifically remembered the way his gaze had dipped when he looked at you in that pencil skirt.

And definitely not because you had, embarrassingly, replayed that break room scene more than once in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Nope. You were fine. Cool. Chill.

Until you walked past the war room. And his head snapped up like he sensed you.

Mingi was seated at the table, leaned back like usual, one arm slung over the chair, glasses perched low, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose. His hair was still a little damp, like he’d run late and barely made it in.

But when he saw you, time hiccupped. He blinked once. Twice. And then, that smirk.

You kept walking, heels sharp against the tile, ignoring the way his eyes tracked your legs. Your skirt. The perfect, infuriating length of skin exposed between the hem and the tops of your stockings.

You didn’t see him adjust in his chair, but you felt it as you slid into your desk like nothing had happened, flipped open your laptop, and opened the presentation file as if your brain wasn’t currently being fried by the memory of his stare.

But it was only 8:06 AM and you were already failing miserably at ignoring him.

Because a minute later, he strolled over to your side of the office, coffee in hand, no folder, no excuse, no shame, and leaned against the edge of your desk like he lived there.

“Morning,” he said, eyes full of mischief and something darker, voice scratchy in that just woke up and didn’t fully recover from his dreams kind of way.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “Morning,” you said flatly, typing one word into the doc before deleting it five times.

He didn’t move. “You dress like that for me?” he asked, sipping his coffee, casual as hell.

You finally looked at him. “You dress like that for HR complaints?”

Mingi grinned, teeth flashing. “Touché.” He stepped back, but only so he could lean in closer on your other side, now behind you. You stiffened when his hand lightly brushed the edge of your chair.

“Just one question,” he murmured. “Is that skirt as short as it looks, or are my eyes just blessed?”

You twisted in your seat and looked up at him, fully intending to cuss him out, but the words got stuck somewhere behind your tongue and that stupid warmth blooming across your chest.

“Go back to your desk,” you said, voice a little breathier than intended as Mingi held your gaze for one beat too long. Two. Then stepped back with a soft chuckle, turning on his heel and sauntering away.

And you? You stared at your screen, trying not to have a full-on internal crisis over the fact that, Your thighs were definitely still tingling. You could smell him on the air he left behind. And okay fine maybe just maybe he wasn’t as annoying as you’d convinced yourself.

Which was a problem. A big one. Because if Mingi kept flirting like that, and you kept reacting like this, you were either going to fall for him… or fuck him.

Certainly both

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You’d just finished sending one slide over to Mingi with a half decent caption when the ping hit your inbox.

Boss Lady: [ My office. Now. Both of you. ]

You stared at the email.

“Please tell me this isn’t about the pitch deck,” you muttered, already knowing it absolutely was.

From across the room, Mingi looked up from his phone, clearly getting the same message. He met your eyes with a dramatic sigh, tossed his pen onto the table, and mouthed, you’re in trouble, like the world’s most obnoxious teen boy in homeroom.

You flipped him off. Professionally.

The walk to her office felt like a funeral march.

Ms. Hwang didn’t even look up when you stepped inside. She just motioned to the chairs in front of her desk like a queen beckoning peasants. You sat. Mingi followed, arms crossed, long legs sprawled like he paid rent on that chair.

“I’m going to ask this once,” Ms. Hwang said, voice tight, eyes sharp behind her rimless glasses. “Where. Is. The. Deck?”

You opened your mouth, but Mingi beat you to it.

“We’re just finalizing a few last minute tweaks…”

She held up a hand. “I don’t want a song and dance. I want results.”

You tried to salvage it. “It’s nearly done, we just…”

“Nearly done?” Her brow arched. “This was due yesterday.”

Mingi leaned forward. “It’s a complex rollout…”

“And it’s a basic deadline,” she snapped. “What the hell is going on between you two?”

You froze.

Mingi blinked.

Ms. Hwang folded her arms and gave the both of you that look, the one that made grown adults reconsider their careers. “I don’t care if you’re sleeping together, hate each other, or planning to elope in Vegas. What I care about is that this project, my project, gets delivered. Tomorrow morning. Finished. Clean. Ready to present to the board.”

Your mouth went dry.

Mingi cleared his throat. “We’ll get it done.”

“Oh, I know you will,” she said, pulling out a red folder and slapping it on the desk. “Because you’re both staying late tonight. I’ve booked the conference room. You’ll have zero distractions and full access to the shared drive, but you don’t leave until it’s done. Is that clear?”

You nodded, jaw tight. “Crystal.”

She looked at Mingi.

He gave her his most charming, don’t blame me grin. “Loud and clear, boss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I swear, if I have to hear about another delay…”

“You won’t,” you both said in unison.

“Good.” She already turned back to her computer. “Now go. Finish it. And for god’s sake, try not to kill each other.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Back in the hallway, Mingi exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So. Working late with you. Alone. In a glass room.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I haven’t even warmed up,” he said, grinning as he fell into step beside you.

You groaned. “I swear to god, Mingi, if we don’t finish this deck tonight…”

His smirk widened. “Then we’ll just have to pull an all nighter.”

Your step faltered.

And he noticed.

But he didn’t say anything, just opened the door to the now dimly lit conference room and motioned for you to walk in first like a gentleman… or a predator pretending to be one.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the silence that settled between you?

Was dangerous.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It was 10:41 PM.

Everyone was gone.

The lights in the hallway had switched to night mode, dim and motion triggered, casting long shadows outside the glass walls of the conference room. The only sounds were the soft clacks of your laptop keys, the hum of the overhead fluorescents, and the distant roll of the janitor’s cart somewhere on the floor below.

And then, of course, there was Mingi.

Seated across from you, legs wide, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses perched at the edge of his nose as he tapped away at his own laptop like the tension between you didn’t exist.

Like he hadn’t been toeing the line all week.

Like you hadn’t been clenching your thighs under the desk every time he leaned back in that chair and ran a hand through his hair like he was bored when you were practically burning.

“We should lead with the user adoption data,” you said, not even looking up.

“We could,” Mingi replied slowly, stretching with a yawn, “or we could just keep playing it safe and boring and exactly what the execs expect.”

You sighed. “This isn’t about being boring, it’s about being strategic…”

“No, it’s about you always needing to be right.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

Mingi leaned back again, arms crossed now. “Every time I suggest something even a little outside the box, you shoot it down like I’m incompetent.”

“That’s because your version of ‘outside the box’ is borderline reckless.”

“No, it’s because you don’t trust me,” he snapped, sitting forward now, his voice louder than it had been all night. “You never have.”

The air went tight.

You stood slowly, palms flat on the glass table. “Maybe because you’ve spent the last year treating this job like a damn joke and me like I’m just another chance to push your stupid buttons.”

“Oh, please,” he barked out a laugh. “You are a button. One big, shiny, hot as fuck panic button.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Your hands curled into fists.

“You think this is a game?” you hissed, walking around the table now, glaring down at him. “You think you can just flirt and tease and drive me insane and I’m not going to say something eventually?”

He stood up to meet you, tall and broad and entirely too close. “You’re already saying something. Every time you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me in the same breath, yeah, you’re saying a lot.”

You hated how fast your pulse jumped. How dark his eyes were now. How your breathing turned shallow the second his voice dropped an octave.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you said through clenched teeth.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up.

“Liar.”

You snapped.

One hand fisted his loose tie, yanked him forward, and crashed your mouth against his.

Hard.

Messy.

Hot.

Mingi groaned against your lips like he’d been waiting for this for months, which, to be fair, he had, his hands flying to your waist, gripping you like he wasn’t planning to let go. Your back hit the table, files sliding, forgotten. His tie wrapped around your wrist now, your other hand already buried in his hair, tugging, demanding, needing.

Mingi’s mouth was on yours like it was the answer to every fight, every late night, every repressed fantasy you’d tried to bury under bullet points and deadlines. And god, the way he kissed, like he was angry and starved and obsessed, made you forget you ever hated him.

The table dug into your back, cool through the fabric of your blazer, your fingers still fisted in Mingi’s tie as his mouth left yours only long enough to breathe.

And then he was kissing your neck, slow at first, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw like he wanted to taste the pulse hammering there.

You gasped as his hands, bigger than you remembered, rougher than you’d dared to imagine, slid up your thighs, fingers curling around the hem of your skirt like it offended him.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your skin, lips trailing down to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?”

You shivered, lips parted, unable to form words because his hands were higher now, thumbs teasing along the tops of your sheer thigh highs, dragging over the band with maddening slowness.

You arched into him, breath hitching. “Mingi…”

He hummed like a warning and pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t get to say my name like that,” he said, voice dark, lips shiny from your skin. “Not unless you mean it.”

You swallowed, nails digging into the lapels of his shirt. “I don’t.”

He smirked, cocky and sinful, his hands slipping just under your skirt now, his fingers stroking lightly up the inside of your thighs. “Liar.”

“I hate you,” you whispered, the words barely making it out.

And still, your hips pushed forward, seeking his hands, chasing the burn.

Mingi’s gaze flicked up to yours, wild and wicked. “Say it again.”

You glared, breathless. “I hate you.”

His fingers squeezed at the tops of your thighs, thumbs circling dangerously close to the wet heat between them. “Yeah?” he said, mouth brushing yours now, his tongue barely tasting the corner of your lips. “Then why are you soaking through your panties for me right now?”

You gasped, your head dropping back as he kissed your throat again, hot, open mouthed, biting this time. You moaned, a sharp sound that echoed in the empty room, shame and desire coiled so tightly inside you that you weren’t sure where one ended and the other began.

And his hands?

Still climbing.

Still teasing.

Still treating you like a prize he’d finally earned after playing the long game. Because he had. And now? Now he was going to take his time ruining you for every other late night office crush that had ever even thought about flirting with you.

Mingi’s breath was ragged now, matching yours, one hand splayed flat on your thigh, the other gripping your waist like he needed something to anchor himself.

And then, without a word, he dropped.

Straight to his knees.

Right there between your legs in the middle of the empty office, the night humming outside the windows, the only light coming from the soft glow of your laptop still open behind you, it’s screen forgotten.

You barely had time to process it before his hands slid up your thighs again, slow and reverent now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Hungry.

And when he leaned in to press a kiss just above your knee, lips hot through the sheer black fabric, your breath caught so sharply you nearly folded. “Mingi,” you whispered, broken around his name.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He kissed higher. Then again. And then bit. A gentle, maddening scrape of his teeth through your thigh high, just enough pressure to make you gasp, to make your hips twitch toward him like your body had made the decision for you.

He growled, actually growled, and bit higher, right at the top band of the stocking. His fingers gripped behind your knee, lifting your leg over his shoulder as his mouth latched onto the seam with a slow drag of his teeth.

And then he pulled. Not with his hands. With his mouth. The stocking slipped down, inch by inch, his lips brushing your skin the whole way. Every nerve lit up in a flash fire of heat and disbelief.

When he got it down past your calf, he let it fall, fingertips brushing the underside of your knee like a silent promise.

Then he moved to the other leg. And did it again. Slower. This time, his mouth lingered. His tongue flicked out against the sensitive spot behind your thigh and you whimpered, knees instinctively trying to close, but his hands pushed them apart, firm and possessive.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your bare skin, lips dragging up toward the inside of your thigh, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body trembled, caught in the heat of it all.

“Mingi…” you breathed, unsure if it was a warning, a plea, or both.

But he was already kissing back up, now unhindered, now tasting the skin those thigh highs had hidden, leaving goosebumps and sparks in his wake.

And when he got close enough that you felt his breath ghosting between your thighs? He looked up at you through his lashes, flushed and wrecked and starving.

“You still hate me?” he asked, voice low and rough, lips brushing the top of your thigh like a threat as you met his gaze, fists tangled in his shirt, your skirt hiked up past the point of no return.

You barely had time to try and answer, to blink, before Mingi stood again, fast, fluid, towering over you with heat still radiating off his body like fire pressed into skin. His hand caught your chin, not rough, but firm, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

His pupils were blown. His lips were slick. His jaw clenched like he was holding back something feral. “You want this?” He asked, voice a gravelly growl. “Say it.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer, nose brushing yours, his thumb sweeping over your bottom lip, soft but possessive, like he was already memorizing the shape of you.

“Don’t make me guess,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go back down there unless you want me to ruin you.”

You swallowed hard, thighs twitching, your hips instinctively rocking forward toward the only thing that could ease the ache. “Yes,” you breathed, barely audible.

His grip tightened just slightly.

“Louder.”

Your hands curled into his shirt, your voice trembling but sure.

“I want it.”

His mouth broke into a grin, slow and dark and satisfied.

“Good.”

And then he dropped again. But this time, it wasn’t slow. This time, he shoved your knees apart, hands dragging your skirt higher with zero ceremony, intentional now. No more teasing. No more holding back.

His fingers hooked into your panties, black, lacy, soaked through, and he dragged them down your legs in one sharp motion.

You gasped as the cool air hit you. Then moaned as he balled the panties in his fist, met your gaze again, and shoved them into his pocket. “Mine now.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot. Wet. Devastating. He licked a stripe up your center, tongue broad and unhurried, tasting you for the first time and wanting to remember everything. Your breath caught, hands flying to his hair as he groaned against you, groaned, like he was the one getting off on this.

“Mingi…” you choked out, hips twitching as his tongue circled your clit with dangerous precision, his fingers gripping your thighs, anchoring you in place.

You grabbed at his hair, tugging, writhing, trying to keep still as his tongue flattened, licked, sucked like he’d been dreaming about this exact moment.

And he had. Because nothing had haunted him more than the idea of you like this, spread out, breathless, thighs over his shoulders while you moaned his name and yanked his hair like you needed it to breathe.

He moaned again, deeper this time as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking in perfect rhythm until your legs began to tremble and your head fell back with a low, broken curse.

Mingi didn’t come up for air. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you room to think, to breathe, to remember anything but the way his mouth was wrecking you.

