#// He's rolling up his sleeves at the moment

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

size difference jason! smut

it was no secret that jason was big. he was tall and muscular from training, where the thickness of his thighs were obvious when he sat down and the bulge of his biceps strained against the thin material of his shirt, they were easily the size of your head.

he loved to use the size difference against you. the way he could easily pick you up, his large hands encircling your whole waist as he lifted you up, twirling you around like you weighed nothing.

or how he would be your own personal pillow during cuddling sessions whilst watching a movie, you were like a human ice block so you would use him as a personal heater.

or the way you would just drown in his clothes when you would borrow them, the sleeves going way past your hand and his hoodie going to your knees.

though, the small wholesome moments weren’t just all.

when he was big, he was big, and god did he use that to his advantage.

he would have you pressed down in a mating press whilst he drilled into your tight cunt like a machine, each of his trusts were hard, deep and precise. and you had to take it, because what else are you suppose to do when a 6’5 230lbs man is on top of you fucking you like an animal?

occasionally if you were squirming too much he would pin your hands above your head, where his pace would pick up, shifting the bed where the headboard was hitting against the wall.

“don’t even think about pushing me away,” he whispered in your ear, his breaths ragged and hot. you couldn’t even form coherent thoughts, your mind going blank and god he loved that.

“you there sweetheart?” he cooed teasingly, as he tilted your chin up, looking at his eyes. “or did i lose you again?” you shook your head, everything was too much you barely registered what he had said.

when the hand that was cupping your chin dropped and gripped your waist tightly, you couldn’t help but to gaze at the small tummy bulge in your stomach. the faint outline of him moving and completely obliterating your cunt.

you couldn’t help but let the tears roll down your cheek, the sensation was too much, he was hitting places so deep you would cum in a matter of a few minutes, but you knew better than that. last time you came too quickly and without his permission you were forced to repay it, where he abused your swollen folds without letting you come again.

the lewd sounds of you filled the room, with occasional grunts and curses coming from jason.

“jay, please” you whined, you couldn’t hold it in much longer, and he could tell by the way you were gripping onto his fat cock so tightly.

“just a little bit more,” he grunted, shifting positions slightly where he placed both of your legs on his shoulders as they had fallen off due to how limp you were going before. his thrusts were deeper and more animistic, making your head hit against the headboard slightly. the slickness of your cunt resulted in the room being filled with the make lewd sounds, where you already saw small damp patches on the inner part of his thigh.

“ok sweetheart, you got this,” he grunts, as he tries to coax you knowing how hard it was for you to fully let go and come. “i’ve got you,” he whispered, sweat dripping down his chest, his small silver chain that you had gifted him bouncing with his thrusts. you couldn’t help but to let out a small hopeless whine, and when he finally pinched the small swollen bundle of nerves you went completely limp from pleasure where he continued to drill into to for his own release.

he would fill you up to the brim, the white, hot, sticky mess leaking out. giving you an orgasm wasn’t the end of it. he would grin at the sight of your small cunt all filled up.

“can’t have it runnin’ away from you sweet thing can we?” he grinned before filling you back up again, coating his thick cock with the sticky mess. he would wipe your inner thigh with his fingers where some of the cum has gone to, before shoving it in your mouth, basically prying your mouth open. you couldn’t even make any noise apart from hopeless whines and moans, your breath ragged from his harsh thrust. the moment he shoved his thick long fingers down your throat you choked, saliva pooling your mouth.

“there we go sweet thing,” he cooed, thrusting as he kept one hand on your waist. “don’t waste a drop yeah?”

[imujings]

[l.jh] home for new year’s

synopsis | it’s the new year, and you and jihoon have some cleaning to do.

♯ pairing(s) | lee jihoon x gn!reader, platonic!svt x gn!reader ♯ genre(s), wc | fluff & established relationship, 1.8k ♯ warnings | drunk soonyoung, svt’s chaotic antics, reader is shorter than jihoon, brief shirtless jihoon (yeah this is a warning), domestic fluff …

jay's musings | hii this is my first fic teehee. i’m soo normal about woozi. tysm @wheeboo for cheering me on with writing c: hoping to write more in the future! <3

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Seungcheol asks, his hands full of various gift bags of different sizes.

He’s standing in the doorway of your flat, his puffy winter coat already on, but he looks ready to sacrifice everything in his arms and on his body at the moment to be elbows deep in dishes. “There’s only two of you,” he continues, his eyes wide with concern. “All together we’d be fourteen, and cleaning would be so much easier.”

A woozy and abrupt buuurp! sounds from behind you. There’s some shuffling, and Jihoon’s grimace is prominent as he leads a giggling Soonyoung to the door. The latter is singing some sort of holiday song, refusing to quiet down despite the exasperated laugh your boyfriend lets out at his antics. Outside, you can hear the warm calls of goodbyes of the others, accompanied by the soft shutting of car doors and the hum of their engines.

Your smile is easygoing, leaning against the foyer’s small closet door. “You’ve already done enough, Cheol,” you insist. “All Jihoon and I have to do is rinse the wine glasses and the food trays. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Plus,” your hand flies to your mouth to hide the smile that appears as Soonyoung dramatically collapses against the front door, his head thudding against the material. “I’m not sure if everyone is truly in… the right state to help.”

As if on cue, your endearingly intoxicated friend begins to belt hysterically about lost love, reaching for Jihoon who’s desperately backing away, his own hands clutching to his sides with laughter. Seungcheol scrunches his eyes shut as if he could magically will away the younger man. The echoes of Soonyoung’s singing ring in the stairwell of your flat’s complex, not going unignored by those who have already left. You swear you can hear Seungkwan’s harmonies and Seokmin’s adlibs from up here.

Bidding a final farewell, you watch as Jihoon and Seungcheol carefully guide your friend down the stairwell to the car that’s waiting down below, Joshua in the driver’s seat to take Soonyoung back to his house. Your eyes meet Jihoon’s, crinkling at the corners when he huffs out that he’ll be right back.

It’s unnervingly quiet when you click the door to your flat shut. Turning to the now empty space, a hushed, relaxed puff leaves your lips. The guys were sober enough—save for Soonyoung, apparently—to help clean up to the best of their abilities. Your TV is still on, some old reruns of a sitcom droning on in the background as you finish straightening up the throws on the couch. A soft, cream tufted pillow lays fallen from its place on the lovechair, where only hours before Wonwoo had been lying lazily with Jeonghan against him, the two watching with amused eyes at Seungkwan and Chan’s rap battle. Picking it up, you roll your eyes at finding a crumpled napkin filled with messy tally marks underneath. Ah. Jun’s record of how many times Hansol had goose-laughed during the night.

Giggles bubble out of your mouth before you can stop them. You miss them all already.

Padding softly to the kitchen, you thank the stars that your friends were kind enough to assist in cleaning up. You vaguely remember Mingyu laying the food trays in the sink and stacking their respective warmers away, blessing him a safe drive home and a charger that works without having to angle it weirdly. Fourteen wine glasses ready to be washed were neatly tucked on the counter next to the trays. Luck was on your side, you suppose.

Rolling up the sleeves of your sweater, you let autopilot take over, barely tuning in to hear the sound of the front door unlocking and clinking shut again.

You feel him before you see him and smile.

Jihoon's arms snake around your waist as you turn on the faucet and begin to scrub the glasses. You feel his forehead rest in the space between your shoulder blades, letting the vibration of his soft groan flow through you.

“I am never letting you convince me to host a get-together ever again,” he complains.

There’s no real threat to his words. “You enjoyed it,” you reply with a hum, not as a question but as a statement.

The rinsed wine glasses are placed onto the drying mat upside-down. He pauses, before letting go of your waist and reaching for the towel that rests on the handle of the dishwasher. As he starts to dry off the wine glasses, his hip bumps against yours good-naturedly. “It’s a miracle they didn’t leave the place a mess.”

It’s silent for a little. You take this time to let your mind wander yet again, your gaze flitting to your boyfriend every now and then. You’ve always loved this about Jihoon—his pure dedication to a task. There’s a rawness and undoubted authenticity to his movements, his tongue poking out a little in concentration as he wipes the glasses dry.

Shaking your hands to rid them of water, you giggle as you pass him by to your next chore. You can’t help it, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, laughing louder when his cheeks warm to that familiar shade of cherry that you adore.

However, your mood solemns rather fast. Moving to the counter, you frown as you stare down at the mugs, and then up at the top cupboard shelf. Your gaze drops back down to the cups.

“Ji,” you sigh. “Were these mugs from the top shelf or below?”

“The top shelf,” Jihoon answers easily.

Your frown deepens. You stand fruitlessly on your tiptoes, barely being able to place the mug on the top shelf without it falling back over the side.

“I think I’m too short to reach it.”

He doesn’t even look over from his new location of wiping down the dinner table, humming softly. His tone isn’t unkind when he responds. “Yeah, I know. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

You two work in tandem, sometimes slipping in light conversation about new gossip the two of you had attained from the party. There’s a tiredness to your movements that’s matched by the man, but you both easily sidestep one another when moving about in the kitchen, picking up where the other left off in a task.

When you’re done, Jihoon looks just about ready to topple over. “I'm never doing this again,” he mutters, eyeing the clock on the wall who’s hands are about to strike twelve and three.

You lean against him and press another soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. “This is the second time you’ve said this now. We don’t have to if you really don’t wanna, but I think you had more fun than you’re letting on.”

Preening, Jihoon gladly leans into your touch, his tone softening. “Still… maybe not next year. We just need a bigger place; our flat is too small to have twelve guests. Plus us.”

Something in you warms at the thought of moving out of your tiny place and into a proper house, a proper home, with Jihoon. Maybe it’s the wine Minghao had convinced you to try (and then had a good few more glasses of, but you would never admit that to him), but as you make a noise of agreement, you try and fail to imagine a home without Jihoon. Home is more than where you sleep for the night, you muse. It’s his toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom sink counter. It’s his hoodies hanging neatly next to your sweaters in your bedroom closet. It’s him, calling your name in that sweet lilt of his, before planting an equally sweet kiss on your lips. Home is Jihoon.

You brush hair out of your eyes, and before you know it, you’re moving together towards your shared room. You call dibs on washing up first, to which Jihoon rolls his eyes and scoffs before pushing you lightly into the unlit space.

“One day,” you murmur as you come out of the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bed, yawning and watching him lazily change into comfier clothes. “One day we’ll have our own place. And a cat, too.”

Jihoon glances back at you with amusement in his eyes, his face relaxed, the tension in his shoulders releasing. He tosses you a shirt of his that lands awkwardly in your lap before disappearing into the bathroom. Squirming out of your clothes and into what you argue is a much more comfortable shirt, you breathe in his unmistakable scent and scroll through your phone, exhaustion starting to creep up on you.