His tongue pressed deep inside you, hot and wet and relentless, fucking into you with obscene precision, curling, dragging, pumping like he was claiming space no one else ever could.

And then his nose, God. The way it nudged up against your clit, grinding into that sensitive bundle of nerves every time he thrust his tongue deeper, made your back arch and your hands fly to his hair again, fisting in the soft blonde strands with a ragged cry.

“Mingi… fuck, fuck!”

He growled against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly your skin tingled, holding you open for him, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Like you were his. And you were. In that moment? Absolutely his.

He pulled back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth, hard and filthy and needy, before plunging two fingers inside you, thick and perfect, curling instantly as he slid them deep, his tongue flattening beneath your clit as his nose rubbed just right.

“Oh my god, Mingi!”

You weren’t even sure if the words made it out as your body convulsed, your thighs locking around his head as you grinded against him, chasing it, chasing everything.

You were moaning now, loud, almost sobbing as his fingers pumped in and out of you fast, fucking you hard while his tongue never left your clit, his nose dragging against it like he knew exactly what it was doing to you.

And he did. He’d imagined it. Dreamed it. Fantasized about making you come undone on his face until you couldn’t speak his name without shaking. “Come for me,” he growled, words muffled into you, tongue licking wildly now, fingers slamming into that perfect spot over and over.

And you did.

Hard.

Violent.

Unstoppable.

Your body seized, thighs trembling, heels digging into the edge of the table as you came with a strangled, broken cry, your voice cracking, your nails digging into his scalp, your whole world narrowed to the heat and wet and want crashing through you in waves so intense you could barely breathe.

You were panting. Moaning. Still twitching as his mouth slowed, soft now, lapping at you gently as your body shuddered with aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, chin slick, lips swollen, eyes blown black with lust, he looked up at you like you were something holy.

“Still hate me?” he rasped, licking your release from his bottom lip.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was stare down at him, on his knees, hair messy from your hands, your panties still in his pocket, and wonder how the hell you’d ever survive this man now that he knew what you sounded like when you broke.

Your body was still trembling, your thighs slick, lips kiss bruised, lungs barely catching up, but your mind? Clear. Clearer than it had been in weeks.

You wanted him.

Not to flirt. Not to tease. Not to hate.

You wanted to wreck him.

With your knees wobbling and your hands still bracing the edge of the conference table, you slid down, slowly, deliberately, until your knees kissed the cold floor.

Mingi’s breath caught as you looked up at him through your lashes once he stood, eyes glassy, lips parted, hair wild around your face.

And he stared.

Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands had dropped to his sides, fists clenched, his dick already straining against his slacks, painfully obvious, thick and heavy, begging for attention.

You reached for his belt. Your fingers moved slowly, unfastening it with unshaking purpose now, your nails dragging down the zipper, his abs twitching when your hand brushed over the bulge beneath his boxers.

Still looking up at him. Still fucking owning him from your knees. When you pulled him free, hot, hard, big, you paused. Eyes wide. Lips twitching into the hint of a smirk. “Jesus,” you whispered.

He let out a low, breathless laugh, half choked on the tension. “Still wanna hate me?”

You met his gaze, eyes burning with something darker. “I don’t hate you,” you murmured. Then you leaned in, pressing a single kiss to the base of his dick, just above where his abs tensed.

You looked back up, lips brushing his tip, already wet with precum. “I want to ruin you.”

His groan was wrecked as his hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, like he didn’t trust himself not to lose control the second your lips wrapped around him.

You licked a stripe up his shaft, slow, deliberate, swirling your tongue around the head just to watch him twitch, and then pulled back enough to whisper, “Fuck my mouth.”

His breath stopped. For a moment, he just stood there, wide eyed, panting, staring at you like you’d just unlocked a part of him he wasn’t ready to show the world. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough, trembling with restraint.

You opened your mouth. Tongue out. Lips parted. Then nodded. And that was it.

He grabbed your jaw, not rough but firm, guiding himself to your lips, and then he thrust, slow and deep, sliding past your tongue until your throat flexed around him.

He moaned. Hard. Guttural. Hands flying into your hair like he was already losing himself.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucked, letting him slide in and out, saliva pooling and dripping down your chin as he started fucking your mouth just like you asked, like he needed to.

He started slow. One hand tangled in your hair, the other braced on the table behind you, Mingi held still as he guided himself past your lips again, inch by inch, watching your mouth stretch around him, watching your eyes flutter as you adjusted to the weight, the heat, the thickness of him.

“Shit,” he hissed, his abs flexing as you took more, your tongue pressed flat beneath him. “Just like that… fuck, you look so good with my dick in your mouth.”

You moaned, just a little, soft and breathy, and that alone made his hips twitch.

“Fuck, don’t…. don’t do that,” he gasped, already losing his rhythm.

But then you did it again. A louder moan this time. Vibrating around him. Echoing deep in your throat. And when his eyes dropped lower, when he saw your hand, fingers between your own thighs, rubbing, sliding, grinding against yourself while you moaned around his dick?

Something inside him snapped. “Are you…” he choked out, head tilting back for a split second before yanking you closer. “You’re touching yourself while I fuck your mouth?”

You nodded, wide eyes watering, spit already leaking from the corners of your mouth.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he groaned, and that was it. He started moving. Really moving. His grip on your hair tightened, guiding your head now, thrusting into your mouth with growing speed, each snap of his hips punctuated by a low, filthy moan that only made you wetter.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like gagging on my dick, don’t you, baby?”

You moaned again, louder, hand working between your legs faster now as you let him use your mouth, tears streaking down your cheeks as your throat stretched to take him.

“Fucking…. shit, you’re perfect,” he gasped, hips stuttering as he thrust deeper, your gag reflex hitting but your nails digging into his thigh like you loved it.

“Choking so pretty for me, fuck, just like that… fuck yourself, baby. Come for me while I use this mouth. Show me how bad you want it.”

And you did. Right there on the floor, your mouth full of him, spit and tears and slick dripping down your thighs, you came. Hard.

A muffled, wrecked moan echoing around his dick as your body jerked, back arching, hand trapped between your thighs as your orgasm crashed through you, leaving you shaking and completely gone.

Mingi choked on a groan, pulled out fast, barely in time, his dick glistening, his breath ragged, your spit clinging to him in strings as you gasped for air, lips swollen, jaw slack.

“Fuck…. fuck,” he hissed, jerking himself once, twice, holding off with every ounce of restraint he had left. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You looked up at him, ruined, dripping, glowing. And smiled as Mingi was panting, chest heaving, spit slick dick twitching between you as he stared down at the absolute mess you’d made of yourself on your knees. His jaw clenched like he was barely keeping it together.

Then he grabbed you. Lifted you right off the floor, your legs barely had time to wobble before he was kissing you, kissing you like he hadn’t just been fucking your throat ten seconds ago. His hands cradled your jaw, lips hot and open, tongue desperate and deep as you clung to his shirt, dizzy and drenched and gasping against his mouth.

You groaned into him, fingers flying to the buttons of his shirt. One popped. Then another. Then the whole thing was sliding off his shoulders, his black tie still hanging loose around his neck like a collar begging to be yanked.

His skin was warm and flushed and gorgeous, abs flexing as you shoved the shirt down his arms and dropped it to the floor, hands sliding over his chest with a hunger you weren’t even trying to hide anymore.

And then his hands found your waist. Turned you. Bent you. Your front hit the table, palms bracing against the slick surface, your skirt rucked all the way up to your waist as he stepped in close behind you.

You gasped, hips jerking forward as his palm landed on your ass, sharp and claiming, followed by a low groan behind you. “Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hand over the now reddening skin. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You looked over your shoulder, breathless, ruined. “Then stop talking and…”

Another spank.

You moaned.

Then you pushed back.

Just enough that the head of his dick nudged higher, slipping between your cheeks and catching on the tight ring of your ass.

Mingi froze.

His moan? Loud. Wrecked.

“Jesus…. fuck, baby…”

You whimpered, teasing yourself with his tip, just the barest pressure making your whole body shiver. “You want it?”

He growled. Actually growled.

But then, you felt his hand wrap around himself, dragging his dick down, sliding between your soaked folds until he found your dripping entrance again.

And his voice? Low. Dark. Dangerous. “Next time.” And then he pushed. Deep. Stretching you, making you cry out, the sound raw and desperate as he filled you slow, inch by glorious inch, his hands gripping your hips like he needed to hold you together as much as he needed to hold himself back.

“Fuck…. fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out. “Pussy so fucking wet….. taking me so good.”

You whined, nails scratching at the table’s surface, back arching as he settled deep inside you. “You’re so big,” you whimpered. “F… Fuck, Mingi….. so deep”

He groaned again, one hand sliding up your back, pushing your spine down to deepen the angle as he rocked forward just once, making you scream.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice right by your ear now, hips grinding slow and deep. “You love it, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, tears stinging your eyes. “Y… Yes! Yes…. please……. more”

Mingi was buried inside you, slow thrusts rocking your entire body into the table with each deep grind of his hips. His hands framed your waist, fingertips digging in, eyes locked on the way your body swallowed him with every roll forward.

You moaned, high and breathy, your knees starting to buckle, forehead pressed to the cool glass as your mouth parted with every drag of his dick along your soaked, stretched walls.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, breath ragged as he slid back, then pushed in again slow. “You feel like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, hips instinctively pushing back to meet each thrust. And then he leaned forward, his chest against your back, hand sliding up your torso to grab your throat, his lips brushing your ear as he grunted, deep in your body now.

“You want me to fuck you?” he whispered, filthy and low. “You want me to ruin this pussy, baby?”

“Y…. Yes,” you gasped, fingers clinging to the edge of the table like you were holding on for your life. “Please…. please, Mingi, fuck me!”

That was all he needed.

His hand slid back down to your hip.

And then he slammed into you.

Hard.

Fast.

Unrelenting.

Your scream ripped out of you as he fucked into you like he’d snapped, like the leash had finally broken and this was what he’d been holding back from the very first time you argued in the break room.

His glasses slipped down his nose, fogged and crooked from sweat and motion. One sharp thrust, and they fell, clattering somewhere on the table as his hands grabbed your waist tighter and he fucked you, raw and fast, his dick pistoning in and out with filthy, wet sounds that echoed off the walls.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Taking every inch. Fucking soaking me, baby, your pussy’s starving.”

You were crying now, lips parted, eyes rolling, your body jerking forward with every brutal thrust.

And it built.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Mingi…” you gasped. “I…. I’m… fuck…. I’m gonna….. I’m coming!”

“Come for me,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, his hips snapping against your ass, desk rattling beneath you. “Come on this dick, baby, make a mess for me, show me how good I make you feel.”

You screamed. Your entire body seized, muscles locking, back arching as your orgasm slammed into you like a wave, crashing so hard you gushed around him, slick, hot, everywhere, your walls clenching so violently around his dick that it pushed him out, his length slipping free with a loud, soaked sound as your legs collapsed beneath you.

“Mingi…. fuck!”

He groaned, low and guttural, staring down at you, wide eyed, watching as your release dripped down your thighs, pooling beneath you, your body still twitching, hips jerking in aftershocks.

He reached down, stroking himself once, twice, still soaked in your slick, his voice cracked and ruined.

“Fucking hell, baby,” he panted. “You just…. squirted me out.”

You whimpered, still breathless, wrecked, your legs trembling and soaked, lips parted around a moan that never fully formed.

Your legs were shaking. Your whole body still pulsed from the orgasm he’d ripped out of you, from the way your release had forced him out, your slick dripping down your thighs, glistening on his dick, coating his abdomen.

And still, you weren’t done. You blinked up at him, chest heaving, face flushed and wrecked, tears dried on your cheeks, lips parted and slick.

He was standing there, shirt open, glasses gone, his black tie still hanging around his neck like a leash only you had the right to pull.

And you did. You turned around, barely steady, hands gripping the edge of the table as you sat up, legs trembling as you reached for him. Your fingers curled into the silk of his tie, tugging him down, his lips brushing yours, both of you panting into the space between.

Then you pulled harder.

Tugged him closer.

And he let you.

Your thighs opened just enough to wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind him as you used your last ounce of strength to drag him back in.

Mingi moaned, loud, needy, as his dick slid through your soaked folds, catching on your entrance, your heat guiding him right back to where he belonged.

And when you whispered, raw, broken, “Come back to me,” he lost it. He grabbed your hips and sank back in. Slow. Deep. All of him.

You both moaned at the stretch, your whimper soft and shaky, his curse hot and ragged as your body pulled him in, still fluttering around him, still dripping wet and desperate.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead falling against yours. “You’re… you’re still so tight.”

You clenched around him on purpose, lips brushing his. “I don’t care,” you breathed. “I want it.”

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, lifting you slightly, adjusting the angle as he rolled his hips, burying himself to the hilt making you cry out, arms flinging around his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist like you needed to hold him inside.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “I’m right here, baby. Gonna fuck you so good….. make you mine.”

You nodded against his neck, body trembling with every deep, perfect stroke as he started moving again. This time? Not rough. Not fast. But deep. So deep.

Each thrust sent soft, wet sounds echoing in the quiet room, your bodies sticky and tangled, skin slapping against skin as he filled you again and again, his forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your mouth with every moan.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You hear me? Fucking mine.”

And you didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Because with every stroke, every kiss, every filthy whisper, he was making you his, deep inside you, his breath ragged, his abs twitching as your body clenched around him like a vice. He was trying to pace himself, trying to savor it, to feel every second of you wrapped around him.

But your voice? Your voice broke him.

“Harder,” you gasped, legs still locked around his waist, your hips grinding up to meet every slow thrust. “Fuck…. please, Mingi… harder, I need it, I need you to fuck me, I want you to come inside me…. make me come again!”

He froze. Just for a second.

Like a man possessed.

And then?

He growled.