Your eyes flicker up to your boyfriend when he re-emerges, cheeks heating at his lack of shirt, hair disheveled from washing his face. You’ll never get used to it, no matter how many nights you spend together. His insistence of sleeping without a shirt never ended in your complaints, but the sight still left you a little dry-mouthed, swallowing thickly as you turn your phone off and tug the blanket over your tired form. The mattress dips below Jihoon’s knee as he crawls into the bed, slotting against you perfectly. His skin is pleasantly warm.

“Thank you for helping me clean up,” you brush your nose against his and smile.

Jihoon’s breath tingles lightly against your cheek, his tone sluggish as he mumbles against your skin. The only light on now is the one from your digital alarm clock, emitting a tender glow into the room that has you sighing contentedly.

“Why wouldn’t I help? I hosted it, too.”

“I know,” you whisper back playfully, going to tuck your face into the crook of his neck. “And I appreciate you. You did well today.”

He knows the hidden meaning behind your words. And I hope you know you mean the world to me. I love you.

The heater clicks on, warm air beginning to blow from the vents in the corners of your shared bedroom. There’s a comfortable lull, sleep pressing you gently in waves, coaxing you to finally disappear under the surface of reality and into the dream world below. All you can focus on is the slow of Jihoon’s breath, his touch inviting, longing, and full of love. Your Jihoon. Your home.

“You did well today, too. Get some sleep,” he kisses your hair, your mind already surrendering to the bliss that sleep is.

I love you, too. Please love yourself the way I love you.

[cherrygirlfriend]

pairing: frat!rafe x tutor!reader synopsis: reader attends a frat party where the theme is to dress up as your type warnings: fluff! wc: 1.3k i got this idea from the wonderful @rafeyscurtainbangs and it had me dead because it's so funny and i can picture him wearing that… i also tried out a new kinda formatting for funsies ^_^ also i'm surprised i’ve never posted for frat!rafe? anyway first fic for 2025!

you'd never really been much into parties, your best friend constantly trying to get you to go to some of the various parties the social butterfly had gotten invited to, but you simply held up the book you were in the middle of and let out a soft hum as a way to say that you had your own plans. after some more pleading, lexi always gave up trying to convince you to come and left you in your own devices, returning in the early hours of the morning, trying to be as quiet as possible yet waking you up every time.

but this time, all the girl had to do was mention the frat party she was going to that night when you let out a sigh and told her you'd come with her. maybe there was a second reason you wanted to go, other than to just please your friend.

"we're having a party this friday."

you chuckled, turning your gaze from the book in front of you to the boy next to you, "you're in a fraternity, rafe. i'm pretty sure that happens every friday without exception."

your words caused the boy to roll his eyes, yet the small grin you'd grown to like still remained on his lips as he repositioned his backwards cap, "yeah, but it's a themed party. you should come."

"why?" you furrowed your brows in suspicion and confusion as to why he'd want you to attend, "what's the theme?"

"you're supposed to dress up as your type."

"and what are you going as? some kind of variation of jennifer from jennifer's body? or regina from mean girls?" you let out a small snort.

"guess you'll have to come if you wanna find out." the boy poked your forearm with the rubber end of his pencil, licking his lips, "i wanna see what kind of guys you are into. i bet it's some thrifty hipster dudes or some broody bad boys that secretly get hard for poetry and emily dickinson and shit."

you felt your cheeks warm from the memory as you placed the backwards cap on your head. you looked in the mirror, clad in loose jeans that hung low on your hips so it'd show off the calvin klein logo on your underwear, and a sweatshirt adorning the logo of your university. the outfit you wore looked just like something rafe would wear during one of your tutoring sessions. hell, he probably had.

lexi looked at you with raised brows, the muscular girl who usually wore dark, baggy clothes looked strange in the blue sundress she'd borrowed from you, her biceps basically protruding from the short sleeves, the girl's short black hair pulled up into a tiny attempt at a ponytail, wearing some simple makeup that you'd helped her apply.

"you're going as a frat guy? to a frat party?" she snorted, taking in your ensemble, "damn, you date so little that i had no idea that's the type of guy you were into."

you rolled your eyes, throwing her the handbag that she'd asked you if she could borrow, "and you're going as...?"

"a straight girl." lexi said, her usual shit-eating grin taking over her lips.

"in that case, you could've just worn like, a grey hoodie, those flared leggings, and a pair of white nike air force ones. most straight girls here do. i think you've failed at your assignment."

"shut up."

you were surprised by how many people actually dressed up according to the theme, especially over the number of frat boys wearing different types of skirts and dresses, some of them even sporting poorly done makeup looks on their faces.

having gotten separated from lexi almost the moment you arrived to the party, you were now leaning against the living room wall, hiding a part of your face behind a red solo cup half-full of some sort of concoction you'd found as you looked around. you'd always been better at standing aside, observing what everyone else was doing, rather than trying to join in.

you lifted the cup to your mouth and drank some of the nasty liquid, nearly spitting it out when you spot rafe chatting to his friends, just about managing to swallow it before you keel in laughter.

he stood confidently in a grey cardigan strewn over a white button-up that was so small on him it actually turned into a crop top, showing off the lower part of his abs, a faint happy trail as well as a defined v-line leading to a short black pleated skirt, his calves covered by black socks that ended just below his knees.

it seemed that your amusement had caught rafe's attention, as the moment you'd finally managed to straighten yourself up, the boy was strutting over to you, his hands on his hips in a way that almost caused you to go into another laughing fit.

"what's so funny?" rafe asked with lifted brows as he reached you, looking over your outfit with a pleased look on his face before gesturing to his own, "you don't think i look hot?"

"oh, definitely. the hottest." you snorted, bringing the drink to your lips and taking a small sip before pursing your lips in thought, "so, what's your type? britney spears?"

the boy's brows furrowed at that, "huh?"

"you look just like her in one of her music videos." you explained, your lips falling open in shock as his eyebrows continued to remain furrowed, "you don't know 'baby one more time'?"

"i haven't seen it." rafe shrugged, "what, you can't recognize who i'm trying to dress as?"

"i can't say i do. who?"

"i'm dressed as you."

you knew that if you were able to see yourself, your eyes would comically widen the moment the words left rafe's lips; and as you looked at him up and down, you realized, that his outfit was something you'd usually wear; just more lewd. "you're... dressed as me?"

"yeah. and clearly you're dressed as me."

"based- based on what?" you laughed incredulously, feeling your cheeks light up, bringing the cup to your lips and drinking just so you'd be able to hide a part of your face from the boy.

"well," rafe snatched the cap on your head, placing it on his instead, making his entire ensemble look even goofier, as he took hold of the front of your sweatshirt. "i'm pretty sure i've worn this exact same outfit."

"that doesn't mean anything… plenty of guys wear this." you mumbled from behind your cup, only to have rafe grab it from your hands, your eyes widening as you watched him finish it in one swallow, scrunching up the cup and throwing it on the floor somewhere.

cupping your chin with his finger and lifting it up so you were looking up at him, rafe brought his face closer to yours, his ice-blue eyes looking into yours in a way that made you feel like you were naked as his lips twisted into a knowing grin, "it doesn't?"

"n-"

before you could finish denying it, rafe's lips were pressed against yours; your eyes still wide open when his free hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

slowly, you felt yourself melt into the kiss, your eyes automatically closing as your lips moved against his. your hands were pressed against his chest, slowly moving down to feel his defined abs over the sheer button-up.

you could feel rafe's grin against your lips before he even pulled away, looking down at you with a knowing look on his face, the boy licking his lips causing you to bite down on your lower lip, your head spinning from just kissing him.

"so, that didn't mean anything, huh?"

[occamstfs]

Talismen V: World Peace

And so the world ends with a wish unless Alex and Nicky are able to abate men changing in every corner of the world. CEO's get their hands dirty, academics find their wild side, journalists go local, pianists get angry. And you, well who can say what happens to you.

Happy new year! Hope you enjoy the grand finale of my little 2.5k special :) As ever, Yours! -Occam

The air around the trio is almost vibrating from the energy emanating off Nicky’s Talisman. Simon’s eyes flicker around the cafe as reality almost begins to fracture. Some intern’s tray of drinks becomes a fifty pound free weight as his arms grow with grotesque haste to keep it balanced in the air, sleeves tattering before dissolving into the static mists. In the corner a struggling sci-fi author’s hands become inseparable from his keyboard and green binary scrolls across his pupils, skin shifting sicky metallic up his arms. Behind the bar a barista twitches as his face grows furry, sharper nails quickly tear through a cheap apron. 

Still struggling to reconcile the transformation witnessed at the gym, Simon shakes off his curiosity and turns his attention back to his love just as Alex reaches out a hand to steady his friend who is struggling to breathe under the weight of reality. Alex, more with it than either man and far more aware of what may, will, and cannot happen puts a gentle hand on Nicky’s shoulder and tries to help the magus understand. Reassured by the simple human act. With the helping hand Nicky finds himself to see the metaphysical tendrils stretching from the Talisman on his neck.

Pulsing, stretching, growing. Alex and Nicky both watch as, bereft of any input from the man wearing the necklace, the power within is simply shooting indiscriminately to every mind and body it can reach. At once, both men realize that regardless of how little they know about the malevolent charm around his neck, Nicky needs to direct its power somewhere or it will work of its own volition. 

Realizing its bearer is about to issue ground orders, shockingly, all the disparate ribbons and strands of energy return at once. The cyborg gasps for breath with new half synthetic lungs, two men who had never met awkwardly stammer as they find themselves half-nude making out over their americanos, the barista apologizes for getting his hair(fur?) in a drink.

 None of the named characters get half a chance to notice the halted changes as Nicky is suddenly being suffocating outright, filled with power returned. Like a constrictor he is choked by the sheer presence of this energy flying back into the amulet, every vein is visible and pumping brighter with each passing moment, his skin feels tight and he almost seems about to burst with the eldritch potential within him. Tendrils squeeze his mind like a vice, eager to run with any haphazard half-baked wish that makes itself known.

Alex sees fear behind his friend’s eyes of red as Nicky chokes out, “I- I don’t know what t- to say” He turns to see his boyfriend, and reality fractures just a tad. Nicky sees him as the powerful man he is and always has been, but behind that there’s a wry bookish nerd who never hit the gym. He remembers a conversation long ago with this different, can’t be past, version of Simon. He’s clearly annoyed, they’ve been debating this for a while, “you can’t- you can’t just wish for anything, a genie’s whole thing is twisting your wish babe. Be-” In the memory Nicky interrupts, “I know. I know. It’s just- in my mind I can’t justify not trying. It- Three wishes, one of them has to be like, world peace. Or uh, solving hunger or something?”