Low. Animal.

And started slamming into you.

You cried out, your back arching off the table, arms flying around his neck, legs tightening as he pounded into you now, hips snapping with brutal precision, dick driving into you so deep you could feel it in your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…. just like that…” you sobbed, your hands flying to his hair, grabbing it hard, yanking him closer as your other hand fisted his tie and pulled.

Mingi moaned, loud, helpless, as your nails dragged along his scalp, your lips brushing his jaw. “Fucking…. please…. don’t stop…. yours…. don’t fucking stop!

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

He adjusted his grip, slid one arm beneath you, lifting you just enough, just high enough to angle you perfectly, so every thrust hit your spot like he’d mapped it out.

“God, baby…” he panted, hips slamming into you. “You feel so fucking good, you’re so wet… I’m gonna… fuck….. I’m gonna…”

You were already gone. Your moans had turned into sobs, your nails dragging down his back, your pussy fluttering around him as your body got tighter, hotter, seconds away from detonating.

“I’m gonna come,” you whined. “Mingi… fuck…. please, come with me… fill me, baby, PLEASE!”

And when your body snapped, legs shaking, toes curling, mouth open in a silent scream as you soaked him again, clenching his dick, milking him for every inch, he broke.

With a roar that echoed in the empty office, Mingi slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he came deep, dick twitching, cum spilling into you thick and hot and endless, his arms holding you like he was afraid he might disappear inside you completely.

You shook together.

Bodies tangled.

Mouths gasping against each other as he rutted through the last few pulses of release, burying himself to the hilt, filling you full as you both came down, wrecked, undone, shaking.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, your hands still in his hair, his tie twisted around your fist. “feel like I just died and resurrected.”

You could barely breathe.

But you smiled.

Because if that was death?

It was fucking phenomenal.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The office felt brighter the next morning.

Or maybe that was just the smug satisfaction rolling off you in waves as you walked side by side with Mingi toward Ms. Hwang’s office, both of you dressed a little too sharply, a little too composed for two people who definitely hadn’t slept.

You were sore in places you didn’t know could be sore.

Your thighs ached.

Your voice was still a little raspy.

But your lipstick?

Perfect.

Mingi looked just as lethal. Fresh shirt, hair styled, glasses cleaned, and that same black tie you’d been gripping in your fist hours ago? Oh, he wore it again. Loose around his neck. Like a reminder.

You knocked once on Ms. Hwang’s door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.

She glanced up over her glasses, then back down at her watch. “You’re early.”

You both smiled.

“Thought we’d make your morning,” Mingi said smoothly, stepping forward to set the finished binder and flash drive on her desk.

“All files finalized,” you added, sliding the summary sheet into place with the kind of precise, practiced fingers that had absolutely not been wrapped around a dick twelve hours ago.

Ms. Hwang raised a brow. “You two actually finished?”

Mingi chuckled low under his breath. “Oh, we finished.”

Your elbow jabbed into his ribs so fast even your boss missed it.

“Everything’s proofed,” you said, keeping your expression neutral. “Slides are clean. Data’s perfect. Talking points are locked.”

She glanced through the binder, flipping a few pages, nodding slowly. “This is… good. Surprisingly good.”

You and Mingi shared a look.

Your smirk curled lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Oh,” you said. “We work well under pressure.”

Ms. Hwang gave you both a look, half suspicion, half, if I find out you were screwing in my office I swear to god, but ultimately said nothing. “Fine,” she said, closing the binder. “Presentation’s at 10 a.m. Don’t be late. Don’t be sloppy. Don’t embarrass me.”

You both nodded.

“Understood,” Mingi replied, then turned and walked out beside you like the model employee.

The second the door closed, he leaned closer, whispering by your ear, “Kind of hot watching you act professional when you were begging for my dick last night.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Don’t start.”

“Already did.”

“Keep talking and I’ll actually stab you with a pen.”

Mingi just grinned, slipping his hands in his pockets.

“Only if you say please.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess

[clockwayswrites]

Bird Brained, or something. Part 22

masterpost NGL this part might be really rough. This migraine is killing my, but I wanted to get it written.

“Just stay behind us, Mr. Wayne,” Maria Ramirez ordered.

Bruce nodded as he paced. Facts about her ran through his head without his bidding. Ex Air Force. Bruce had hired her after she left, angry and with an honorable discharge the Air Force hoped would keep her quiet while the man who assaulted her got a pension. She was a little hot headed, took shit from no one, and was impressively competent.

If she continued this way, she’d be Bruce’s choice for the next head of security.

He still didn’t want to listen to her.

His kids were at the end of that stairwell along with the Mad Hatter and several of the man’s goons. Bruce was confident in Robin and Red Robin’s abilities to protect themselves from the threat, but this was different. This was Damian and Tim.

Robin might be magic, but the child in the suit was just a child. And children could die.

Bruce shook his arms out to try and get rid of the nerves. He could afford the motion as Bruce Wayne where he couldn’t as Batman.

As Batman he could have been at the front of pack and already through the door.

Bruce measured his breathing, forcing it to slow.

Ramirez held up a fist. The rest of the security force readied themselves.

One—

Two—

Three—

They breached the door with shouts of ‘hands in the air’ and ‘get down on the ground’.

“I work here! Doctor Daniel Fenton, R&D,” Danny’s voice called out.

“Get on the ground, hands behind your head slowly,” Ramirez ordered.

Bruce burst out of the stairwell. “I can vouch for—” Wings. Danny had wings. He was still human, human enough, but he had inky black wings that were spread wide along with his raised hands. “—Dr. Fenton.”

Ramirez glanced at Bruce, but kept her tranq gun trained on Danny. “Sir?”

“I can vouch for Dr. Fenton, he’s a friend of the family,” Bruce said more evenly as he took in the rest of the scene.

There was a remarkable lack of blood for the bodies scattered across the small space. Some were unconscious while others clutched their heads. The floor was scattered with crushed mind control devices and the occasional feather. The Mad Hatter was as far back in the elevator as possible, mumbling about ravens and writing desks. Danny stood in front of the door to the safe room. His spread wings assured no one got past him. The outside of Danny’s wings were white, Bruce realized. It was like they were inverted from the larger bird form.

“Tim and Damian are in the safe room,” Danny said quickly, breaking through Bruce’s thoughts. “They’re not hurt.”

Bruce’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” He ran his hands over his face and sucked in a purposefully even breath. Then he dropped his hands and looked at the security squad. “Dr. Fenton’s meta status is a personal mater not to be discussed, am I clear?”

There was a course of ‘yes sir’ from security and a soft, relieved, ‘thank you’ from Danny. Bruce nodded and strode towards the safe room. He snagged Danny by the wrist as he passed and pulled the stunned man along with him.

“Bruce?”

“Thank you,” Bruce said again as he started the biometric scans for the safe room. His thumb ran rhythmically over the back of Danny’s hand. The skin there was soft, like the down feathers of a chick. “Thank you for protecting my boys.”

“Of course, I always will,” Danny said, sounding completely serious, though Bruce could feel Danny’s hand trembling in his own.

The vault like door hissed as the air seal released and it started to open. Bruce knew that Danny said that the boys were fine, but as soon as the door was open enough, Bruce pulled Danny into the room and the semblance of privacy that it offered.

“Are you alright? Are you both alright?” Bruce asked. He rested his hand on Tim’s cheek while he looked to Damian, who was standing against the side wall, arms angrily crossed.

“No one even laid a hand on us or got close,” Tim said. “Danny, Dr. Fenton, made sure of that.”

“Which was completely stupid,” Damian bit out, his words harsh and angry and hurt.

“Damian,” Danny tried.

“No! It was stupid! You willing deprived yourself of allies! If you insisted on us being in the safe room then you should have been in it also!”

Danny’s wings drooped. “Damian, honey, this… this form of mine is still new. I didn’t want to risk—”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt us.”

“I would never, but there’s still things that could go wrong—”

“Shut up!”

Danny flinched back at the should, wings pulled tight against his body. Then he took a carefully measured breath and made himself relax. The wings opened up again a little and, with clear uncertainty, Danny opened his arms.

With all the speed of his training, Damian dashed forward. He rammed into Danny hard and wrapped his arms around Danny, clutching him tightly. Danny leaned down a little. His wings came forward to wrap protectively around Bruce’s youngest.

“You are an idiot,” Damian said harshly into Danny’s sweater.

“Some times,” Danny agreed, “but it’s alright. We’re all safe. It’s alright, little chickadee.”

[xichilie]

Dropping by to say that I absolutely live for your Phainon/Mydei X reader stories!! IDk if youll be interested in this idea but hear me out.. Since reader is so oblivious, what do you think would be our reaction to Mydei trying to flirt with reader in a Kreamnoan way? Sparring, Gifting weapons, ect. And would Phainon pass out from laughing at his attempts or actually try to be a wingman in this situation?

I love this idea, phainon would enjoy this. He would definitely tease Mydei, but he would help him, too.

Mydei x (fem)reader

The sun hung high over the training grounds, its golden light reflecting off the polished steel of the weapons scattered around. The air was thick with the scent of metal and sand, the rhythmic clash of blades ringing through the open space as Mydei and Y/N sparred.

Mydei’s golden eyes were sharp, focused entirely on Y/N as she lunged toward him, her form precise but still just a little off-balance. He deflected her strike with ease, the weight of their swords meeting with a satisfying clang.

“That all you got?” he teased, stepping back smoothly, effortlessly avoiding her next swing.

Y/N huffed, rolling her shoulders before gripping her sword tighter. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mydei’s lips. Good. He liked a challenge. More importantly, he liked watching her fight—it showed her determination, her will. And in Kremnoan tradition, strength was everything.

Any other Kremnoan would have immediately understood the significance of his actions But Y/N?

She just thought he was a good friend.

So now he had to resort to a different method.

His grip tightened on his own blade as he surged forward, his movements deliberate—not aiming to overpower her, but to guide her into a rhythm, a dance of steel and instinct. Y/N met him head-on, eyes bright with determination, and for a moment, Mydei nearly forgot his original goal.

Then she grinned, dodging one of his strikes with surprising agility.

“You almost got me there,” she teased.

Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, willing down the warmth creeping up his neck. Focus.

He moved fast, catching her sword with his own and stepping in closer, their faces mere inches apart. “You fight well,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “But you still have much to learn.”

Y/N blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard. But before she could register anything, he took a step back, lowering his sword slightly.

“You should learn from me,” Mydei continued, his tone calm, almost… inviting. “I can teach you properly.”

Y/N brightened, nodding eagerly. “Really? You’d do that?”

Mydei barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yes. Obviously. That’s the whole point. Instead, he simply nodded, expression unreadable.

On the sidelines, Phainon leaned lazily against a wooden post, watching the scene unfold with an amused glint in his blue eyes. He took a slow sip of his drink, barely holding in his laughter.

Y/N had no idea what was happening.

And Mydei was suffering.

Their blades clashed again, the force of the impact sending a small vibration up Y/N’s arm. She was getting better, Mydei noted—not as easy to push back, more sure-footed with each step.

But she was still a step behind him.

He decided to test something. Instead of countering her next strike, he let her sword glance off his, shifting his weight so she overextended just a little—just enough for him to use her momentum against her.

In a swift, precise motion, he hooked his foot behind her ankle, pivoted, and swept her legs out from under her.

Y/N let out a startled oof as she hit the ground, blinking up at him in shock.

Before she could move, Mydei was already on her, one knee pressing lightly against her thigh, one arm braced against the dirt beside her head. His other hand grasped her wrist, pinning it to the ground in a firm but careful hold. His golden eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.

For a beat, there was only silence between them, the weight of his presence pressing down like an unspoken challenge.

Then, Y/N grinned.

“That was awesome!” she exclaimed.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

She wriggled her wrist slightly. “Okay, so how do I get out of this position?”

By Nikador, give me strength.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tightening his grip just slightly as he leaned in closer. “That depends,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. “Do you want to get out of it?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering his words. “Well, yeah? I mean, what if someone else does this in a fight? I need to know how to counter it, right?”

There was a very long pause.

Somewhere off to the side, Phainon let out a choked sound that was definitely not a cough.

Mydei’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need to look to know Phainon was watching this disaster unfold with way too much amusement.

Still hovering over Y/N, he inhaled slowly, trying to push down his growing frustration. “It’s not just about the fight,” he said carefully, watching her expression for any sign of recognition. “It’s about…” He searched for the right words, ones that she would understand.

Y/N blinked up at him, expectant, curious—completely and utterly unaware of what he was trying to say.

Phainon made another barely contained sound from the sidelines.

Mydei’s eye twitched again.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow breath before finally pushing himself off her. “Forget it,” he muttered.

Y/N sat up quickly, dusting herself off. “Wait, did I miss something?”

“Yes.”

“…What was it?”

“Nothing.”

Y/N frowned but shrugged it off, already stretching her arms, completely unaware of Mydei’s silent suffering.

Meanwhile, Phainon was practically vibrating with barely suppressed laughter, his blue eyes gleaming with pure schadenfreude.

Mydei shot him a murderous glare.

Phainon smirked.

Oh, this was too good.

Y/N stretched her arms over her head, rolling out her shoulders as she caught her breath. “Man, I really need to work on counters,” she mused. “You keep knocking me on my ass.”

Mydei ran a hand through his hair, barely restraining a sigh. “You’ll improve,” he said, though his tone was a little strained.

Not at this rate, he thought to himself.

Phainon, still perched nearby, was doing his best to smother his smirk behind one hand. He was failing miserably.

“Alright, I’ll clean up,” Y/N said, already moving toward the weapon rack.

“No need.” Mydei stepped in front of her, reaching down to pick up her sword instead. He turned it over in his hands, the blade catching the light.

Y/N tilted her head. “What?”

He exhaled slowly. Fine. If words don’t work, maybe actions will.

“This isn’t good enough for you,” he said, inspecting the sword with mild disdain before looking back at her. “It’s too light. Not balanced properly. You need something better.”

Y/N blinked. “I mean, I like it—”

“It’s not good enough.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the armory.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before following.

Behind them, Phainon slow-blinked before standing as well. “Oh, I have to see this.”

The moment they stepped inside, Y/N’s eyes lit up. The rows of polished weapons, the gleaming suits of armor, the scent of oiled leather and sharpened steel—it was beautiful.

Mydei didn’t waste time. He led her straight to a display of swords, scanning them with a critical eye.

“This one.” He reached for a blade and held it out to her.

Y/N took it carefully, her fingers curling around the hilt. It was heavier than her old one, the craftsmanship finer. The weight felt solid in her grip. “Whoa… This is nice.”

Mydei nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll suit you better.”

She grinned. “Thanks! I’ll make sure to train hard with it.”

Mydei’s expression remained unreadable as he stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “It’s not just about training.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Mydei exhaled slowly, as if willing her to understand. “Weapons are important in Kremnos. They’re an extension of yourself. You don’t just use them—you rely on them, trust them.” He paused, his gold eyes steady on hers. “Giving someone a weapon is a sign of trust. Of something deeper.”

For a moment, the air between them shifted.

Then—

“Ohhh, this is fantastic,” Phainon’s voice cut in, absolutely thrilled.

Mydei tensed visibly as Y/N turned to look at him.

Phainon leaned against a nearby rack, arms crossed, grinning like he had just found his new favorite thing in the world.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to do this,” Phainon continued. “And yet—” he gestured vaguely at Y/N, who was still just smiling in appreciation, utterly unaware “—she still doesn’t get it.”

Y/N frowned. “Get what?”

Mydei gritted his teeth.

Phainon snickered. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all.”

Y/N huffed and turned back to Mydei, giving the sword a few practice swings. “Anyway, this really is amazing. I love it. Thank you, Mydei.”

For a fraction of a second, Mydei felt his composure slip. Her words—simple as they were—settled deep in his chest.

“…Good,” he muttered, looking away.

Phainon grinned wider. Oh, this was never going to get old.

The streets of Okhema bustled with life, filled with merchants calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air. Y/N strolled ahead, glancing at the different stalls with interest, occasionally stopping to admire something or chat with a vendor.

Phainon and Mydei trailed behind her, the latter watching her carefully, as if contemplating his next move.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Phainon asked, smirking.

Mydei barely spared him a glance. “Thinking about what?”

“Your next attempt.” Phainon stretched his arms behind his head. “It’s honestly fascinating watching you try.”

Mydei ignored him. This time, he had a new approach. If direct gifts and sparring didn’t work, perhaps a more… personal experience would.

Ahead of them, Y/N had stopped at a fruit stall, eyes lighting up at the sight of some unfamiliar fruit. “Oh, these look amazing.”

The vendor grinned. “A rare specialty! Grown only in the far southern regions.”

Y/N hummed in thought. “I wonder what they taste like.”

Before she could reach for one, Mydei had already stepped forward. With a single sharp glance, he picked out the best-looking fruit, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and turned to her.

“Here.” He held it out, his expression unreadable.

Y/N blinked. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Mydei!” She accepted it without hesitation and took a bite. “Ohhh, this is so good.”

Mydei watched her reaction carefully, the smallest bit of satisfaction creeping in. Finally, progress.

Then—

“So, this is your next strategy?” Phainon’s voice practically purred from beside him.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

Y/N, still savoring the fruit, turned to them. “Strategy? What are you talking about?”

Phainon casually leaned against a nearby stall, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring Mydei’s… tactics.”

Mydei clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to throw Phainon into the nearest crate of cabbages.

Y/N, still blissfully unaware, happily chewed. “You should try one too, Mydei! Here.”

Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist and pressed the fruit to his lips.

For half a second, Mydei froze. His gold eyes locked onto hers, and the world tilted just slightly.

She had no idea. None at all.

And then, as if to torture him further, Phainon let out the most obnoxiously loud snort of laughter Mydei had ever heard.

“You—” Mydei turned his head just slightly, glaring.

Phainon held up both hands, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, please continue. This is beautiful.”

Meanwhile, Y/N was still waiting. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Everything.

Slowly, Mydei leaned forward, taking a small bite from the fruit she still held up for him. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue, but the warmth of her fingers against his was far more distracting.

“Good,” he murmured.

Y/N beamed. “Right?! We should buy more!”

She turned back to the vendor, already discussing how many she wanted, completely missing the way Mydei exhaled sharply, reining himself back in.

Beside him, Phainon wiped a tear from his eye. “You are so down bad, it’s actually painful.”

Mydei didn’t even respond. He simply took another slow breath, clenched his fists, and prepared for his next attempt.

Because he would succeed. Eventually.

Maybe.

The evening air in Okhema had cooled, the market’s liveliness gradually settling into a more relaxed hum. People wandered at a slower pace, street lamps flickering to life, casting a warm glow over the cobbled paths.

Mydei sat alone on a bench near the marketplace, arms crossed, his golden eyes narrowed in deep thought. The interaction from earlier still lingered in his mind—the way she had unknowingly flustered him, the way Phainon had nearly died laughing at his expense.

This isn’t working.

He had given her a sword. He had sparred with her, tested her strength, tried to offer her food—all of which were clear, meaningful signs of courting in Kremnos. And yet, she remained completely, utterly oblivious.

He exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained.

Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

“Sulking already?” Phainon drawled, dropping down onto the bench beside him, stretching his arms behind his head. “Didn’t think I’d see the great Mydei looking so defeated.”

Mydei scowled. “I’m not defeated.”

“Oh?” Phainon smirked, turning his blue eyes toward him. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like it.”

Mydei exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He hated this. Not the challenge—he lived for challenges—but the sheer absurdity of this one.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he muttered, more to himself than to Phainon. “She doesn’t understand what any of it means.”

Phainon’s smirk widened. “Well, yeah. That’s the best part.”

Mydei turned to glare at him, and Phainon held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Look,” Phainon continued, clearly enjoying himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then maybe it’s time you try something… else.”

“…Else?”

Phainon nodded, shifting to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been treating this like a battle—strategizing, making moves, all that. But Y/N’s not Kremnoan, Mydei. She doesn’t think like one.”

Mydei frowned, considering this.

“So.” Phainon grinned. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a very brilliant idea.”

Mydei arched a brow. “You?”

Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll ignore that. Because this idea? Foolproof.”

Mydei sighed. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“We make her fall for you,” he said smoothly. “The way she’d understand.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?”

Phainon leaned in slightly. “Simple. We play by her rules.”

Mydei remained skeptical, but Phainon only laughed.

“Oh, trust me,” Phainon said, clapping a hand on Mydei’s shoulder. “This is going to be fun.”

Phainon’s grin had only grown wider as he observed the skepticism on Mydei’s face. The Kremnoan warrior looked utterly unconvinced, his golden eyes scrutinizing him as if trying to gauge whether this was another one of his ridiculous ideas.

Spoiler: It was.

But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.

“Alright,” Mydei said at last, arms still crossed. “I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”

Phainon leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well, first of all, let’s establish something—you’ve been trying to court Y/N your way, right? Sparring, weapons, food, all that.”

“Yes.”

“And she has no idea what’s happening.”

“…Yes.”

Phainon clapped his hands together. “Which means it’s time for a new approach. One that makes sense to her.”

Mydei gave him a flat stare. “You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

Phainon grinned. “It means we’re going to romance her the way she understands.”

Silence.

Mydei stared at him as if he’d just suggested storming a fortress alone and unarmed.

“…What?”

“Oh, you heard me,” Phainon said, far too pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then we do it her way. Flirting, compliments, maybe even gasp—” he feigned a dramatic pause “—a date.”

Mydei visibly stiffened. “That’s—”

“Not your style? Obviously,” Phainon cut in, waving a hand. “But that’s the point. You need to do something different.”

Mydei looked like he was regretting every choice that had led him to this conversation. “…A date.”

“A casual one,” Phainon said, nodding sagely. “Something low pressure. You don’t have to call it a date if that makes you want to run into battle instead.”

Mydei still didn’t look convinced.

Phainon sighed. “Listen, Mydei. Do you want her to see you as more than a sparring partner, or do you want to keep swinging swords at each other forever?”

Silence again.

Then, Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, golden eyes dark with reluctant acceptance.

“…Fine.”

Phainon smirked. “Great. Step one: You’re going to ask her to spend time with you—outside of training.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Like…?”

Phainon shrugged. “A walk. A festival. Even something as simple as grabbing food together.” He smirked. “You do eat, don’t you?”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Good,” Phainon said. “Now for step two—compliments.”

Mydei looked even more reluctant at that.

Phainon grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic pose. “Y/N, your strength in battle is admirable, but it’s your presence that truly sets the battlefield ablaze—”

Mydei promptly shoved him off the bench.

Phainon howled with laughter as he hit the ground.

“You deserved that,” Mydei muttered.

“I absolutely did,” Phainon wheezed, sitting up. “But you get my point.”

Mydei exhaled, rubbing his temple. “…Fine. I’ll try.”

Phainon beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

Now, he just had to see how Mydei would pull this off.

It took Mydei two full days to actually work up the nerve to put Phainon’s ridiculous plan into action.

It wasn’t that he was scared—he was a warrior, after all. He had faced countless battles, endured rigorous training, and held his own against some of the strongest fighters in Okhema.

But this?

This was an entirely different kind of battlefield.

Phainon, of course, was enjoying every moment of it. He was leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed, watching Mydei with way too much amusement as he approached Y/N.

Mydei shot him a warning glare before he turned his focus on her.

She was standing in the courtyard, stretching her arms after finishing some light training. The late afternoon sun caught in her hair, making her look…

…Tch. He wasn’t going to let himself get distracted.

“Y/N.” His voice came out sharper than intended.

She blinked and looked over at him, smiling. “Oh, hey, Mydei. What’s up?”

Mydei cleared his throat. Okay. Casual. Just ask her to spend time with you.

“…Would you like to join me?”

Y/N tilted her head. “For what?”

Damn it, Mydei, specify.

He clenched his jaw. “To—” He barely stopped himself from saying train. “…For food.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Sure! I’m starving.”

Phainon, from the sidelines, gave Mydei a double thumbs-up.

Mydei ignored him.

It wasn’t a date.

At least, Mydei wasn’t calling it that.

But sitting across from Y/N at the bustling market eatery, watching her happily pick at the food, he couldn’t ignore the… different feeling settling in his chest.

This wasn’t sparring. There were no weapons, no battle strategies.

Just… her.

“This place has really good food,” Y/N said between bites. “I’m surprised you suggested it.”

“…Why?” Mydei asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno, I figured if we were hanging out outside of training, it’d be something warrior-like.” She grinned. “Like arm wrestling or hunting a beast or something.”

Mydei’s grip on his drink tightened. “I can do things other than fight.”

“I know, I just—” She laughed. “It’s just funny seeing you in a setting like this.”

“…Is it?”

“A little.” She smiled. “But I like it.”

Mydei’s brain shut down for a second.

Phainon, who was conveniently sitting at a table nearby (acting as the world’s worst ‘subtle observer’), nearly choked on his drink.

To Y/N, it was just a casual statement.

To Mydei?

It felt like a damn victory.

…Tch. Focus.

“Your form has improved,” he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Mydei set his cup down. “Your footwork. I noticed it earlier. More controlled.”

Y/N perked up. “Oh! Thanks! I’ve been working on it.”

Encouraged by the way her face lit up, Mydei pushed forward.

“Your speed, too. Faster than before.”

She grinned. “You are paying attention.”

“Of course I am.”

Y/N laughed. “Wow, Mydei. That was almost a compliment.”

“…It was a compliment.”

She giggled. “I know, I know, I just like teasing you.”

From across the room, Phainon wiped a fake tear from his eye. He’s learning.

After their not-a-date, Mydei realized something.

Compliments actually worked.

And so, he tried again.

The next day, they were walking through the city streets when he noticed Y/N adjusting her outfit, fixing the loose fabric.

It was a simple gesture. Nothing unusual.

But Mydei—remembering Phainon’s words about flirting in a way she understands—decided to speak.

“That suits you.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“The color,” he said, a little gruffly. “It looks good on you.”

Y/N looked down at herself, then back up at him with a surprised smile.

“Oh… thanks!”

She was happy.

Which meant he was satisfied.

But just as he was about to move on, Phainon—who had been lurking (again)—whistled.

Mydei turned sharply to see him leaning against a stall, watching with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Phainon said, waving a hand. “I’m just so proud.”

Mydei clenched his jaw. Ignore him. Ignore him.

But Phainon wasn’t done.

“You’re really improving, Mydei. Soon you’ll be a natural at this!”

Mydei grabbed the nearest fruit off a vendor’s stall and chucked it at him.

Phainon dodged (barely) and ran off, laughing his ass off.

Y/N, completely oblivious to all of it, just smiled at Mydei again.

“…You’re being really nice today.”

I am always nice, Mydei wanted to say, but that would be a blatant lie.

Instead, he muttered, “Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

And somehow, that made her laugh.

Mydei had never taken Phainon’s advice before.

Mostly because Phainon was an idiot.

But after their last conversation—where Phainon insisted that “small, casual touches” were an effective way to fluster someone—Mydei found himself considering it.

Ridiculous, he had thought at first. Pointless.

And yet…

Here he was.

They were walking back through the marketplace again. The setting sun cast warm orange hues across the stone streets, and the air buzzed with the chatter of vendors closing up for the day.

Y/N walked beside him, talking animatedly about something—he wasn’t even sure what. He was distracted.

Because a strand of her hair had come loose, falling in front of her face.

This is it, Mydei thought.

Phainon’s voice echoed in his head: Just brush her hair back. It’s a smooth move. Works every time.