And just like that, just as soon as it began, the vision fades, edges tinge red as the meek other Simon rolls his eyes before returning to the man Nicky knows him to be. The man with the world on his shoulders chokes out a sigh. The wish does need to be grand enough to dissipate all this energy after all. Scarlet tears thicker than blood drip down his face, maybe it’ll all be okay, “I wish, grgh- W- World Peace.” Time and reality stutter as the amulet processes the command input, red energy shoots from the Talisman like solar flares, venturing far enough to scrape patrons in the cafe, molding outfits sculpting new muscle before returning back to the now vibrating amulet. 

Nicky grasps it and closes his eyes. From the central gem of the Talisman red shoots like a beam, straight through Alex. The deliverer’s face is grim as it hits him, demanding he return to the harbinging work he finished moments ago. Steeling himself for the part he is to play he notices a glimmer behind the matte red eyes of his friend and an idea strikes both at once, perhaps there remains hope yet. Looking at his new callused hands he is potently aware that there is impossible power within this artefact, but can it truly affect the whole world? Alex grits his teeth and plans to embody the wish Nicky bestowed, distilled into him, Haste.

Alex feels himself being carried away by the beam, nodding at Simon and Nicky he shoots off, turning to try and race ahead of the storm of will as it tears through city blocks, and countryside, through cabins and campus libraries, morphing men into their wildest dreams and steamiest nightmares. No time for Alex to watch every one despite an itch at the back of his mind to do just that. He needs to get ahead of this, he needs to accelerate, he needs to overload it. Unstuck from time or space he finds himself in a New York City penthouse, standing beside some grimacing man looking out over the city. He did it, he beat it here, now he’s setting the pace. 

Fractals of the beam reflect in the polished windows of the skyscraper, surely shooting off to grace the lives of those sitting in suites across the city. But as it nears the top, as it nears Alex, it almost seems to slow. Giving him time to take in this office, and observe what is to become of the smug man, Mr. McCarthy, scowling as he looks out over the city, looking down both figuratively and literally upon the population he sees as beneath him. Clad in a pristine, tailored suit he almost laughs as he imagines the lives led by the pour sods he grinds underfoot.

Despite himself and his mission, Alex’s eyes glimmer with rage, perhaps there are indeed changes that ought to happen. Just as the thought occurs the manifestation of Nicky’s words shoot into the room like wind, rushing past Alex before slamming into the haughty businessman and curling around him. The witness can almost see on the rich man’s fabric where the tendrils squeeze in tight.

 Eyes widening with fear, he drops the glass of exorbitantly priced whiskey he was drinking to claw and something he cannot see. Every inch of exposed skin is filled with warmth that quickly races under his clothes as well. Muscle boils under his skin and he falls to the floor, cutting his cashmere trousers on the shards of glass. Only concerned with his own appearance, this shocks him out of his pain. McCarthy forgets whatever stroke or seizing just struck him and scoffs at what sloppy misfortune has sullied his wardrobe.  

Grumbling to himself he stands and finally does he see the man standing in the room watching him, “Ughh you must be the help. Clean up this mess, now.” He scowls and straightens his tie before realizing how weary he feels, his arms heavier than they should feel and brow covered in sweat. Is it this little degenerate’s fault, was I drugged? He grabs his handkerchief and wipes his sweaty face, ignoring as it scratches against stubble that he would never allow to grow. 

The thought’s almost laughable, sweaty and unshaven- like some common laborer! McCarthy indeed laughs once more at the image, his hand raised to hide any emotion on his face from Alex as the impudent lout seems to neglect the order given. He opens his mouth to chastise the shoddy employee, but then both men hear the sound of fabric tearing resounds through the room.

 McCarthy’s eyes look down and he falls to the floor once more as he sees his hand. Barely changed as of yet but clearly thicker, rougher, and still changing. Hairs begin to creep up his wrist and poke out of fingers that grow fat and unelegant. He grabs at his arm and finds his dress shirt has torn as his hidden bicep grows bulkier. 

Alex smiles as he sees the man scrambling on the floor grow frantic. His other arm soon enough bulges larger as well, this time tearing both his dress shirt and suit. “Shit!” The titan of industry tries to stand but falls forward as his chest bursts into existence. Weighty pecs begin to pop buttons off into the spilled whiskey. The 200 dollar bland haircut on his head begins to retract and shift messy as stubble stains his doctored jawline. “Help me you- you- Grah!”The sound of his suit ripping and tearing grows louder and more frequent as he tries to remove it as his back widens and his arms continue to bulk to a point that the garment’s survival is impossible. Alex’s expression matches the smug one of McCarthy not moments ago as he sees hair poking through the torn fabric and a thicker brow juts out to shade his eyes. His eyes grow a darker almost blood red as something in his stomach quivers at the sight, “I think I’m helping you just fine Mr. McCarthy. Or hm, I suppose you’d prefer to go by Duke now hm?”

The corporate fiend writhes and rather than attempt to salvage his luxury clothes, simply begins to tear them off his new sculpted form. Free of its silken trappings, the muscle begins to pack on at an explosive rate. Thick curls cover his harried pecs before racing over spherical shoulders and bulging traps to cover his sculpted back. Bursting free from matching pants his thighs pattern with bulging veins starkly similar to the same tendrils that launched him into this new life.

As a beard covers the financial officer’s face Alex sees the man’s eyes glaze over and he stands to a height a few heads taller than what he enjoyed in a life now gone. Scratching at his stomach Duke groans and squeezes at his head with his free hand. The witness averts his eyes from the thick new cock pointing directly at him as he instead looks past Duke to see his new life laid out like a book. No longer some rich asshole who prides himself on pushing others down to get ahead but a man whose hands are scarred by countless days of strenuous work for others.

Smiling as he pages through the story of Duke Carter’s new life he hungrily sees all that Nicky’s will has changed for the better in just this one case. Filled with contentment that perhaps this is not so bad an event after all. He finds himself drawn into the vision, seeing the young man grow into the hunk that stands before him now. Speaking of, Duke seems to be coming to his senses, “Hey there uh, young fella? Yew know what I’m doin’ all the way up here?” 

Alex tilts his head and only then realizes that only a faint trail of the Talisman’s magic remains here. It continues to work throughout the largest city in the states, but the head of the surge has shot on while Alex was distracted. Gritting his teeth he stumbles through a farewell to the confused, changed man and races out the window. Duke is of course concerned at the man jumping from the top floor of a skyscraper but once done, the sweaty laborer can scarcely remember meeting him at all. Looking around the suite as the whole building creaks and begins to change into the HQ of a nonprofit, his phone rings and he smiles as it seems the chance to lend a helping hand is on the horizon.

For his part Alex is soaring over the sea. Struggling to catch up he decidedly ignores his desire to stop at the few cruise ships and scattered Atlantic islands that the beam shoots through, surely fulfilling desires and morphing men along the way. Flashes of tourists losing their native tongues as they find themselves at home in the Azores and cruise ship pools becoming foam parties sear into his vision but he keeps pace with the racing wish. Looking forward, Alex sees the spell almost torn between two potentialities. To preserve itself it’s going to split in two to hit each continent they were rapidly approaching. 

In one world he sees the larger going to Africa and becoming unstoppable just from the sheer numbers game. Clenching his jaw he reaches out and tries to control the path as if it were lassoed. Keeping a grip on it he forces the split to occur early and steers the larger proportion North while trying to keep an eye on the latter speeding off towards West Africa. He almost splits his awareness in two as he tries to focus on both before realizing that he’s already being dragged through the capitals all across Europe. Dublin, London, Madrid, and Lisbon fly past, all to varying degrees overcome by the storm of change. 

Alex struggles to breath under the pressing weight, the existential need, to go observe what is becoming of dirtbag chavs as their little crews shed their jumpsuits and their haunts convert to gayborhoods. He fights the urge to see Spanish academics venture into the countryside and become burly bearded farmers. Ignoring bodybuilding Italians shredding their beards and built bodies to become twinks more than happy to bottom.  As Nicky’s will continues to affect more people it becomes harder for Alex to resist his compulsion to witness and spread the change himself. Feeling a need to nip it in the bud, he strains himself to pull ahead of the surge once more.

Maintaining his grip on the storm, he has an idea to stop it and steers it to a rural Bavarian peak where a lone tourist looks out over a lake. In an impossible stroke of luck the man wistfully utters a wish, “Man. I wish- I wish that I could spend more time in nature.” The tendril swiftly averts course to the man and Alex uses its momentum to steer it directly through him and into the center of the lake, far from any life besides the backpacker and himself. While the tourist, Finn, begins to change Alex allows himself indulge and witness. Using the gratification gained to hold the throbbing tendril in place. No idea if this would achieve anything nor time to wonder what even it would do. For now he must simply hold and watch.

Finnegan was probably less than prepared for this day trip. His roommate at uni was driving him up a wall enough to force him South on this uncharacteristic escapade into the Alps. He’d never really appreciated the wild but as soon as he began this trek he wondered how he could possibly overlook the serenity. The cold air stung his lungs as he wandered through the serene trails and stumbled upon this massive lake where he takes a load off. Hands scratch into dark earth as he adores the sight before him, an otherworldly force screams through the air above him as he speaks his humble wish and is filled with transmutative energy to become a man who will spend more time in nature. 

The coat which has been struggling to do anything against the elements is suddenly working overtime as steam begins to rise from the man now panting on the overlook. Hands numb from the cold burst the seams of mittens as he quickly disrobes and frees his thin upper body to the mountain air. Finnegan’s hips flex against his tight thermals as his package immediately understands what it means to become one with nature, quickly hardening into a cock that would be nigh impossible to hide. And a strange thought flickers through his changing mind, why would he ever need to hide his cock anyway?

His lithe arms begin to balloon with weight as his hands can't help but shove into his pants and explore a more sensitive dick and quivering balls that begin to send hormones coursing through him. Finn grimaces as he struggles to kick off hiking boots far too small for his new wide soles, rough from trending on dirt and stone. Never too much of an eater, the young man’s torso begins to bloat and strain his shirt as the rigors of the outdoors demand he get some more meat on his bones. 

Arms that have likely lifted nothing heavier than a textbook bulge larger as his stomach continues to put on mass, bloating into a strong, manly torso. Pre covered hands begin to scratch at his meatier chest and barrelling gut as a garden of body hair begins to grow. His sticky fingers pull at the curls lengthening on his bulkier stomach and he delights in the sensation, the scratch, the drag of darker hair now patterning his heavier form. 

His neat hair pulls shorter, darkening and growing greasy as it shoots down his cheeks, creating a stubbled chin strap before it becomes an outright beard. Finn grunts as he feels his newly hairy back on the earth behind him. His hands find his cock once more as his nose finds his tangled pits and the trove of musk within. Bucking into the cold air he languishes in his first load spilled on his journey to be a man of the wild. Hearing similar grunting in the nearby lake he looks to find Alex struggling barely above the water. Sniffing and finding the floating man alluring, he furrows his brow and hops in a canoe to go meet him.