Dumb.

But effective?

There was only one way to find out.

So he did it.

Mid-conversation, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Simple. Quick. Just as Phainon suggested.

But the reaction?

He hadn’t expected that.

Y/N froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence.

Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened slightly.

For once, she was flustered.

She blinked up at him, a little stunned, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

Mydei stared back at her, and for a brief moment, he felt a rush of satisfaction.

Then it hit him.

Oh.

Oh no.

What if she realizes? What if she figures it out?

He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

So, naturally, he did what he always did in unfamiliar situations—he defaulted to stoicism.

“…Your hair was in your face,” he said gruffly, looking away as if it was nothing.

Y/N blinked again. “Oh. Uh—right. Thanks.”

She laughed, a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.

Mission success?

Mydei wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing—

Phainon, who had been watching from a nearby rooftop (because of course he was), was howling with laughter.

Mydei shot him a glare so deadly it could’ve killed a god.

Phainon just wiped a tear from his eye and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.

Later that evening, when Y/N had gone off on her own, Mydei found himself regretting everything.

Because Phainon was never going to let this go.

“Oh Mydei,” Phainon sang, throwing an arm around his shoulder as they walked. “You absolute natural. Did you see her face? She froze. I almost fell off the roof trying not to scream.”

“Shut up.”

Phainon ignored him. “The hair move was perfect. Subtle. Smooth. I’m so proud.”

Mydei exhaled sharply, shrugging him off. “It was nothing.”

“It was everything,” Phainon countered. “You’re actually getting somewhere! Now you just need to—”

“I don’t need your advice.”

“Sure you do,” Phainon grinned. “Because I know you’re going to try again.”

Mydei said nothing.

Because, damn it, he wasn’t wrong.

After Phainon had finally stopped laughing, Mydei swore to himself that he wouldn’t take his advice again. Ever.

And yet, here he was.

Again.

Y/N walked beside him, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. The sun had set, and lanterns flickered along the streets, casting a soft glow over the marketplace. She hummed quietly as she admired some trinkets on display, utterly at ease.

Meanwhile, Mydei was not at ease.

Phainon’s words still echoed in his head: You need to build tension, Mydei. Do something that’ll make her think about you when you’re not around.

Mydei had no idea what the hell that even meant. But after the small success earlier, he figured a slightly bolder approach wouldn’t hurt.

Probably.

As they walked, Y/N turned to say something—he barely even heard what. He just saw an opportunity.

So he reached out and—without thinking—lightly brushed his knuckles under her chin, tilting her face up to his for just a second.

The second their eyes met, he let go.

And kept walking like nothing happened.

Y/N stood frozen in place. Again.

Mouth slightly open. Completely, utterly stunned.

Then—

Did her face just turn red?

For a brief, glorious moment, Mydei almost smirked.

And then—

A very, very loud choking sound came from behind them.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t have to turn around to know his so-called friend was probably on the ground from laughing too hard.

Y/N, still dazed, finally snapped out of it. “Uh—what was—”

“Nothing,” Mydei said quickly.

Y/N frowned, confused, but didn’t push it. “Right. Okay…”

And just like that, she kept walking, muttering something under her breath.

Mydei exhaled slowly.

Was it perfect? No.

Did he get some kind of reaction? Yes.

And that? That was a victory.

Phainon finally caught up to him, barely holding himself together. “I—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Mydei shot him a sharp look. “Say another word and I will throw you off this bridge.”

Phainon wiped away a tear, gasping between laughs. “Worth it.”

Mydei sighed. He’d deal with Phainon later.

For now…

He just glanced at Y/N ahead of him—still slightly pink in the face.

Maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting somewhere.

[sparklestormandsoda]

(I tried to send this request before, but the page crashed and didn’t confirm me if it was sent, if you did receive it, I’m sorry for sending it again 😔)

I’ve got an angsty polytrix idea 😈, like reader is a producer/bodyguard/assistant manager (probably assistant manager) or something like that for Huntr/x, and they’re all in a relationship

This takes place during the movie, when they’re having problems when writing and practicing Takedown, reader tried to get in to fix things, but accidentally made it worse, reader gets enough and says they’re going out to take their mind off, and once they leave, that’s when the girls see the Honmoon shine red, and here comes the scene of the train (when they arrived to fight the demons, they noticed reader was inside with their headphones) while they’re arguing on top of it everything happens the same way as in the movie, when Rumi remembers the passengers, the three of them remember reader, and once they go look for her she’s gone along the rest of the passengers :)

Can be open for a pt.2 where Jinu and the Saja Boys “safe” reader by transforming them into a demon and they appear alongside them during Your Idol(?

You’d never hated being ignored until now.

Not when they first met you — the overworked assistant standing in for a sick manager during the chaos of their press tour. Not even when your title became some strange hybrid of producer, part-time bodyguard, and catch-all problem-solver for everything Huntrix didn't have time to fix.

No. You didn’t mind being behind the curtain. You liked it, actually. Being the one who made the gears turn while the girls burned like stars.

But lately, they hadn’t been burning.

They’d been imploding.

“From the top,” Rumi ordered flatly, voice hoarse.

Zoey didn’t even respond. She just tapped the trackpad, rewound the file, and stared at the waveform like she hated it.

Mira leaned against the booth wall, arms crossed, sweat drying on her skin. Her eyes were dull. Like she’d been somewhere else all day.

The opening chords of Takedown played again. The same raw cut, the same brittle silence after it faded.

Again, no one said anything.

You stood in the corner with your clipboard and your bruised heart, watching them fall apart in slow motion.

They’d been like this for weeks.

Writing sessions that ended in slammed doors. Rehearsals where no one spoke. Demonic attacks where they moved like strangers instead of a unit. The three of them — girls you loved more than anything — were orbiting each other with clenched jaws and wounded pride.

And you were stuck in the middle, helpless.

So today, for the first time, you broke your silence.

“It’s not the song that’s the problem.”

Your voice cut across the studio like glass.

Rumi looked up slowly. Zoey froze mid-scroll. Mira’s brow twitched.

You took a step forward. You didn’t shout. You didn’t plead. You just… told the truth.

“You’re not fighting the demons anymore. You’re just fighting each other.”

They didn’t appreciate it.

Rumi set down her pen with deliberate calm, eyes like flint. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” you said, quiet but firm. “I’m trying to stop it. Whatever this is.”

Zoey spun in her chair, shoulders tense. “What, now you’re giving creative notes too?”

Mira scoffed under her breath. “You don’t get it. This isn’t something you can just… patch up.”

Your hands curled at your sides.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you murmured. “I just want you to stop tearing yourselves apart.”

There was a long silence. The air felt thick.

Then Rumi — always the one to break first — said it.

“Maybe you should stick to scheduling interviews and coffee runs. You’re not in this group.”

That one hurt more than you expected.

So you swallowed it down, nodded once, and stepped back toward the door.

“I’m going out,” you said, steady. “Need to clear my head.”

You waited for someone — anyone — to say something.

No one did.

So you left.

__

The train station was almost empty by the time you got there.

You chose it on purpose — far enough from downtown, slow enough that no one would recognize you. You tugged your hoodie over your head, slipped your headphones on, and let your breath fog up the window as the train pulled away from the platform.

You didn’t see the Honmoon glow red in the sky behind you.

You didn’t see the demons start to descend.

Inside the train, everything was quiet.

Peaceful.

Passengers scrolled through their phones. A kid chewed gum and kicked his seat. An elderly couple chatted softly in the back. A girl across the aisle watched a muted drama on her tablet.

To them, it was just another ride.

To you, it was escape.

You closed your eyes. Let your playlist shuffle. Something soft and haunting started to play — one of your own rough demos, a lullaby you never finished, meant for three voices that no longer sang together.

You exhaled and leaned your head against the glass.

Outside the train, something began to crawl across the roof.

The Honmoon shimmered red as Huntrix arrived.

Zoey leapt from the hover transport first, landing in a roll atop the speeding train. Mira and Rumi followed, weapons drawn, the wind slicing around them.

“The tear is huge,” Mira said through grit teeth, eyes flicking up at the Honmoon.

“They’re already here,” Zoey muttered. “They’re on the outside.”

Black, writhing shapes latched onto the train’s roof, clinging and swarming. Demon limbs, mouths with no eyes, shadows that clawed without sound. They shimmered in and out of focus — impossible to see without trained eyes.

The train shook beneath their feet.

“Passengers are still inside,” Rumi snapped. “We keep them safe. Fast and clean.”

“They can’t see anything,” Mira said. “They think it’s turbulence.”

“They’re wrong,” Zoey muttered. “This thing’s surrounded.”

They didn’t know you were in there, too.

Inside, you shifted slightly in your seat.

Your phone buzzed once — unread messages from the group chat you weren’t ready to open.

You turned your music up.

You didn’t notice the child across the aisle suddenly blink and look confused, her tablet flickering with static.

You didn’t notice the man three rows down reach to scratch his arm… and disappear the second he leaned into the aisle.

You didn’t notice the silence that spread, one breath at a time.

On top of the train, Huntrix was struggling.

These demons weren’t attacking head-on. They weren’t going for the kill.

They were sticking. Wrapping the train in a cocoon of moving shadows. Engulfing the entire length of it — from front to back.

“What the hell is this?” Zoey shouted over the wind.

“They’re not here for us,” Mira realized, slicing through a tendril that reformed immediately. “They’re… they’re sealing it in.”

“Why?” Rumi’s voice was tight, panicked now.

Then she paused.

Her eyes widened.

“I… I think…”

She turned toward the middle car. Her dark eyes could spot your pastel pink hoodie through the crowd.

“I think she’s in there.”

Zoey’s heart stopped. “What?”

Rumi’s voice cracked.

“She never came home.”

Mira looked up sharply. “She left right before..”

The three of them locked eyes.

“No,” Zoey whispered. “No, no, no—”

They scrambled for the roof hatch.

Zoey yanked it open, Mira dropped in first, and Rumi leapt in behind them, pushing down aisle after aisle.

“Get down! Everyone stay calm!” Mira shouted.

But the train was… empty.

No bodies. No screaming.

Just bags. Phones. Headphones on seats. Cups of coffee cooling without their owners.

And your hoodie, still draped on the window.

Your headphones were sitting next to it.

Playing a song on repeat.

“It's okay if you hate me. I just wanted to help.”

Rumi stopped walking.

Zoey backed into a seat, eyes wide.

Mira’s hands were shaking.

The train jolted to a stop in the middle of the track. The doors didn’t open.

There was nothing left.

The demons were gone.

So were the passengers.

And so were you.

also yall almost up 100 followers in a single day is insane ily

lmk if you wanted to be added to my kpdh taglist! private message me as comments get lost in notifications

ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything helps- Buy me a coffee <3

kpdh taglist: @spookyanxiety, @forgetfulsmols, @notheroverthinker, @rumiskimbap, @halle5s. @jellyofthefishes, @tundra1029, @zanystarfishpanda, @dinosaur-hehe, @amishreyac, @insomniyuuh, @driedmangoslices6, @sydforreal24,@sra7riddle-malfoy, @tsukimoon-chan

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ MY LITTLE DOVE

Shota Aizawa x Fem!reader

sypnosis: Bereaved mother reader who after losing her own daughter, starts developing a bond with little Eri. And newly formed dad Zawa who starts to notice this and follows his heart and goes for it.

notes: Most likely a oneshot! Wc: 3k. some pre.written past lore but it backs up the story's plotting. Kiss scene yay. Tension, deep tension.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Eri's eyelids grew heavy, her small head beginning to droop as you gently combed your fingers through her damp hair. The strands, soft and pale blue, clung together in loose waves, curling slightly at the ends. Curious, you gave them a light scrunch, wondering if the curl would hold once dry. You doubted anyone had ever taken much notice of her hair before—but you were happy that you could. That, for her, you would.

"Almost done," you murmured, sweeping a few stray strands into place and draping her hair delicately over her shoulder.

"Are you sure I can sleep like this?" she asked, her voice laced with innocent curiosity as she turned her head slightly to look back at you. You sat cross-legged on the carpet behind her, at eye level, your presence calm and steady.

"Mhm," you hummed, gently guiding her to face forward again. "I do it all the time when I don't have the patience to wait for it to dry. You'll be just fine." You ran your hands lightly over the crown of her head, smoothing the hair into place. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you caught sight of the exhaustion swimming in her wide crimson eyes. Such a pretty girl, you thought.

"Need anything before bed?" you asked, rising to your feet and offering her your hand. She clasped it with her tiny fingers, peering up at you and shaking her head, too sleepy to speak.

"Did you go potty?" you asked gently. She nodded again, her bare feet padding softly across the room toward her bed.

"Will you tuck me in?" she mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled and nodded, lowering yourself beside her bed. You lifted the blanket, tucking it securely around her small frame, snug just at her shoulders. “If you wake up and need anything, you remember which door is mine?” You whispered, tilting your head as you admired her calm exterior. She hummed, already giving into sleep.

She did in fact have a long day of training with Aizawa, which you were proud of her for. You know how scared she was of her quirk.

"Goodnight, dove," you whispered, but only after her breathing had deepened and your fingers brushed slowly over her forehead, lulling her into peaceful sleep.

You hadn’t called anyone that name in so long. Not since your dove had left. It had only ever belonged to Dory. Just a nickname, but one heavy with memory and pain. And yet, somehow, saying it again—saying it to little Eri—mended something deep inside you.

Something that had been broken ever since you lost Dory.

An empty space, now not quite so hollow.

There he stood—Aizawa—leaning silently in the doorway, unseen until you flicked the light off. Stealth had always been second nature to him, a skill honed over years of experience, and tonight it served him well.

He watched quietly, eyes steady as you sat beside Eri’s small bed—the same one you had practically dragged him out to buy. You'd spent nearly an hour at the store, carefully scanning each mattress, frame, and sheet set, trying to imagine what Eri might love most. Something soft. Something safe. Something hers.

Now, he stood back in quiet observation as you gently stroked the child’s damp hair, your fingers making slow, soothing motions across her forehead and into her scalp. She'd begun insisting that you give her baths lately, choosing your presence over anyone else's. Aizawa had initially assumed it was because you were a woman—a maternal figure she trusted to give her baths. But watching you now, with how seamlessly you’d grown close to her, he knew there was more to it than that. He was grateful. Somehow, this—all of this—came naturally to you.

You instinctively knew the things he never did. What to do when she spiked a fever. What remedies to prepare. How to distinguish one type of illness from another with nothing more than a glance and a palm to the forehead.

You handled her school registration like you’d done it a dozen times—paperwork, checklists, supplies, and outlining the routine she would need to feel secure in a world that once terrified her.

You held her when she sobbed until she couldn’t breathe. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You simply knew—knew how to carry her trembling body, how to whisper through the storm until it passed. How your fingers instinctively knew all the different types of patterns you could rub on her skin in order to smooth her.

You connected with her in a way he hadn't managed yet. In a way that made him realize he had a lot to learn. He had never envisioned himself as a father. But now, he found himself hoping he could pick up a few things from you along the way.

After several quiet minutes spent watching her chest rise and fall in slumber, you finally stood, casting one last fond glance down at her sleeping form. As you turned, you jumped slightly—startled to find him in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression.

He was dressed in his usual late-night attire: a grey V-neck and black sweatpants, relaxed and simple. You weren’t much different—an oversized, deep-purple long sleeve paired with slightly mismatched blue shorts. Not the most stylish pairing, but undeniably comfortable.

You offered him a small, knowing smile as you stepped toward him. “Hey, stranger,” you whispered, your voice soft so as not to disturb Eri.

A quiet hum left his throat in response, low and tired. You could hear sleep pulling at him too.

“Why aren’t you asleep by now?” you asked softly, crossing your arms and tugging your sleeves over your hands to fend off the hallway’s chill. The dorms were quiet, bathed in a hazy silver light spilling in from the moonlit windows. You and Aizawa walked in step, your footfalls soft against the floor as the shadows followed at your heels.

“When have you ever known me to sleep like a normal person?” he murmured dryly, voice low and rough around the edges.

You let out a soft chuckle. “Never.”

He glanced sideways at you, subtle but watchful. Your eyes were forward, heavy with sleep but still alert. You were clearly tired—your eyes carried that heavy kind of fatigue—but still present, still functioning

Your hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail—half-slipping out, strands sticking out everywhere. It should’ve looked careless. Yet somehow, he thought it suited you. There was something about this version of you—unpolished, relaxed, a little sleepy—that felt... genuine. Endearing. He liked this version of you. He realized he liked a lot about you.

This version of you—calm, unguarded, moving gently through the quiet of the night—was one he was starting to treasure. There was a domesticity to you like this. A warmth. And whether or not you meant to, you had settled into this role of caretaker so seamlessly, like you had always belonged in it.

“I’d ask why you’re still awake,” he said after a beat, his voice steady but laced with something else, “but I think I already know.”

You turned to him, brows knitting with mild curiosity. “Elaborate.”

He nodded slightly, hands tucked into his pockets.

“You’ve been spending most of your free time with Eri,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused. Had you really? You hadn’t noticed—caring for her had simply become part of your routine. Part of you. Life felt normal again. It hadn’t felt like effort—it had just felt… natural.

“Aww,” you teased, giving him a sidelong look. “You jealous, Eraser?” you teased, a quiet laugh escaping you, your voice cracking slightly from weariness, but your smile was genuine. You reached the common room together without consciously deciding to go there. It just made sense—like everything else tonight.

He scoffed under his breath. “No. I’m saying I appreciate everything you’re doing for her. She needs that kind of consistency. That kind of care.”

He turned toward you now, slowing to a stop. The moonlight cut across his face just enough for you to see the sincerity in his expression—quiet, measured, but there. You had to squint to make him out fully, while he saw you clearly: your tired posture, your slightly cracked lips, the way you hugged your arms to your chest as if to hold something inside. He liked how the moonlight highlighted your face.

You looked away and shrugged, your voice lowering. “Yeah… maybe I need it too.”

Aizawa studied you more closely. You weren’t just tired—you were carrying something. Something deep and quiet and fragile.

“You should get some real sleep,” you said, trying to shift the mood, meeting his gaze again. Your expression was soft, almost apologetic.

He tilted his head, dark eyes steady. “But not you?”

You shook your head gently, the corners of your lips twitching into a small smile. “Nah. I feel like being awake right now.”

“So do I,” he murmured.

And there was something about the way he said it—quiet and gravelly, with just the slightest rasp—that made something stir inside you. You didn’t respond right away. Just turned your face, a bit flustered, your cheeks warming from unfamiliar thoughts.

He noticed. But he didn’t comment.

“I meant what I said,” he added after a moment.

You blinked. “Meant what?” Your voice soft and slightly curious, your sweet voice was adorable.

“When I said I appreciate you.” He shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck—like a teenager speaking words that had sat heavy on his chest. “You’re not required to do any of this. You don't owe Eri anything at all.—but instead you just… gave all of yourself. Why?”

Your breath caught a little. The way he said it, the way he meant it—it felt like more than gratitude. It also meant he'd been observing you, noticing these things. But the question itself? That was the part that stopped you cold.

Because how could you tell him the truth?

How could you say ‘my daughter died and Eri fills that space’ without sounding like you were using the little girl to mend your own broken pieces?

The words stayed trapped in your throat. You dropped your gaze.

You had needed someone to protect again. Someone small who could lean into you when the world was too big. You missed brushing damp hair behind little ears. You missed lullabies and bandaids and warm blankets tucked beneath tiny chins.

You missed being needed.

And Eri… she had needed you. Just as much.

You lifted your eyes slowly. Aizawa was watching you patiently—not pushing, just waiting the way he did with students who needed time. You exhaled a shaky breath.

“I dunno,” you said. “I just… need her. In the same way she needs someone. I know that probably sounds selfish.”

You let out a quiet, nervous laugh, rubbing your thumb over your knuckles to ground yourself.

"You need her?" he echoed, his tone softer now, more contemplative than questioning. The weight of your words hung in the air, and he suddenly regretted asking. He could tell this was something deeper. Something he had no right to pry into.

You nodded faintly, twisting your fingers together, unsure how much more you should share.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, no matter your reasons… I’m beyond grateful. For you. For everything you’ve given her.” He rubbed the back of his neck again, as though he were unsure whether the words should’ve been said aloud.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, like he’d just said too much—but you didn’t stop him.

You leaned against the frame of the common room window, arms still folded loosely across your chest, the moonlight painting silver lines across your face. You were quiet for a moment, absorbing his words—“I’m beyond grateful. For you.” They echoed in your chest longer than you expected them to.

“Thank you,” you finally said, your voice a bit gentler now. “I love Eri, really. It’s not just… obligation or some need to fill a space. I genuinely love her. She’s easy to love.”

Your eyes softened as you spoke, as if even the mention of Eri warmed something inside you. Aizawa noticed. You weren’t faking this closeness with her—none of it was performative. And he’d known that. But hearing it in your voice, watching the way your body subtly relaxed at the thought of her, confirmed what he already suspected:

You belonged here.

Not just in the dorms. Not just at U.A.

But here. In his life. In Eri’s life. Somehow woven into the parts of him that were once so carefully guarded.

He looked at you now—not just with gratitude, but with something heavier. Something deeper.

Because this wasn’t just about Eri anymore.

You made things softer, warmer, easier. You had slowly become the kind of person he found himself unconsciously gravitating toward, the way plants leaned into the sun. He appreciated the help, sure—but what he appreciated more was you. The way you carried yourself through life, the way you made others feel seen, the way your laugh cracked in the middle and your voice quieted when you were unsure.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

But it lingered.

He studied the way your hair caught the light, that messy ponytail barely holding together. He liked that about you too—how little you seemed to care about appearances when it came to comfort. You were yourself. Unfiltered, unarmored. And he was fond of that. Fond of you.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was the first time he saw you brushing Eri’s hair like it was the most sacred act in the world. Or the time you stormed into the teacher’s lounge, covered in pancake batter and furious that someone had let the stove burn. Or maybe it was quieter than that. Maybe it had happened gradually, as all the important things tend to.

“You’re easy to love too,” he wanted to say.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he just watched you in silence for a few seconds longer, his hands resting in his pockets, his mind already turning over the thought: Should I tell her?

He wasn’t a man given to impulsive emotion. But you weren’t just anyone.

“Eri’s lucky to have you,” he said instead, his voice low, deliberate. “We both are.”

The way he said we made something in your chest stir.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze again. His eyes were darker in the moonlight, unreadable, but focused—on you. Not on the room. Not on the floor. Just you.

You swallowed, your breath catching subtly at the weight of it all. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” you said, your tone lighter than your meaning. “Even if you never say it out loud, I know you trust me with her. That matters. I’ll stay as long as she needs me.”

There was a pause, thick with unsaid things.

His next words came slower. Like he was choosing them with more care than usual.

“And if I needed you?” he asked.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t heavy. Just honest.

You blinked. Your heart tripped over itself for a beat. “Then I’d stay even longer,” you said, smiling just a little.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. Weighted with everything that hadn’t been said—yet.

Aizawa hadn’t looked away from you. Not once. His expression hadn’t shifted, but there was something in his eyes now—an intensity that wasn’t there moments ago. It was quiet, controlled, but unmistakable.

You felt it too.

The way his words lingered—“And if I needed you?”—the way they hung in the air, making your pulse flutter just beneath your skin. Your back was barely grazing the edge of the window frame now, the moonlight pouring over your shoulder, painting you in soft, silver-blue.

His footsteps were nearly silent as he took one slow step closer. And then another.

You didn’t move away.

His hand lifted—hesitant, deliberate—and he brought it to the side of your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw. You leaned into his touch without realizing it, eyes rising to meet his. His thumb swept gently across your cheek, and for a long, suspended moment, the world narrowed to just that point of contact.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

You felt your breath catch.

Your own eyes dropped—just for a second—from his to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Your mouths hovered as he closed in on you—a breath apart. Close enough to feel the heat. Close enough to count heartbeats. There was still a choice to be made, still time to pull away.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he.

He leaned in, finally closing that final sliver of distance, his lips brushing against yours—light, tentative, testing. The kiss tasted like the cherry chapstick you liked. Rising onto your toes slightly, pressing back just enough to tell him yes. Yes to this. Yes to him.

And then it deepened once the hesitance disappeared and you'd both tested the waters.

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck as he gently backed you into the wall near the window, careful but unyielding. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you needed something to hold onto.

He kissed you like he was memorizing it. Like he hadn’t meant for it to happen but had been thinking about it for longer than he would ever admit.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly, his forehead rested against yours. Eyes half-lidded and dead set on yours. His breath was warm, his voice low and rough. It made you feel hot, especially in this moment.

“This isn’t just about Eri, y’know.”

You blinked slowly, still catching your breath, lips tingling, eyes half-lidded with the softness of what had just bloomed between you. A little giggle bubbled up unprompted, breathless and delighted.

“I was hoping so,” you whispered, grinning like a secret had just been made real between you both.

He huffed a quiet laugh, barely audible, but you could feel it against your skin. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slower this time. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were really here, letting him hold you like this.

Neither of you had to speak.

You’d already said everything that mattered.

---

[godricgryffinsnore]

So......tadaaaa, just when you thought you have striked off another request from the list, you have another.

(because I need some good Harry Potte/reader stuff, even if it takes weeks)

He was in a pretty bad mood, he had been stood up on a first date. He slumped on his way back when a girl came and sat beside him on the train, crying.

[slow burn please. Like the slowest slow burn. I am looking for a long slow burn...And Sirius is alive.]

All the Quiet Things ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a chance meeting on a train changes the course of two very different lives, what begins as quiet companionship turns into something deeper—something far more difficult to ignore. Amid shared silences, buried feelings, and a few missteps along the way, two souls learn what it means to heal, to choose, and to love without fear.

warnings : Emotional distress, crying, and healing, Jealousy, arguments, and dramatic love confession, Strong language and romantic angst, Explicit sexual content (18+): oral (both), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, slow to rough progression, Embarrassing moment (others overhear them), Canon divergence (Sirius, Remus & Cedric alive), Comfort, fluff, and aftercare. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. THIS IS AN 18+ FAN FICTION. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE OR IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!!

della's note : Ya, so it happened... I don't know how, where or when I got the urge to write a smut scene, but I did. But don't worry, if you want this fic in a free-smut type of way, you can read it without the smut too. Smut is at the very end of the fan fic... and I will let you know when it starts. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT <333

word count : 4.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

He had never liked dates.

He didn't know why he’d even said yes. Lavender had cornered him with her glittering eyes and her sugar-slick voice, and something about the way Ron had elbowed him had made Harry nod before his brain could catch up.

Now, it was raining. Of course it was raining.

The coffee shop had smelled too sweet, and the date never showed. Harry had sat at the window, watching the clouds gather like an omen. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d stared at his reflection in the glass—scar, glasses, eyes too tired for eighteen—and had wondered what he looked like to the rest of the world.

The train back to Grimmauld Place was nearly empty. The wet streets had scared the tourists off, and he was grateful for the silence.

He slumped into the seat by the window, coat damp, hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw was tight. The overhead lights buzzed.

Then—

A soft sound. A sniffle.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl. His age. Book pressed tight to her chest, sleeves too long, eyes swollen and red.

She sat across from him, not noticing him at all, crumpling into the corner like she was trying to disappear.

Harry should have looked away.

But she was crying. Not loud, not the kind of crying that begged attention—no. This was the silent kind. The lonely kind.

The kind he knew well.