Running the numbers Alex is sure that countless men and women have already been irrevocably sculpted by wishes haywire. As Finn approaches he too continues to change. Beard thickening and sticking out from his face as body hair spreads like wildfire. At the same time, the energy Alex is wrestling with almost begins to crystallize. Finn grows burlier and bulkier, every disparate patch of hair from his meaty fingers to his longer toes races to meat in one mighty jungle of fur as he continues to pack on muscle. The watcher’s hands burn with effort as he forces the storm of energy to stay still, to forfeit being an aspect of metamorphosis and lock it in this state, in this locale. 

Near enough to shout out, Finn opens to speak to Alex, as he does a grunt falls from his mouth. What need has he of complex thought or language, why is he out on the lake anyway, fishing? Finn scratches his pit and smells his hand as Alex strains for just a moment longer and then there’s a flash as the strange beam solidifies outright. Manifesting as a spire in the center of the lake, surely still holding the transformative power of the talisman but, for now, immobile. In the back of the once delivery man’s mind he can sense the other half shooting through Oman, preparing to launch itself towards the Indian subcontinent. He needs to go now. 

Finn doesn’t really listen as the man shadowed in crimson asks something important of him. Memories of his architecture lectures and school projects begin to fade and he doesn’t quite mind, seems better to get his hands dirty and protect this little smidge of paradise anyway. Protect, pursing his lips and looking at the spire he floats near to, protect? His eyes narrow at the malevolent spike, not of the world. He scratches his still lengthening beard, he’ll watch this too, make sure nothing funny happens.

Alex once more shoots across continents, soaring over slavic streamers finding themselves doing a little more than gay-baiting and Maghrebi men finding new ways to appreciate the male ideal. He’s not quite sure how long this has been going on, but as he catches up to what remains of Nicky’s will that at least some parts of the world have become aware of what’s going on. The Indian military is mobilizing to some degree to prepare an emergency response and while hemorrhaging tendrils continue to create shooting stars of transformation down towards metropolises and hamlets, when it sees such lofty forces gathered it has no recourse but to beeline right towards them.

When he signed up to be a foreign correspondent Logan Hopsworth never wanted to end up in India, let alone doing military coverage. And yet here he was. The team back home has been radio silent for a few hours but when his unfortunate host nation declares a national emergency he hits the field to report on- ? Logan doesn't quite know, he’s refused to learn the language and plans his time here to be a stepping stone soon forgotten.

He forces a fake at the cameraman as he’s sure the local hire is always trying to film his bad angle. Suddenly there’s a red flash and Logan scoffs as the camera operator gasps and turns his lens on the crowd of uniformed men behind him, “Uhmm!? Hello? Your marks right here Nikhil?” When he keeps his lens focused on something other than himself, the ‘reporter’ crosses arms and turns to see what’s so important. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The performatively macho men of the nation that has time and time again declared themselves the most powerful in the world are suddenly stripping and finding their nearest platoon mate to fuck.

“Jesus Christ! It’s like a fucking pornographic flashmob!” Logan drops his microphone and tries to make sense of what’s happening, “Nikhil are you getting this shit!?” Turning back he sees the flash of red soar past again, this time hitting his assigned cameraman who drops his equipment and begins groaning. Clutching at his headset the cam operator pulls at his clothes as to Logan’s less than discerning eye he seems to suddenly be wearing something a few sizes too small. 

Never concerned for anything more than his own hide Logan screams his usual sign off and turns to run, “THIS HAS BEEN HOBSWORTH REPORTI-” Though before he can finish Alex’s wrangling of the wish does one more round, going squarely through the reporter before the harbinger shouts in success and the force veers off towards China. 

Logan coughs and clutches at his chest as he feels like he was just hit by a train filled with glimpses of everything he could have been. Presenting at the NYE drop, doing court reporting in Australia, recording slice of life stories in Tokyo. Instead he’s here. His spirits deflate as he smells spice on the air and his chest fills with warmth, and then his chest fills his shirt. 

Well of course he’s here? Where would he rather be? Ignoring the sounds of rapturous lustful disregard a few dozen feet away he gasps at the thought. Lakhan’s hands shake as he looks down to the dark hair that begins cresting across his forearms. Like countless men across the world, and the army behind him, the reporter quickly takes off his shirt to see what is becoming of him. Ever thin and hairless he is aghast as his thin shaved pubes begin racing up his torso and darkening into a black treasure trail he would never be rid of.

He tries to tear at his growing hair before noticing that its growth is not the only change occurring. Across his exposed torso splotches of his skin begin to darken, turning a shade of brown just like the cameraman still growing behind him. He begins to hyperventilate and hold to the identity he knows he should have before realizing he can’t even tell if he’s turning into Lakshan or if Lakshan’s turning into some pasty white asshole.

With each frantic breath the changes continue to race, he clenches his eyes shut as the irises shift to a brown and his coiffed blonde locks darken and shift into a look he’s seen on countless Bollywood stars throughout the years. While his skin continues to tan he realizes that he’s also beginning to grow, blanketed under a healthy coat of chest hair, pecs begin to fill out his upper body while powerful biceps flex. He’s always been quite a bit more inclined to work on vanity muscles after all. 

His pits fill out with dark black curls enough for deodorant to never quite reach the skin beneath, not that he cares of course. All that time at the gym is to make sure he never escapes a man’s notice, his musk is simply another way to make sure everyone knows he’s the boss. “Fuck!” He shouts with a deep Pradesh accent, it’s where he grew up and went to university after all, “मैं बहुत सेक्सी हूँ! (I’m so hot!)”

Starting to turn himself on just from thinking about his own tightly packed muscle, Lakshan pulls at his pubes and moans as the movement makes his far larger, veiny cock bounce in the air. His eyes turn to the cameraman who similarly has finished changing into a powerful bharati man of stature. The two men approach each other and just like the horde to the west find more pleasure in a good fuck than they’ve experienced in some time, perhaps ever. 

Above China, Alex wrestles to keep the wily manifestation of Nicky’s wish under control, also does he realize that he hasn’t had a second to plan what exactly he is to do after keeping it on course through China. Thinking it safe enough to take a breather for half a second, he loosens the reins to come to the conclusion that he should just steer it back to Nicky. With even the slightest deviation however the wish forcefully bolts downward towards Shanghai.

En route, the tendril discards as many strands as it can across another cradle of civilization, perhaps making it easier for Alex to manhandle but what does it care, it’s not sentient. It is power manifest, it simply must do. Why should it mind as it is taken through a concert hall at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. It is not out of malice as it passes through Shen Hao that he flubs a key press and fails to recover. Though would that it had the awareness to know it brought about more than an auditorium of change it would certainly feel delight. 

Hao’s face burns as red as the static that shoots through him. His eyes stare at his keys knowing how many long hours have been spent perfecting this etude. It was a mistake he’s never made, not one out of juvenile haste or shoddy hand placement, one that simply should not have happened. If he were trying to make the mistake again he would surely be unable to, such a flagrant err is anathema to the virtuoso.

And yet, he’s a professional, he takes a deep breath and returns to the piece. He will do it right this time. But then, his hands cramp. He shoots long and bites his tongue enough to draw blood as his pinky plays an E rather than an F. That- That shouldn't be possible. Hao looks down in shock to find that it is indeed impossible, or it would have been, had his fingers not stretched longer. His palms wider, his fingers fatter. This must be a nightmare.

The pianist shifts back and the bench creaks under his weight, he turns to nod an apology at his audience and is unable to see how many are watching him stumble through this should-be cake walk. Pulling at his collar as he sweats under the spotlights, Hao finds himself unable to get a finger under the tight neckpiece. God he can barely breathe. He clears his throat and pulls hard, the sound of him tearing through the buttons echoes through the auditorium just like his misplayed notes resound through his own head.

He feels his chest growing, straining his tuxedo, but refuses to look. His arms sting as meaty biceps begin to fill the sleeves and make it difficult for him to even ambulate enough to play the piano. It’s no matter, he’s a professional. He’s suffered for his art before and he will force himself to do this. He stretches his fingers and even this movement sends a few tears down his arms. Good, that will only help his range of motion. 

Getting in position to play, he finds his hands thrown off as his wrists stretch further out from strained sleeves hugging his new forearms and biceps like a second skin. He just needs to be aware, that’s all. His arms are longer, that’s fine. Just do it right. Sweat trickles down his thicker neck and joins the litany of wet patches clearly visible on his white button up. He just needs to get through this. He just needs to be perfect.

Hao takes another deep breath and buttons burst from the sheer width of his pecs. Grimacing, he ignores them plinking against the piano and resolves to begin and- Uhh. He doesn’t remember the notes. That can’t be. The sound of blood rushing through his ears is overwhelming, his suit too tight, his mind too slow- 

 His meaty fists slam into the keyboard, sending a dissonant cacophony throughout the hall. Silent despite the impossible horror of the man clearly growing into some steroid filled monster on stage, this act of rage elicits gasps. Hao tears off his tuxedo revealing a tattoo covered chest and a body that would make anyone drool. Turning to the audience he sees nothing but red. They saw his mistake, they saw him grow into this oafish form. He- he knows what he must do. A new song fills his mind.

Turning to the keyboard the ivories stain crimson as he begins to play a new song, one that demands the attention of every student and professor present for his recital. One that echoes through the lobbies and halls of the building. With every mellifluous note the tune fills them and begs they continue to mindlessly adore him, and as it continues they too begin to change. An erhu musician snaps his bow as Hao’s melody creeps into his practice room, staring confused at sheet music he’s barely able to read. Behind the curtains his assistant professor finds  her himself wanting, needing more of his artistry as a problem he’s never had before begins to strain and lift his skirt. His judge in the audience forgets the notion that he should ever critique the stud’s work as it’s simply so clear there is nothing more to life than enjoying Hao’s presence and performance.

Flying above the Pacific Alex is already soaring past Hawaii by the time Hao takes his bow and bathes in the adoration of an audience truly handcrafted to laud him. Nearing the cafe that Nicky has hopefully not left, Alex finds himself with more than enough will to ignore the presumably final waves of transformation he flies above. An older man on Oahu dons a stetson and years just fall away as he becomes the white hat he always dreamed to be, some squirrely student in Baja California lights a syllabus ablaze as his uniform stretches to become tight leather gear as he begins a bear club where the university co-op once stood.

And then he’s flying over countryside he knows all too well, shooting past the city he circles back and spirals back down to earth for the final time. In his mind he sees the cafe as it sits now, mostly empty, Simon having dealt with whatever cyborgs, werewolves, and overly horny stock traders in the vague time passed. So too has he barred entry from any of the wandering patrons of Jirou Heroes and any of the other clearly wanting hordes lost to their lusts. 

This of course does nothing to stop Alex as he pilots the energy back to the Talisman that cast it out. Ramming it straight through the chest of a catatonic Nicky, the glimmering Talisman clatters to the floor across the cafe, leaving a sound of laughter echoing through the heads of the three men present. World Peace. Foolish. Foolish. You think this over? Your will will continue to be enacted whether you change your sad little mind or not! You demand the world have peace and so it will! When every soul sings praise and plays fool to their most basal lusts and primal urges then, then there will be peace you whelps-

Nicky stirs, groaning. While Alex will certainly have words for sending him upon an odyssey across the world however this shakes out, the caster has clearly had his work cut out for him here. Simon looks at his boyfriend and nods, helping Nicky to wobbly feet as the so far unchanged man stumbles over to grab the talisman yet again. The blazing voice in their minds is muted as his hand covers the gem and Nicky ushers forth one more wish, a demand. “Give me the strength to destroy this.”

Until this moment his previous work has continued almost unabated despite the efforts of Alex and Nicky chasing and controlling from afar. Men and once women have continued to have their senses heightened and minds dulled to the end that they all may end up puppets of what or whomever pushed this artefact, this power unto Nicky. That they all might become Talismen themselves.

In fact perhaps even you were in the process of changing. Your mind numbing as you typed away at a spreadsheet, as you scrolled through social media, as you waited in line for lunch. Like a buzz the alien hunger began within you, slowly displacing your priorities, cancelling meetings, skipping class, hitting up clubs despite having work the next day. All the while your form begins to corrupt.

Perhaps you as you sat in a park noticed a strange itch under your collar as hair began to inch above your neckline and up the small of your back. Shorts straining as thighs bloat and a cock that isn’t even erect fills the crotch of your pants enough to burst then and there. Anxiety fills you, or it would, were shame a preoccupation of your lust filled mind. The same story goes for every person around as they too struggle to control the new beasts hanging from their waists.

You who midgame shivers as your screen flashes red before moments later tossing your setup across the room in a rage as your clothes no longer fit and your interests realign to fighting and fucking. As your shredded outfit reforms to the trademarked uniform of your favorite character, becoming a second skin to yourself just as much as them. 

You students racing to complete last minute assignments in the library as books on shelves melt into liquor bottles and carpets stained with decades of spilled beer. Sidling up as you grow larger to get in with jocks who dizzily stumble as their muscular bodies compress to become those of hairless twinks, hungry to sample your new rod.

 Is there something wrong with giving people what they so desire, turning them into something greater than what they are, what they could be? So what if they lose their minds, their genders, species, sentience? Are not some people made to be used already? What difference does it make if they do so as a person or object, plasticine skin is sure to last longer.

Nicky struggles to hold this all in his mind and ignore it, returning to the point of it all. He needs to stop this. He sees the world changing and stays the course. Changing himself into something, someone powerful enough to destroy the Talisman. His hand widens to completely hide the amulet in his palm, red beams of light struggling to pour through the cracks in his fingers.

Almost muted to even his own mind the Talisman cries out Nownownownow let’s just wait a minute! Surely you don’t want to give all this up, I mean c’mon now kid! There’s a flash as the first crack appears in the talisman’s gem, not strong enough yet Nicky grits his teeth and continues to grow, forcing all his might and attention towards silencing this voice that sounds increasingly like the shoddy wizard that foisted this accessory upon him. Dontcha wanna make the world better what happennnnd to thaaAAt!?

He grimaces and shoots up almost a foot in height as he forces his two fists together, he vibrates with the dispelling of this seemingly all-powerful object. NONONO! You don’t know what your doing just one more wiiiiIIII- And red dust falls from Nicky’s now brutish hands. He looks down with a sigh and takes in his new form, torn clothes scattered at feet bursted from his favorite shoes. Though even as he notices they begin to knit themselves back together and he realizes this clearly isn’t over.

Though not consciously his fault, as the man who began this impossible new world order, and one who clearly still exercises some limited control on reality he has quite the mess to clean up. There remain other, newly created artefacts scattered throughout the world that less than scrupulous people will be drooling to get their hands on, and no one knows how to fix this better than the two people who saw the world change. Simon’s moral support will also be gravely needed.

It takes quite some time for the world to even try to begin rebuilding. Though freed from the imposed shackles of lust thrust upon them by the Talisman, many who changed simply find themselves truly taken with the hedonistic lifestyles their new forms encourage. Despite whatever mustache twirling plot the amulet had in the end, many were indeed changed for the better after all. For now the trio simply travel the city, nation, and world to help clean up the most pressing loose ends and prevent another outbreak of transformative disaster. As to how successful they are to this end? Well, that is simply a story for another day.

[sunnypopoki]

— 𝐌𝐔𝐙𝐙𝐋𝐄 ; P.4

(𝘠𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘧𝘪𝘢 𝘏𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦: 𝘈𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘒𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺. 𝘖𝘩 𝘸��𝘭𝘭. 𝘈𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

ᴛᴡ: ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴜʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴏᴜʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴀꜰᴀʙ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴇᴛᴄ.

ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʜᴀꜱ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄɪᴢᴇ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇꜱ, ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏᴘᴏᴋɪ ᴏɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, Qᴜᴏᴛᴇᴠ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ.

Р.3 / Р.5

Days passed and it was those days that depression started to kick in. While you knew you struggled with basic anxiety and moments of sadness, what came the following days after the store incident felt otherworldly. And not in a good way.

Kieran was busier than normal. This said a lot because he was always busy, but now you were starting to notice minor details that worried you. Busted knuckles, a cracked lip, and a worsening mood. He was beyond stressed and you hadn't the faintest idea of why, but because of this, you've done your best to avoid him entirely.

You believed not talking to him as much as why you were depressed. Among all your other suspicions and worries, everything started to turn downhill when you picked up on the fact some of his clothes had specks of blood and his knuckles were busted. It was one of the few things you tried asking him about. While you avoided the arousing suspicion of cheating, your heart dropped thinking that he was doing something else like getting hurt somewhere. Whenever you asked why his hands were hurt, he brushed it off, said he had a moment of anger, and took it out on a wall.

You didn't believe him. He knew you didn't believe him too. However, you were running out of energy to continue asking and he was running out of energy to continue lying.

You were starting to question if something else was going on. His busted hands were odd but the way he was talking to you was even odder. He seemed paranoid about you going anywhere alone. A good example was that you tried driving to a doctor's appointment yesterday and he was adamant about driving you himself. He wasn't there to drive you. He stopped everything he was doing just to pick you up and take you himself.

Were you selfish for wanting him to worry about you? Yes, you were concerned for him, but there was this small spark of glee each time he rushed to take you places and to see if you were okay. He was finally paying attention to you, even if that attention stemmed from something else, even if you had that gut feeling he'd eventually lose interest and ignore you. What a horrible way to think. It wasn't like you didn't care about what he was going through, but his attention made you feel... better. But it also made you feel worse.

"Are you almost ready?"

He looked up when you peeked into the bedroom. He was in the middle of putting on his belt and he smiled ear to ear. Dark bags were under his eyes and the cut on his cheek from yesterday was slowly healing. He refused to tell you where he got it and each time you asked, he changed the subject entirely. You hated it when he did that. Kieran was good at making others unaware when he changed subjects, even you. You only realized until later that he did. By then, it was too late to ask again.

"Yes," he finished putting on his belt and then rolled up his sleeves, "do I look weird? You're staring at me again."

You couldn't help but smile. "You're handsome as always, I'm just worried about the cut on your cheek. Is it feeling better?"

"It's okay."

You opened your mouth to respond but Kieran was next to you in seconds. Ever since the ordeal with the two men outside the store, he's been extra touchy. And extra means extra. He would hold onto you for as long as he could before he was forced to let go or you moved him off you. It was as if he couldn't get enough. Your face burned when he twisted his head to the side and nipped at your ear, smiling against your skin.

"You're beautiful," he confessed, "it makes me want to keep you here with me. We could just skip this whole outing and cuddle on the couch, or we can take a nap in bed..."

As if that would work out. You were surprised he was heading out with you in the first place. Taking you to the doctor was one thing, but going out for hours was another. Whenever you told him that an old friend from high school wanted to meet up with you and chat, he didn't want you to go alone, even if it meant he'd likely miss his suspicious phone calls.

"We have to go. I already promised."

It was even more suspicious that he wanted to go with you to meet this old friend. Especially considering their track record of insults when they used to hang out together. You squinted at him.

"What?" he tilted his head.

"I'm surprised just you agreed to go. You've never liked Danny."

Daniel Evergrown, better known as "Danny", was a boy you went to high school with. He was the opposite of Kieran back then; straight A's, valedictorian, and a genius when it came down to business. He was your friend back in middle school when your parents wanted you to connect with other children. Particularly of higher status, which Danny was, with both of his parents being surgeons. He stayed your friend throughout your teen years. The two of you split after graduation like most friends did.

You never thought he'd reach out and ask for you to catch up with him. It was even more shocking that he invited you to meet up at a fancy restaurant. Even if he was raised in a rich household, he never enjoyed fancy places to eat. He always said that they made him sick to his stomach.

Kieran bared his teeth in a bright smile and chuckled. "I didn't like him in high school. That was a while ago. He probably has changed since then."

"You never told me why you disliked him, you know?"

He tilted his head and ran his hands up your back, trailing your spine with his fingers, then grabbing the back of your neck to scratch tenderly. His teeth nipped at your jaw when he leaned down. His breath was hot and needy, and he cradled the back of your head. "Hm... you couldn't realize he had a crush on you back then?"

A second passed before you busted out laughing. Everything about that was preposterous. Danny? Having a crush on you? That was impossible! He was so obsessed with his grades in school that you doubted he loved anything else. While his parents also forced him to have the best grades in school like yours did, he actually enjoyed learning, unlike you who hated it.

"No way he had a crush on me!"

"He did. It's not my fault that you're oblivious. You were oblivious to my crush on you for the longest time," he huffed with a small pout. "I gave you a kiss on the cheek once and you questioned me right after like I committed a crime."

"That's because you hated me!" you gaped, pointing at him, "you always used to do nice things and then prank me right after. You even made fun of my accent once and called me a leftover, moldy pizza box."

He scoffed. "That was a long time ago. I love your accent now."

"So you didn't like it at first?"

"Forgive me, Котик. I was a dumb teenager who hated anything American."

"You still hate many things Americans do," you rolled your eyes. "I could list a whole ton of them off the top of my head."

"Americans are very touchy and smiley with people they don't know. I only want you to touch me," he leaned in, "and smile at me, kiss me, and talk to me. Everyone else can go rot."

There were times when you swore everything was just in your head. Unlike the game you always played when he avoided eye contact, you didn't take three gulps of breath, you merely held it and stared at him. He looked like he could only lean on you. That was when you started to melt, when he took your breath away and made your heart flutter.