“Are you alright?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She startled, blinking up at him like she'd only just realized he was there. Her lashes were soaked, and there was a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. It was the automatic kind of lie.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t press.

The train groaned into motion, and the city lights outside blurred into gold.

She turned her face to the window, but not before he saw it—that broken sort of look, the kind people wore when they’d held on too tightly to something that slipped right through their fingers.

He wanted to ask. Who hurt you? Why are you crying? What book is that?

But instead, he sat in silence. Watching the rain. Listening to her breathe.

They didn’t speak again that night.

When the train stopped, she stood and disappeared into the dark, and he didn’t even know her name.

── .✦

They saw each other again.

Weeks later, in the library at Grimmauld Place.

It was Sirius who called her in. “Harry! This is the one I told you about—she’s working with the new historical records team from the Ministry. She’s got the brains of a Ravenclaw and the patience of a saint.”

Harry turned, and there she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. But she did smile—a small, knowing thing that twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re the girl from the train,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flickered. “And you’re the boy who stared at me like I was made of glass.”

Sirius looked between them, brows raised.

Neither of them explained.

── .✦

Weeks became months.

She started showing up more.

She was clever. Quiet. Laughed softly at Sirius’s ridiculous stories, asked sharp questions during Order meetings, and always smelled faintly like old parchment and stormy nights.

Harry liked talking to her. He liked the way her mind worked—how she made him feel like he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived but a person with questions and dreams and wounds that didn’t need to be hidden.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was.

There were arguments. Disagreements. He didn’t like how she looked at Malfoy when he visited to give intel, didn’t like how she smiled when she spoke to Cedric Diggory at the Ministry.

She didn’t like how he shut down when he was hurting. How he’d go quiet and cold and pretend like nothing ever touched him.

“Harry,” she said one night, voice sharp with something unnameable, “You don't get to decide who I talk to.”

“I’m not deciding,” he snapped. “I’m just saying—Diggory? Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

And that’s when it began.

The bitterness. The bite. The awkward silences at meetings. The thunder in his chest when she smiled at someone else. The way she flinched when he ignored her in front of Ron and Hermione.

They became enemies in the way only people who used to care could be.

But oh—he still watched her.

He knew how she took her tea. Knew she cried when she read tragic poetry. Knew she kept a picture of her little sister in her notebook and touched it when she thought no one was looking.

She knew him too.

She knew how he clenched his fist when he lied. Knew when his nightmares came back, even when he didn’t say a word.

But they were silent. Too prideful. Too afraid.

Until the night everything broke.

── .✦

It was a storm.

It always had to be a storm.

Grimmauld Place, the attic, papers flying, windows rattling. The Order had had a terrible night, and Sirius had been nearly killed, and Harry found her pacing, wild-eyed, her hands shaking.

“You could’ve died!” she shouted at him. “You just ran in! No plan—no—nothing! What if—what if I never saw you again, you bloody stupid boy?!”

“I didn’t need a plan!” he yelled back. “I needed to save him!”

“You’re reckless! Arrogant! Self-sacrificing and completely idiotic—!”

“And you’re impossible!” he roared. “You smile at Cedric like I don’t exist, then act like you care—!”

“Because I do care, you great big idiot! I always did!”

Silence.

Breathing.

The storm howled outside, but inside—utter stillness.

“I always did,” she whispered again. “From the moment you asked if I was okay on that train.”

Harry stared.

She looked like everything he’d ever wanted and been too scared to ask for.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I love you and it’s miserable. You make me feel like I’m worth something and I hate it because I’m terrified of losing you.”

And then—

They kissed.

Like a war ending. Like peace being signed on trembling lips. Like two storms learning how to hold hands without turning to thunder.

── .✦

They didn’t speak about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

She went back to the library. Harry helped Molly with dinner. They exchanged glances like secret letters—quiet, cautious, trembling with things unsaid.

Sirius noticed, of course.

“Why are you walking like you’re being haunted by your own hormones?” he muttered to Harry in the hallway, raising a brow. “Did something happen or not?”

Harry flushed so deeply he might’ve been hexed.

But no answer came.

Because the truth was this: kissing her had felt like magic, real magic—the kind Hogwarts never taught. And now, he was afraid that if he said it aloud, it would vanish into smoke.

── .✦

A week later, she packed her bag.

The Ministry needed her in Bulgaria for a temporary assignment. Three months. Maybe four. She didn’t tell Harry until the morning she was leaving.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she said quietly, her fingers knotting in the strap of her satchel.

Harry stared at her.

“I care too much,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not the problem, Harry. You never were.”

And before he could say something—anything—she was gone.

── .✦

He wrote to her.

Every week.

He never sent them.

They were scrawled on napkins, the corners of maps, the back of old Order memos. He’d fold them, unfold them. Sometimes burn them in the fireplace, watching the words curl into ash.

I miss the way you whisper when you read aloud. I miss your damn tea order. I miss your stupid bookmark collection and the way you smell like lavender and rain. I miss you like a wound. Like air.

She wrote too.

But never to him.

She wrote poetry. Scribbled it between research notes. Tiny verses that felt like bleeding.

He looks at me like I’m holy and runs from me like I’m fire.

── .✦

When she came back, it was snowing.

December wrapped London in white lace, and the streets were muffled with softness. She arrived at Grimmauld Place with wind-blushed cheeks and frozen fingers.

Harry didn’t know she was coming.

He opened the door and nearly dropped his wand.

She looked... different. Softer, maybe. A little older. But the second their eyes met, something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You’re back,” he said dumbly.

“Apparently,” she whispered.

And then—

He stepped aside, and she walked back into the house. Into his world. Into the place that always felt like it had been waiting for her.

── .✦

It wasn’t easy.

They were awkward. Stilted. She would laugh too loud around others, and he would grow quiet again, like a tide retreating. He was still jealous. She still didn’t explain the way she’d touched Cedric’s arm at the last Order meeting. The tension curled between them like smoke—every conversation a slow unravelling.

Then one night—it broke.

A Christmas party. Too much firewhisky. A hallway. A sideways glance.

He snapped.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he said, sharp as glass. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you run to him every time he walks into a room.”

She turned slowly. Her eyes were on fire.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You don’t get to dictate who I speak to, Potter. You don’t even speak to me unless it’s convenient for your bruised ego!”

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared.”

“I was scared!”

“So was I!”

A pause.

A breath.

Her eyes glistened. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? You think you’re the only one who’s terrified of being loved just to be left?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m trying.”

And then—softly.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the train. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His chest cracked. Splintered.

“I love you,” he said back. “I love you so much it hurts.”

And this time, when they kissed—it wasn’t fireworks.

It was home.

── .✦

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry turned, startled. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve got that guilty ‘I kissed her again and now I don’t know if it meant everything or nothing’ look.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, Prongslet. I’m proud of you. Took you what—two years and a raging argument to finally confess?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate how much you care. You hate that she makes you nervous. You hate that you want forever and don’t know if she does.”

Harry looked up. “Do you think she does?”

Sirius tilted his head, suddenly serious. “She looks at you like you hung the stars, Harry. That kind of love doesn’t fade.”

── .✦

Meanwhile, upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror, still trembling from that kiss.

She touched her lips, blinking at herself like she wasn’t sure she was real. There was something quiet blooming in her chest—hope, maybe. Or peace. Or the terrifying beginnings of both.

And then—

“Mistletoe,” Sirius announced, bursting into the room.

She screamed and spun, nearly throwing her hairbrush.

“What the hell—?!”

He grinned. “I need your help with some holiday decorations.”

“Sirius Black, if you ever want to live to see another Christmas—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted with a wink. “The mistletoe’s not for me.”

He disappeared before she could hex him.

── .✦

The next few weeks were... soft.

Not perfect. But gentle.

She and Harry spoke more. Laughed more. There were long walks in the snow. Quiet tea in the library. Glances that lingered like poetry.

And the touches—

A hand brushing hers when passing her a quill. A shoulder leaning too close while reading by the fireplace. A pinky that hooked hers under the dinner table.

They didn’t talk about labels. Or plans. Or the future.

They just were.

And it was enough—for now.

── .✦

New Year’s Eve.

The entire house was glowing—candles floating in the air, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon and firewhisky thick in the air.

At 11:59, Sirius shouted, “Make a wish!”

Harry didn’t need to.

He was already standing beside her.

And when the clock struck twelve—

He kissed her. Quietly. Reverently. Like a prayer.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

Because she was real. And here. And his.

And when she smiled against his lips, he felt like maybe, just maybe, all the quiet things were the most beautiful.

── .✦

It was late January when they went back to Hogwarts.

Not as students, no—not anymore.

McGonagall had invited them to speak to the sixth-years about magical ethics and wartime resilience. (Sirius joked that his own speech would be titled “Don’t Trust the Government, or Your Mother.”)

But really, it was just an excuse. An excuse to go back. To remember. To stand in those halls again and feel, for a moment, seventeen.

They walked through the front doors together, their fingers brushing but not quite intertwining, boots crunching on the snow-slicked stone.

The castle was quiet, blanketed in soft winter. Icicles like crystal daggers hung from the towers. Somewhere, faintly, a choir of enchanted birds sang from the rafters.

She looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and whispered, “It still feels like home.”

Harry looked at her.

So do you.

But he didn’t say it.

── .✦

Later that night, she found a small box on her pillow in the guest quarters.

Wrapped in dark green ribbon.

No note.

She opened it carefully—and gasped.

A charm bracelet.

Delicate. Golden. With three tiny charms already affixed.

A lightning bolt.

A teacup.

A moon.

When she touched them, they shimmered with warmth—enchanted.

The lightning bolt whispered, I’ll protect you.

The teacup murmured, I remember.

And the moon breathed, Even when we’re apart, you’re never alone.

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes burning.

He hadn’t said a word.

But it was the most beautiful confession she’d ever heard.

── .✦

They went into Hogsmeade the next day.

It was bright with winter sunlight, the sky a sheet of silver-blue. They laughed together in the snow, tried butterbeer with cinnamon, got caught in a tangle of enchanted scarves at Gladrags.

And then—

He saw it.

A man. Laughing with her near Honeydukes. Brushing snowflakes from her cheek.

Cedric.

Harry froze.

He knew they were friends. He knew.

But still.

His blood went hot.

Jealousy curled through him like smoke. He stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the soft, lingering way she looked at Cedric as he handed her a sugar quill.

Later, she found Harry sitting alone by the Shrieking Shack.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

He exhaled sharply. “You smiled at him like I wasn’t even there.”

She blinked. “Harry—”

“You still like him, don’t you?”

Now she was angry.

“Are you serious? Cedric is my friend. He’s been there since before you even looked my way!”

“I’ve always looked at you,” he snapped. “You just never saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I saw you when you ignored me. When you let me walk away. When you kissed me and vanished.”

“I was scared!”

“I wasn’t,” she hissed, eyes glistening. “And I still showed up. I still loved you. Even when you gave me nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She turned away. “Maybe sorry isn’t enough anymore.”

── .✦

She didn’t speak to him for three days.

Not in the corridors, not in the common areas, not even during the goodbye dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry felt like the walls were closing in.

Everywhere he went, he looked for her. Every empty chair she used to occupy, every ghost of her laugh echoing down the halls—it all clawed at him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Until Sirius—who’d had quite enough—shoved him up the Astronomy Tower steps one evening, locked the door behind him with a muttered, “For Merlin’s sake, fix it,” and vanished.

She was there.

Of course she was.

The stars tangled in her hair, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the frost-glittered grounds below. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I thought you’d given up,” she said softly.

He stepped closer. “Never. Not on you.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Then why did you keep leaving?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Her breath caught.

“Because I was terrified that the second I touched something good, it would disappear. Like everything else.”

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes—shining, tired, beautiful.

“And what changed?”

He stepped forward, close enough to brush her cheek with his breath.

“You didn’t disappear,” he whispered. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was a coward.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—quietly, trembling—he dropped to his knees before her.

“I love you.”

She stared.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another charm for the bracelet.

A star.

“Every time I lost my way, I followed you,” he murmured. “You were the light.”

Her lips parted. Her heart pounded.

He took her hand. “Let me try. Let me show you that I can be soft. That I can be better. That I can love you the way you deserve—without fear, without running.”

The silence cracked wide open.

And she kissed him.

Not in a storm of fire—but in a hush of stars. Slow. Gentle. Forgiving.

Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

“I love you,” she breathed back. “I think I always did.”

── .✦

Years later, Harry would still remember that night.

The soft rustle of her laughter, the way her fingers laced through his. The first time he felt like the world had stopped spinning just so they could finally begin.

They’d return to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

She’d read to him by the fireplace.

He’d cook (badly) and she’d pretend to love it.

Sirius would roll his eyes and tell Remus that finally, the idiots had figured it out.

And Harry—

Harry would never forget what she said to him one night, curled against his chest beneath a sea of blankets.

“You don’t have to fight for me anymore,” she whispered.

And he’d kiss the top of her head and murmur,

“No. But I’ll love you like I still have to.”

Grimmauld Place, the night they moved in.

The house was quiet. For once. Sirius and Remus had left for an Order errand, something vague and dangerous-sounding that neither Harry nor she had pressed too hard about. The silence that followed their departure was warm—not heavy. Not haunted. Just theirs.

And then Harry walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea—shirtless.

Shirtless.

With the waistband of his grey sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

She was curled up on the sofa, blanket around her legs and a book balanced lazily in her lap, but when she looked up and saw him standing there, her Harry, in their house—something shifted.

She grinned. “You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

Harry raised a brow and handed her the mug. “Subtle?”

She gestured lazily to his very bare chest. “You’re practically begging to be devoured.”

His smirk curled up devilishly. “You offering?”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m more than offering.”

And just like that—air crackled.