"You know, when you talk like that, you sound obsessed."

His eyes crinkled around the edges. "Can't I be?"

When he talked like this, it made you feel special. Wanted. Desired. Your throat swelled up and heat spread across your cheeks. Looking away, you cleared your throat. You never knew how to respond when he acted like this. It always left you speechless. He acted like this in high school too, muttering how you were the only person he ever wanted near him. That he was hooked on you like a drug.

"That's unhealthy thinking."

"But you like it," his throat rasped and you shivered when his hands raked down your sides to squeeze your waist again, "you're not good at hiding what you like, Котик."

"Oh shut up," you grumbled.

"Mm, kiss me and I might."

You didn't get a chance to respond before his lips smashed against yours. The breath that wasn't even in your lungs was knocked even farther away, your back arching into him while he pulled you closer. He couldn't keep his hands off of you. Your back, neck, arms, waist. He kissed you like he was starving. The heat under your cheeks worsened. By the time he pulled away, you felt dizzy.

His eyes sparkled. "You're not supposed to hold your breath, Котик.”

"I—no—shut it! We need to leave or we will be late."

He raised his hands in defense. "Yes, yes."

You hated it when he embarrassed you like that. Not that he tried to embarrass you on purpose, but he did like to tease you when he noticed you got shy. It was moments like that when you realized that you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you. Hooked on him like a drug you'd never be able to get rid of, that was why ever suspicion you had hurt so much. It made sense why you loved him so much. Even when things got hard, he was still your Kieran. You heated up at the thought.

You slipped from his grasp and scurried away. You grabbed your bag from the back of the couch in the living room and ran to the front door, listening to Kieran walk right after you. You wrapped your scarf around your neck.

"Want me to drive? Or you?" he asked.

"You."

He chuckled. He was a better driver than you even if you never wanted to admit it, plus if you had to be honest, you never enjoyed driving. As you two headed out to the car, you yelped when a hand smacked your ass. Whipping around seething, you hissed at him. Your face was even hotter than before.

"Kieran!"

He looked like a kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar. Grinning cheekily, he slipped into the driver's seat, giggling like a boy. Your heart swelled up and he turned on the radio. Paranoid or not about something, he looked to be in a good mood today. Maybe it was because he was going out with you, maybe he heard good news earlier in the day, you weren't entirely sure. But his giddy smile filled your heart with butterflies.

The heat was quickly turned on. You held your hands in front of the vents and hoped the air would melt away the cold bite in your fingers.

"Where are we meeting Danny at again?" he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror as he backed up.

"A restaurant called 'Papillon'. It's closer to the city."

Kieran raised an eyebrow. The whole reason you asked for him to dress up nicer was because it was a four-star restaurant, and while it didn't have a dress code, it was a fancy place. It's been a while since you wore a dress. You weren't fond of dresses, you were always forced to wear them as a kid, so you had a natural distaste for them now.

He was dressed in a simple white dress shirt and nice black pants. His shoes were shiny and his hair was let loose down his shoulders. His tattoos peeked out from his collar and sleeves. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and fixed the GPS, not brave enough in his memory to drive there on his own. He placed his other hand on your thigh when he was done.

It was refreshing that you weren't ignoring him anymore. It was even more refreshing to see him smiling so much, not stressed or horribly tired after he came home late. But of course, not ignoring him came with a price nowadays. You couldn't ask any questions because he might just ignore them. Not about his cuts, his job, his life. You ignored the bitter taste in your mouth.

"We have to be here in 30 minutes, right?"

"Yes, so there's no reason to rush. We have enough time," you nodded.

"Mmm."

You opened your mouth to say something. Anything to switch your mind off your depressing thoughts, but your prayers were heard. Not in a good way. You distracted by the radio, which was blasting the news, the news reporting sounding strangely serious for the middle of the day.

"Three people have been found deceased today on route nine. They were discovered at sunrise, around 7:00 AM, and their names are Rhonda Layne, Roman White, and Garret Wood. All of them are between the ages of 30 and 35."

"Holy hell," you mumbled.

Now you weren't usually interested in the news or gossip, but this was so sudden that it felt like a slap to the face. Route nine was surprisingly close to your house and a well populated road, not a place where you'd randomly find dead bodies strewn about. Maybe an accident, but found? Kieran glanced at the radio as well, pursing his lips in displeasure. He almost looked disgusted. You didn't blame him, hearing about three dead bodies being found didn't sit well with the mind or stomach, especially knowing how close it was to your house.

The newscaster continued to ramble on about the situation. You turned it up to listen.

"From what we have gathered from the police department, we have been told that this might as well be a murder case. No suspects have been taken into custody. If you or anyone you know has a tip on what happened, please call the number—"

"Murder? So like a serial killer?"

Bile gurgled in your gut. What if those tattooed men you met a couple days ago were the killers? What if someone else was? What if you got kidnapped and murdered that day just because you decided to walk at night? You weren't a strong person. If someone came after you with the intent to kill, you didn't think you'd make it out alive in any scenario. In fact, you'd probably rush your own death. You'd rather die immediately instead of a prolonged end.

Kieran's hand squeezed your thigh. His fingers kneaded into your flesh, massaging gently. Glancing over, you saw him watching you from the corner of his eye as he drove down the road. He looked worried.

"It'll be okay, Котик. The police department will take care of it and catch them," he rubbed circles on your skin. "They won't touch a single hair on your head, I swear it."

"I know. But like—I don't know, what if they hurt you?"

He blinked. "Me?"

"Sometimes you leave late," you swallowed the sudden dryness in the back of your throat, "what if they find you and hurt you? What if they kill you and dump—"

He smiled warmly. He squeezed your leg so tightly that you were sure that his hand would imprint there forever. It was some comfort for your pounding heart. He almost looked amused, but you shook the thought away, knowing that he didn't take joy from seeing you worried. You had to be seeing things. He was never the type to get amused when others were hurt. He was either indifferent or annoyed with the entire situation, sometimes disgusted.

"I won't get hurt, Котик."

"But you could.”

"Hmm," he paused, "then I'll start staying home more to be safe. I'm sure my clients will understand."

Your jaw almost dropped. Out of all the things he could have said, you didn't expect that. Your heart soared but you quickly tied it down. No, why should you be excited that he was forced to stay home because of some dangerous threat? Why were you excited for his freedom to be limited? Deep down, you knew why. If he was fine with staying home, then that meant it would be less likely he was cheating on you. It meant he wouldn't be meeting up with some woman named 'Sam'.

Maybe you were a bad person. Being grateful for the situation yet the whole situation was caused by three innocent people being found dead. Guilt swamped your head and you looked out the window at the houses and businesses you passed by. You were selfish, weren't you? Some pig that deserved to rot. Maybe your parents were right—

"(Y/N)?"

Your head snapped to look at him. He looked serious.

"You have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"Like you're ashamed of something."

Like being punched in the gut, your face twisted up, and you quickly looked away. There were some things about Kieran that you had a love/hate relationship with. His ability to read you was one of them. He always hit the nail straight on the head and he never pulled back his punches. You felt his eyes burning into the side of your head and he sighed.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" he asked, his voice so gentle, you almost believed you were made out of glass. "You don't have to tell me, but I am here for you, Котик."

"...I just feel like a bad person sometimes."

His hand shifted and his fingers found yours, holding your hand tightly. When he spoke, he sounded pained, as if he was taking on all of your burdens onto his shoulders. "Do you think I would have fallen in love with a bad person?"

"Well, no--"

"So why do you think you're a bad person?" he took a deep breath. "Out of all the people in school, you were the only one who didn't bully or treat me differently because of where I came from. You were the only one who stood up for me when I was targeted by assholes. Every day, you worked so hard, and even when you had bad days, you never took it out on someone else."

Kieran sounded so sincere. He was devout as if he was speaking to a goddess, not just a random woman he decided to make his wife. Your throat closed up and he quickly brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles and mumbling sweetly against them.

"You feel like a bad person. That doesn't make you one."

You knew what he was saying. Emotions weren't a fact and they didn't make things true. As someone who was studying the brain and human behaviors just for your future job, you knew that you couldn't count your emotions as a judgment of your character. But that was hard. It was hard to like yourself when you had such... nasty selfish thoughts sometimes. You gnawed on your bottom lip and glanced at him.

"...thank you."

"Always, my Котик."

He switched the radio station to some light-hearted music right after. The hand that held yours only left when he had to turn, but quickly grabbed yours again. His pep talk did make you feel a little better but you weren't out of the woods entirely. Guilt continued to look over your shoulders with a suffocating glare, burning holes into the back of your head, staring down every selfish that you've ever had.

Just think about something else. That has to be easier than that.

You let your brain wander to more serious topics. There had been gang activity recently, right? At least that was what you heard recently. From the cashier lady mentioning kidnappings, and some people at the university talking about gangs, and then now there were the three murders; the idea didn't seem so far off.

It was even more odd when you thought about how Kieran has been coming home hurt. Now, you didn't expect him to be in a gang, you didn't think someone like him had enough 'teamwork' in him to do that. But what if he was in danger? Or stuck in something he didn't know how to get out of? What if he was being threatened by someone? You examined the cut on his cheek. It was healing but it was a little red around the edges, a little tender. It'd probably ache if you touched it. He didn't have a black eye so it wasn't like he got it from being punched.

It could have been an accident. Maybe I am overthinking it.

It was just odd to think about. All these started happening around the same time he started coming home with busted knuckles and cuts. You couldn't be the only person who thought that was odd, right? You chewed on the edge of your tongue and debated on egging on a conversation to see his reaction. But what if it backfired? You weren't sure what you'd do if you found out he was involved with something dangerous. Obviously, you'd confide in the police, that's a no-brainer.

Then there was the issue of if he was involved personally without being threatened. No, no. There was no possible way that he was involved like that. Kieran was violent at times, but he was only violent to people who deserved it, people who harmed you or others. He wouldn't go out of his way to do crime. He wouldn't do it even if it was in the way. He preferred peace over stupid chaos.

Clearing your throat, you decided to bring up a small conversation. Just to see his reaction. That was all.

"You know, now that I am thinking about it, what if it's a gang or something? A sweet cashier at the store mentioned kidnappings to me when I was leaving and others at Uni have talked about gangs. Plus three murders just found out of nowhere? Isn't that a little odd to you?"

He pulled down a highway that led straight to the city. He took a second before he responded. "I don't know, I haven't heard much about it. Though I can tell that you're worried about it."

"Well, I'm not worried, it's just..."

"It's okay to be interested in something. Especially since it happened close." Kieran let his arm rest in his lap and grabbed the steering wheel from below. The sigh that dragged from his lips was relaxed, his eyes focused ahead on the highway. "I'm just worried you'll get hooked on this and make yourself paranoid. You did that once with a crime documentary when we were dating in high school."

"I won't make myself paranoid!" you retorted, "plus that was a long time ago."

Kieran chuckled. "True."

"You just have to be cautious! It could be something worse than a gang."

He raised an eyebrow and glanced over. He looked skeptical, as if he was trying to read your mind and had a gut feeling whatever you were thinking of wasn't plausible at all. "And what's worse than a gang of criminals?"

"Uh, like, the mafia?"

"Mmm. You think there's a mafia family on the outskirts of the city where we live?" he asked. Turning the blinker on, he turned onto another road. "And that they killed three people and left their bodies on the side of the road?"

"I mean, it could happen!" you rebuked.

The car stopped at a red light, leaving him asking, "And you're thinking about the Italian mafia?"

"Well any type of mafia! Like the.. American mafia.. or something!"

Kieran looked at you like you grew two heads. "I think, Котик, you've been reading too many articles online. A gang would be more likely than the mafia. Wouldn't the mafia hide all evidence, not leave it out? Like the movies, you know."

Well, when he put it like that, you almost did sound crazy. The mafia sounded a lot more serious than gang rivalries or debts in your head. From all the movies you showed, the mafia always seemed clean and cut to the T with how they did things. Movies weren't real life but you knew that men with debt weren't the same as criminals who happened to be business men.

"The police will catch them," Kieran comforted, "I just pray you don't start playing detective. Gang or not, I don't want you getting too swamped up in something dangerous."

"Of course I won't. I'm not an idiot who wants to throw away their life."

The conversation didn't continue much after that. The air seemed awkward, but only for you, as he started humming and bobbing his head to the music as he drove. There was a small smile on his lips. Whatever he was thinking about, it wasn't about murder or gangs, because he looked so cheery that it almost reminded you of a giggly high schooler. There was no reason for you to ruin his bad mood. You trusted him enough to tell you if he was in something dangerous like that. Ha, how funny. You could trust him over that, but had a hard time trusting if he was cheating on you or not.

Why, didn't that say a lot about you, didn't it?

You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes. The car was warm, the glass was cold, and his hand was perfect in yours. Danny would be shocked to hear that you married Kieran. None of your high school friends were invited to your wedding since it was strictly family and you doubted he heard about it, especially since he was away on the other side of the country when Kieran proposed. You couldn't wait to see his face.

There were some parts of you that wanted to dwell on the bad. Thinking about the good made you anxious, as if something bad would happen and ruin everything. You wanted to be prepared—but what would happen? The two of you were just going out to lunch to meet an old high school friend. Kieran's pep talk made you feel a little bit better about yourself too.

But should you feel better about yourself? That didn't change the selfish thoughts you had earlier. Feeling excited he'd stay home with you more just because something bad happened to other people. Of course, you weren't happy something bad happened to anyone, but you were crude enough to have a sliver of excitement in a bad situation.

Just don't think about it, you thought. Think about it later. Just enjoy your time now. Stop self sabotaging.

The GPS signaled for the car to turn left and beeped when it arrived at its destination. Luckily for you, it didn't seem to be packed with people, and you were glad that Danny scheduled for the meet up to be at a time that wasn't close to rush hour or after work hours.

The car pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant. You glanced at the city line that wasn't far away, the skyscrapers stretching up to the clouds, and the distant plane that carved through the clouds. You popped out of the car and shut the door behind you. The restaurant you were going to was three stories tall, each floor with seating. There were a couple of people on the balconies eating and you debated on how insane they were to eat out in the middle of winter. At least it wasn't snowing today.

Anxiety started to jitter your bones and you already began to blame it on the cold. Every second was another second your brain would bounce between thoughts, not giving you enough chance to breathe. One moment you felt excited, then guilty, then worried, and now you were anxious. Why? You weren't anxious before? So why did you suddenly want to throw up?

Kieran stepped out of the car, locked it, and held out his hand. You noticed the healing scabs from his busted knuckles and the scratches over the top of his hand. Nonetheless, you took his hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. He noticed your anxiety and tilted his head. "Are you having mean thoughts again?"

"No, no, just... normal stuff."

His hand squeezed yours and pulled you into his embrace. He kissed the crown of your forehead and his breath tickled. In his normal fashion, he said, "I'll be with you. If you want to leave at any time, just tap my leg, mmkay?"

You nodded. Times lately hadn't been the greatest, but you were grateful for this one good day. For once in a long time, Kieran was in a good mood and all your worries seemed to fade away when he held you.

"Be nice to Danny," you teased, "we haven't seen him in ages."

Kieran shrugged with his signature, charming grin. You gave him a look and he snorted, saying, "I'll try my best."

You had a gut feeling that he wouldn't try his best. Not at all.

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LINKS:

— Discord Server

— Wattpad

— Quotev

[ P.5 ]

[burrowlvrr]

— NOT LONG AGO, joe burrow.

PAIRING: Joe Burrow 𝔁 Black!Wife!Reader

GENRE: Husband & Dad Joe

SUMMARY: In which — Joe and Y/N can't believe how far they've come. From taking a pregnancy test in a dorm room, to washing dishes while the babies watch a movie.

NOTE: I got a MacBook and forgot how to act, writing on this thing is so much fun Lord help me. I thought this was kinda cute, shows a lil different side of our couple but its low-key the shortest thing I've written so far, unfortunately :( but enjoy and ignore any errors! <3

UNIVERSE: Tenderhearts & Touchdowns!

The house was unusually quiet, a rare reprieve in the Burrow household. The twins, Hudson and Elijah, were snuggled up on the couch under a thick blanket, captivated by the colorful characters on the TV screen. Their little giggles and whispers occasionally broke the stillness. Outside, the cold December wind howled, but the warmth of their Cincinnati home kept the chill at bay.

Y/N stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the last of the dinner plates. The glow from the under-cabinet lights cast a soft radiance over her face, and she hummed a tune under her breath, content in the moment.

Joe appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. His gaze lingered on her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” he called softly. “Why don’t you let me handle these? Go hang out with the boys for a bit.” He nodded toward the couch where their sons were quietly enjoying the movie.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving into a smile. “Y'know how this works, Burrow. I wash, you rinse.” She handed him a freshly cleaned plate, their fingers brushing briefly.

Joe chuckled, stepping forward to take his place beside her at the sink. “Fair enough. I just hate seein' you doing all the work when you’ve been chasing after them all day.”

“I like this part,” she replied softly, dipping her hands back into the soapy water. “It’s peaceful. Plus, we’re a team, remember?”

Their routine continued, the rhythmic sounds of dishes clinking and water running filling the air. The moment felt perfect in its simplicity.

“Remember when we found out?��� Joe started, his voice carrying a note of nostalgia. Y/N looked at him briefly, shaking her head as she let out a soft giggle.

“How could I forget? You ran nearly three miles across campus to get to my dorm, Joe.” She replied, and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly before asking, "How do you think I got the Heisman?"

★

Back in 2019, Joe and Y/N were basically still kids. Seniors in college, but still kids. Y/N had finals coming up for her Bachelor's degree, and word around campus was that Joe would be nominated for this year's Heisman. They were both rather successful in their academics and sports--but this, no level of success could prepare a college student for a positive pregnancy test.

She sat on the floor of her dorm room, her back pressed against the bed-frame, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her hands trembling as she clutched her phone. The pregnancy tests were on the bathroom counter, both of them untouched—her mind racing in panic, holding her back from using the tests alone.

When Joe picked up, his voice was steady but laced with concern. “Y/N? Hey, babe. What's up?”

She tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sob. Her breathing quickened, and she could feel her chest tightening.

“Y/N,” Joe said, his voice firmer now. “Breathe, okay? I’m coming. I’ll be there in ten.”

The line disconnected before she could respond, and she stared at the phone in her trembling hands, her tears falling freely.

Meanwhile, Joe was already running. He bolted out of the locker room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his cleats barely tied. The cold air stung his face as he sprinted across campus from the football field to the girls’ dorms. Students turned to watch as he sped past, but he didn’t care.

By the time he reached her door, he was panting, his chest heaving from the exertion. He pushed it open without hesitation and dropped his duffel bag to the floor. The sight of Y/N, curled up and trembling, hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Y/N,” he breathed, moving toward her. She stood shakily, meeting him halfway, and threw her arms around his neck. Her sobs were muffled against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Hey, hey,” Joe murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her tear-streaked face breaking his heart. "I think I—I'm pregnant." She choked out, a hand going to her mouth to try and cover the hiccups.

"I'm too scared to touch them, Joe." She sobbed, and he nodded, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "It's alright, Y/N. I'm here now."

They stood there for a moment before Joe left a kiss on her tanned forehead, brushing a stray curl away from her face and tilting her chin upward. "I'll stand right beside you. I'll even hold your hand if you want me to."

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes, "Now's not the time to be humorous, Burrow." She roughly wiped her tears away before making her way to the bathroom, turning around with a waiting expression—hoping Joe was on her heels, which he was.

She took both tests while Joe stood a few inches away, looking away out of respect but still turning around to check on her every few moments. Y/N quickly washed her hands, taking the tests and grabbing Joe's hand, leading him to her bed. They both sat on the edge, the two plastic tests lying in between them. Face down.

At least six minutes had passed now, and Joe couldn't stop his leg from bouncing. Y/N stared at them as if they might explode, her hands trembling slightly.

"You should check." Joe said, breaking the silence, his voice low and steady. Y/N whipped her head in his direction, "Me? You check it!"

Joe shook his head by then decided against arguing. He sighed, leaning over, and then hesitating for a moment. His fingers hovering over the tests, "Okay, but...don't we kinda already know?"

"Just look, Joe." She snapped, her voice higher-pitched than usual. She squeezed her eyes shut out of fear, as Joe flipped the tests over and freezes. His jaw tightened, but he doesn't speak right away.

"Joe," Y/N whispers, her heart pounding in her chest. "What does it say?"

"Positive." he says, barely above a whisper.

The words hit her like a freight train. She slumps back into the couch, her head in her hands. "Oh my God," she mutters, her voice cracking. "This can’t be happening. I can’t—"

"Y/N," Joe starts, but she cuts him off, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

"My mama is going to kill me," she says, sitting up straight now, her hands flying. "You don’t understand, Joe. And my daddy's always lecturing me about ‘staying focused’ and ‘not ruining my future.’ This is exactly what he meant! They’re never going to forgive me for this!"

Joe stands, walking over to her and crouching down. "Hey," he says softly, placing a hand on her knee, but she jerks away, jumping to her feet.

"And what about graduation?" she continues, pacing the room now. "Three months, Joe! We graduate in three months! Do you have any idea how much a baby costs? Diapers, formula, doctor visits… How are we supposed to afford that?"

Joe stays quiet, letting her vent. She turns to him suddenly, her eyes wide. "You don’t even have a job lined up yet! And me? I don’t know if my internship is going to turn into anything. We have nothing, Joe. Nothing!"