Harry set his mug down slowly. Purposefully. Then crawled onto the couch, straddling her legs with a wicked look in his eye. “You think I planned this? That I came out here thinking, ‘Let’s seduce her tonight’?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Did you?”

“No,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, “but now that we’re here... I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

His lips were hot as they kissed down her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He chuckled against her skin.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.

── .✦

They kissed like the air between them had finally caught fire. Slow at first, teasing, his tongue coaxing hers into a rhythm that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hands found her thighs, pushing the fabric aside, letting his fingers trail up and up until they ghosted over the soft cotton between her legs.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and wrecked. “Is this all for me?”

“All of it,” she breathed. “Always for you.”

He groaned, deep and desperate, and kissed her again before sliding down the couch and settling between her legs.

“Let me taste you.”

She nodded, eyes wide, heart racing.

He tugged her panties off slowly, dragging the damp fabric down her legs like it was a gift he’d been aching to unwrap. And then he licked a stripe up her slit—slow, reverent—before moaning like he’d been starving for her.

“Fuck, sweetheart… you taste so good.”

His tongue was sinful. Deliberate. He licked, sucked, and circled her clit with slow precision, using his fingers to tease her open. She arched, hips rocking toward his mouth, gasping his name.

“Harry—oh, God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, lips wet. “Let me hear you. Let me make you come.”

He slipped a finger inside her. Then another. Curling them just right while his tongue stayed locked on her clit, flicking harder, faster.

She cried out—sharp, broken—and came with a full-body tremble, hand tangled in his hair.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way up her body, letting her feel every inch of his weight as he pressed her into the couch. Her fingers found the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, gasping when his cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh.

She flipped them suddenly, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“My turn.”

He stared up at her, dazed. “Are you—”

But she was already sinking down between his legs, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, head tipping back, one hand gripping the couch while the other threaded into her hair.

“Shit—fuck, baby…”

She took him deep, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl as she hollowed her cheeks, moaning around him. He bucked instinctively, hips twitching, then stilled.

“Merlin, you’re gonna ruin me.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, mouth full of him, and smiled.

That did it.

He pulled her up, breathless. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

And he did.

── .✦

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open in a silent moan.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel perfect. So fucking tight, sweetheart…”

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Move, Harry, please—”

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in hard. She cried out.

And he talked her through every second.

“Just like that.” “Taking me so well.” “You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Their rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, harder. Their bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, Harry’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He kissed her through her next orgasm—held her as she shook around him, tightening impossibly—and then buried his face in her neck as he followed, moaning into her skin.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and love.

── .✦

Later, when the sweat cooled and the stars were peeking through the curtains, he pulled the blanket over them and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “I’m perfect.”

He looked down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“We live here now,” he whispered.

“We love here now,” she corrected.

And Harry Potter—her best friend, her storm, her home—held her tighter and said,

“Only you. Always you.”

── .✦

The first morning in their home.

The sunlight spilled in warm and golden. It bathed their skin in honey, lit her collarbones, kissed the curve of her thigh where Harry’s hand had curled all night long.

He was awake before her.

Still naked, hair a disaster, the sheet barely covering his lower half, and his eyes were locked on her. Soft. Mesmerized.

She stirred, blinking against the morning light.

“Harry?” her voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy.

He smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mmm… I’m sore.” She winced as she stretched, then gasped when she felt it—the dull ache of being loved properly.

Harry leaned over, kissing her bare shoulder. “Good sore?”

She glanced at him and raised a brow. “Smug much?”

He kissed her again. “You were perfect. You always are.”

Her fingers found his curls and tugged him in. “Then do something perfect again, Potter.”

He smirked—slow, sinful—and slid the sheet down, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

── .✦

It wasn’t fast this time.

It was slow.

He worshipped her.

Kissed his way down her body like every inch of her was sacred. Bit at her hips. Licked at her inner thighs. Suckled her clit with aching tenderness that turned quickly filthy, his tongue moving in perfect circles while his fingers dipped into her soaked heat.

She gasped, cried out, her hand over her mouth to keep quiet—but he pulled it away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice dark. “Let them hear. Let the whole bloody house know who you belong to.”

She came with a strangled moan.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over and took her from behind, her chest pressed to their pillows while his hands gripped her hips, fucking her slow and deep.

“You feel that?” he panted, voice rough. “That’s mine. All of this—yours and mine.”

She clawed at the sheets. “Yes, Harry, oh fuck—”

He reached around to rub her clit in fast circles, hips slamming into her harder now, all rhythm lost in raw need.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me again. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And she did. Shaking. Crying his name.

He followed a second later with a broken, “Fuck—yes—”, spilling inside her as he buried himself one last time.

── .✦

Later, when they finally dragged themselves to the bathroom, still shaky-legged and flushed, she tried to brush her teeth.

Tried.

Harry stood behind her in nothing but boxers, arms wrapped around her waist, his face in her neck.

“Stop,” she giggled through a mouth full of toothpaste. “Let me brush.”

“I like watching you,” he said, voice gravelly. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She spat, wiped her mouth, and turned around to face him—only to find herself lifted onto the sink, Harry between her legs again.

“Again?” she laughed, arms around his neck.

He kissed her, slow and deep. “Always.”

── .✦

Bonus :

Grimmauld Place, still warm from last night’s sins.

The kitchen smelled like toast. And sin. Mostly sin.

She was perched on the counter in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, her legs swinging lazily while Harry hovered at the stove, flipping eggs with the focus of a man who was absolutely trying to avoid a conversation.

Not with her.

No, she was grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary. It was the other two occupants of the house they were both actively ignoring.

Because Sirius and Remus were seated at the kitchen table. And they were smirking.

“Well,” Sirius said, dramatically stirring his tea, “someone had a very active morning.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Do we need to do this?”

Remus tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “You moaned her name like it was your Patronus.”

“Loudly,” Sirius added. “Repeatedly.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a murder.”

“A very sexy murder.”

Harry turned around slowly, face beet red, spatula still in hand. “You two have no boundaries.”

Remus lifted his mug. “We raised you. There’s nothing left to protect.”

Sirius leaned forward, chin in hand. “Though I have to say, I’m deeply offended you didn’t use a Silencing Charm. I live here, Harry. I live here.”

Harry turned to her, horrified. “Why didn’t we use a—”

She just beamed. “Because I like making you moan.”

Sirius choked on his tea. Remus actually blushed.

Harry groaned and buried his face in the kitchen towel. “I’m moving out.”

“You just moved in,” Sirius grinned. “And now you’ve christened the whole damn house.”

Remus chuckled. “Honestly, we’re just happy for you both.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling. “Disgusted. Traumatized. But happy.”

Harry handed her a plate, still scarlet. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek sweetly. “You moaned my name first, Potter.”

Sirius and Remus both groaned.

Harry hid his face in her neck.

The kitchen was filled with laughter, toast, and a love that was far too loud to be ashamed of.

[hawksbacktattoo]

Pent Up | Sensei Wolf x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader has gone too long without her lovers touch

Warnings: p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, chøking, slight domination, smut with plot

Word count: 1.5k

Not proof read

You've been cooped up in your husband's hotel since this competition started. Briefly leaving every one and a while to get some fresh air. But, you have to admit, with him gone for hours on end and coming straight to bed late at night, you've been pent up.

It doesn't help when he comes back sweaty, the intense scowl on his face when the day was stressful. How he looks when he finishes his shower, water dripping from his hair to his toned torso. All of this just for him to kiss you on the cheek and pass out.

He's gone before you wake and frankly you've grown needy for his touch. Longing just to have his hands all over you. To see that look in his eyes as he devours between your thighs.

Popping a grape in your mouth as the thoughts run wild, you decide tonight he is going to give you what you want. A smirk disrupting your smile as you hop up from the plush hotel mattress.

You hum, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as your fingers run across the lingerie hanging before you. You know he much he loves to see you dressed up for him, just as much as he loves to see you bare and beneath him.

You chuckle to yourself, grabbing a few pieces from the rack and heading into the dressing room to try them on.

It was a hard decision for sure, each one looking better than the next but you finally made up your mind. A black see through two piece, with matching stockings and a little bunny headnand. You had just the thing in mind when you saw yourself in the mirror.

Checking out, you thank the cashier and make your way back to the hotel. You had plenty of time to kill before he wrapped up for the day.

Running a bubble bath, you soak yourself in the warmth of the water. Soft R&B music buzzing from the phone in your hand, other hand accompanied by a glass of wine.

Swirling the liquid around in your glass, you scroll through the tournament photos. He looked so good in his gi. You loved the way he looked when he was focused or determined.

Placing your phone to the side you bask in the warmth around your body, taking a sip from you glass with a satisfied hum. The music resonating through the echoey bathroom.

Stepping out of the bath you wrap a towel around your body. Lathering lotion over your skin when you take a seat in front of the large bathroom mirror. Unraveling the towel from your hair, you give yourself a wink in the mirror before pampering yourself.

Curled hair, a dash of makeup just for an extra dab of umph, lacey lingerie hugging every curve on your body perfectly. Finishing your look off with a pair of black pumps and the flimsy bunny ears.

Tying a black robe around your body, you take one more glimpse at the time before scurrying back into the bedroom to finish up the final touches.

You could heard chatter echoing in the halls as the people from the tournament make their ways back to their rooms. Laughter and the sound of shoes scraping against the carpet flour outside the room mad your ears perk.

Sitting yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes trained on the door waiting for him to walk through it.

You hear the buzz of the key card pressing to the sensor, unlocking the door. Heat running to your core as he finally enters the room. Everything felt like slow motion, the sensual music, aroma from the candles making the scene even better.

His eyes flicked up to you, door clicking close behind him. And intrigued look in his eyes as he scans your appearance. "What's all this?" His voice boomed. Throwing his things onto the table next to the door, he untied his gi allowing it the fall open and expose his delicious body hidden behind it.

"Something special. Have a seat." You directed him, pointed to the bed next to you. He snickers, plopping down onto the side of the bed, legs spread apart.

Stepping in front of him, you give him a cheeky grin as your slowly untie your robe, making sure to take your sweet time peeling it off your body. "Fvck.." He breathed out heavy as the robe hit the floor.

Licking his lips, he leans forward elbows against his knees as he watches you sway in front of him. Running your hands down your thighs as you bend down in front of him.

The desire building behind his eyes excited you, that was the loom you were craving for..

Closing the distant between the two of you, you lean forward, hands pressing against this thighs as you spoke. "I think this bunny needs to be devoured.. Mr. Wolf." You could hear his breath tremble, eyes meeting yours.

"What a perfect treat." He growled, hands finding your waist as he stands from the mattress, body towering over yours. It took no time for him to rip through the thing fabric. Mouth finding your now bare chest, teeth raking over your sensitive nipples.

You moan in blissful pain when he bites down on your nipple, gripping the other in the palm of his hand.

Lifting one of your legs off the ground, he places it on the arm of the chair next to the bed, fingers caressing down your covered thigh. "My bunny did this all for me?" You quiver at the name, nodding to his question.

You watch him basically fvck you with his eyes, a low chuckle emitting from him. "What's funny?" You whine, face flushing from embarrassment.

His hand gripped your chin and he clicked his tongue. "Nothing my love." He grinned. The sweet moment immediately perishing as he rips through the bottom half of two piece. As much as you loved how aggressive he gets during times like these, kinda sucks he ruined the outfit, it was cute.

The only thing left was your stockings and the black red bottoms hugging your feet. Pushing you down on the bed, his hand ran down your back. Planting kisses to the back of your thighs as you arched out for him, wiggling your hips.

His finger glided over your wet folds, your slick coating it. Groaning, he lands a hard slap to your *ss earning a surprised moan from you. "You look so delicious bunny." You could feel his absence from behind you only to be met with another hard slap to your *ss.

You squealed at the feeling body jerking forward. "Xiao fvck me please." You could wait any longer, the need building in you was overbearing.

Kissing up your back, he moves your hair to the side and leans in to your neck, breath brushing against your ear. "Aw did you miss my cvck?" He teased, cvck rubbing over your folds. "Just fvck me already." She huffed, eyes rolling.

Scoffing, Wolf flips you over to your back, hand gripping your throat. "Excuse me? Do I need to put you in your place." You whimper shaking your head no.

Slipping past your folds, eyes locked on to yours as he rolls his hips into you. "That's what I thought." He spat back, hands gripping at the soft flesh of your breast while he fvcked into you.

Thrusts slow and long, he knew what he was doing. He wanted you to beg for him, cry out how much you wanted his to ruin you. And that's exactly what happens, a whine slipping past your lips when you grab at his wrists.

"I need you Xiao, I need to feel you deep inside me." She cried, hips lifting off the bed to ask her legs lock around his hips. Pulling him deeper into her aching pvssy.

A grin masks over his face, pulling her legs from around his waist, gripping her ankles as he slams into her. A loud cry bubbles from your throat, cvnt squeezing around his girl. "Just like that Xiao." You scream out, throwing your head back when he fuck deeper into you.

Rolling his hips up with every thrust to his your sensitive spot. The feeling was so overwhelming, you couldn't get enough of his hands on you.

Turning your to your side, he places one leg on his shoulder and straddles the other, continuing his abvse to your quivering pvssy. "Good bunny." He moaned, pressing his thumb to your clit.

You couldn't stop the cry like moans the spewed from your lips, tears dripping down your cheeks while your orgasm shakes through you. The face you make only driving him more crazy.

The louder you cried out, the harder he pounded into you. Pulling you off the bed, he pushes you to your knees, jerking himself in front of you before a loud grunt rips from his throat as he paints white ribbons onto your fvcked out face.

Wiping some of his cvm from your face with his thumb, his sticks it into your mouth, smiling down at you. "Mm, that's right." He sighed, picking you up from the floor.

Helping you clean up, he ruffles your hair. "Maybe you can dress up as a cat next time." He teased, pulling his shirt on. You shake your head, smile as your climb into bed, body snug in one of his shirts.