"Y/N," he says firmly, standing up.

She doesn’t stop. "I’m not ready for this! We’re not ready for this! I can’t—"

"Y/N!" he says louder, his voice cutting through her panic. She freezes, her chest heaving.

He takes a step closer, his voice calmer now. "Listen to me. I know this wasn’t the plan, okay? I get it. But I am going pro. You know I’ve been working toward the draft, and my agent is confident I’ll get picked. I’m gonna make it, Y/N. And when I do, we’ll be okay."

She stares at him, shaking her head. "Joe, the draft isn’t guaranteed. What if something goes wrong? What if you don’t get picked? What if—"

"I will," he interrupts, his tone steady. "I will. I’m not just doing this for me anymore—I’m doing it for you. For us. For this baby."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she doesn’t say anything. Joe steps closer, taking her hands in his. "I know you’re scared. Hell, I’m scared too. But we’ve got each other, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and this baby are taken care of. I promise you that."

Tears spill over her cheeks as she looks at him. "You’re so sure about everything, but I’m not. My parents are going to see this as the end of my life, Joe. The end of everything I’ve worked for."

He nods, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Then we’ll prove them wrong. We’ll show them that this isn’t the end—it’s just a new beginning. You’re still going to graduate, Y/N. You’re still going to chase your dreams. And we’ll figure the rest out together."

She exhales shakily, leaning into him as he wraps his arms around her. "I just… I don’t know how we’re going to do this."

"One step at a time," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "We’ll start by telling our parents. Together."

She pulls back, giving him a doubtful look. "That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to hear my dad’s lecture about how I’ve ‘thrown my life away.’"

Joe chuckles softly, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, but I’ll be right there with you. And if he tries to kill me, I’ll just tell him I’m going pro—maybe that’ll distract him."

Despite herself, Y/N laughs through her tears. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe," he says, grinning. "But I love you. And I love this baby, even if it’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me."

She looks at him, her expression softening. "I love you too."

He pulls her back into his arms, holding her tightly. For the first time all night, she lets herself believe him.

★

Back in their kitchen, the married couple laughs in unison as they recalled the dinner where they told both of their parents. "Oh my gosh! Daddy almost jumped across that table at you!"

"I was scared!" Joe laughed loudly, covering his mouth when he saw Hudson's head pop up over the top of the couch. "Your dad is very intimidating."

"Well, you survived." Y/N insisted, "And we both know I thought my life was over." Joe playfully frowned, "You were pacing so much before that dinner, babe. I thought you were gonna burn a hole in the carpet."

She flicks a bit of water at him, rolling her eyes. "Well, excuse me for being a little freaked out. It wasn’t exactly a normal Tuesday, you know? We were graduating in three months, broke as hell, and had no idea what we were doing."

Joe nods, his smile softening. "I remember how scared you were about telling your parents. But you know what I remember more?"

"What?" she asks, handing him a clean glass.

"How you still managed to push through all that fear and finish your degree on time. You didn’t let anything stop you, not even two babies kicking your ribs during finals."

Y/N shakes her head, laughing. "Don’t act like you weren’t freaking out too. You spent half the night staring at that pregnancy test like it might change if you looked hard enough."

Joe laughs, drying the glass. "Okay, fair. I was terrified. But I knew we’d figure it out. And look at us now."

Y/N glances around the kitchen, her eyes lingering on the family photos on the fridge—the twins’ school pictures, a shot of the four of them at the beach, and a drawing labeled Mama, Daddy, Hudson, and Elijah.

"Yeah," she says softly, her voice thick with emotion. "We’ve built a pretty amazing life, haven’t we?"

Joe sets the towel down and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "We have. And those two little terrors in the living room? They’re the best thing that ever happened to us."

Y/N leans into him, resting her head against his chest. "I still can’t believe we were worried about not being ready. I mean, we weren’t—but we figured it out."

Joe kisses the top of her head, his voice low and full of love. "That’s because we’re a team, Y/N. Always have been."

Before she can respond, a loud crash comes from the living room, followed by giggles and a triumphant "Wasn't me!"

Y/N groans, pulling back. "Moment's over."

Joe laughs, grabbing a dish towel. "I’ll check on the damage. You finish up here."

As he heads toward the living room, Y/N watches him go, her heart swelling with gratitude. She turns back to the sink, rinsing the last plate as the sound of Joe’s playful scolding echoes from the other room.

She smiles to herself, thinking back to that night all those years ago. It had been terrifying and uncertain, but it led to this—a life full of love, laughter, and a chaos she wouldn’t trade for the world.

[msbigredmachine]

Midnight Sparks (Roman Reigns)

On New Year's Eve, the OTC retreats to a quiet bar, craving solitude. When a confident and captivating woman crosses his path, their connection ignites, turning a quiet night into something unforgettable.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black fem plus size OC

Warnings: Smut (That's not going to change in 2025, lol)

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Happy New Year everyone! I can't wait to make more magic with you guys this year! Enjoy my first fic of 2025! It's based on this post I saw on X and never forgot it, lol

Song inspo:

------------

The bar is alive with the hum of celebration. New Year's Eve is in its final hours, and the atmosphere is thick with anticipation. People in festive attire clink glasses and share laughter while a soft jazz band plays in the corner, its melodies flowing through the air and mingling with the low buzz of conversation. The dim lighting casts long shadows across the faces of the patrons, creating a cozy, intimate ambiance in the bustling room.

Roman Reigns sits at the far end of the bar, his broad frame leaning against the counter. With a glass of bourbon in hand, he’s dressed casually yet show-stoppingly—a fitted black Henley with the sleeves rolled up, his tribal tattoo spreading down his right arm. His eyes are focused on the amber liquid in his glass, but there's a storm behind them, a quiet intensity that comes with years of being in the public eye.

He’s not here for the festivities. In fact, he's barely paying attention to the countdown clock above the bar or the laughter that erupts from every corner as people exchange warm wishes for the year ahead. It's been a tough year for him; losing his father and his uncle in the space of two months. It's been difficult, but not dire enough to need a New Year’s resolution. He’s already living one. Resolutions are a foreign concept to him. He doesn’t need to mark the change of a year with promises to be better, to do more, to fix things. He already made those choices years ago, long before the clock struck midnight each December. Sure, wrestling is a constant—his life, his career, his purpose—but what keeps him grounded is the knowledge that even in grief, he has already figured out what truly matters.

The world sees him as the Tribal Chief, the unstoppable force in the WWE Universe. But here, in the quiet dimness of the bar, he is just a man—one who has weathered the storm of fame, faced down every challenge, personal and professional, and found his own peace in the madness. A man who cherishes moments of solitude, who values loyalty and respect above all else.

But solitude rarely sticks when you’re built like a Greek god and carry an air of quiet authority. People notice. They look. And Roman pretends not to notice. He prefers it that way. Keeps the conversations to a minimum, the attention low.

But then, she walks in.

She sweeps through the door like she owns the place. There’s a sway in her walk that commands attention, but it’s not for anyone but herself. Her skin, rich and luminous under the warm glow of the bar’s pendant lighting, gleams with a silky smoothness that suggests she knows how to take care of herself. Her face, framed by cascading waves of midnight-black hair, is striking—a perfect blend of softness and sharpness. Her eyes, almond-shaped and lined with just enough kohl to give her a sultry edge, hold a spark of mischief and an unspoken confidence that says she’s aware of the effect she has on those around her. She’s stunning, and she knows it. Confidence radiates off her like heat off asphalt in July.

Roman sees her immediately. Hell, everyone sees her, as she settles onto a barstool just a few seats away from him and orders a whiskey sour. But unlike the others, he doesn’t stare too long, doesn’t linger like the guy at the other end of the bar who’s already making plans for her in his head. Her full lips curve into an inviting smile, revealing a set of pristine white teeth that contrast beautifully against her dark complexion. She crosses her legs, the slit in her dress revealing a hint of thigh, and the OTC feels something in his chest tighten. But he stays put, for now, sipping his bourbon and stealing glances when he thinks she’s not looking. There’s a mystery about her, an energy that says she’s not here for anyone but herself. It’s not performative; she’s not checking to see who is watching. She just is. And that, Roman thinks, is rare as hell. He takes another sip of his drink, his dark eyes flicking away, but not before she catches him. 

She can’t help but smile to herself as she clocks the mystery wrapped in muscle at the end of the bar—his build, the chiseled jawline, the aura that screams “I'ma ruin your life if you let me.” It’s the way he watches without watching, the way he sits like he’s too cool for school. He's impossible to miss, even in the shadows. All broad shoulders and smoldering intensity, with hair that falls in dark waves past his shoulders and a face so perfect it should be a crime.

She returns her attention to her drink, running a finger around the rim of the glass, but her lips curve into a slight smirk. She can feel his eyes on her. Men always stare, but this one’s gaze is different—not invasive, not disrespectful, just…observing. Like he is trying to figure her out without saying a word.

Finally, he decides to close the distance. He slides onto the stool beside hers, his presence a quiet storm that she feels immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sets his glass down and glances at her. Up close, her curves are unapologetic, her ample bosom stealing the spotlight even as she sits casually, scrolling on her phone. Her off-the-shoulder ensemble clings to her in all the right ways, a shimmering green fabric that glitters subtly under the dim lighting. The neckline plunges just enough to make heads turn but leaves enough to the imagination, perfectly toeing the line between classy and daring. Gold jewelry—a delicate chain, hoop earrings, and a smattering of bracelets—adds a touch of elegance to her already magnetic presence.

“You here alone?” he asks, his deep voice low and smooth.

She tilts her head, meeting his gaze. His slanted eyes are dark, searching, but not in the way that makes her feel dirty. It’s…different. Intriguing. “Depends,” she answers, her voice carrying a playful edge. “You askin’ because you’re nosy or because you’re trying to change that?”

Roman’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Little bit of both.”

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that sends a shiver down his spine. “Fair enough. Yeah, I’m alone. And you?”

“Same.”

“Let me guess.” She takes a slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his. “You came here to brood and sip bourbon because it makes you feel mysterious?”

Roman chuckles, the sound deep and warm. “Something like that. You?”

“Came here because it’s quiet. And the whiskey sour’s decent.” She leans back slightly, her eyes narrowing. “But you’re throwing off my quiet vibe.”

“My bad.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, but his cheeky smile lingers. “You want me to move?”

“I said no such thing.” Her tone is light, teasing, but the way she looks at him makes his stomach flip. She extends her hand, her long fingers tipped with glossy black nails, and her lips curl into a sly smile. “I’m Dencia, but you can call me D.” Her voice is smooth, like warm honey, with a playful edge that makes Roman’s eyebrow twitch in amusement. He takes her hand in his, his palm large and warm, engulfing hers in a firm but careful grip. 

“Roman,” he says, his voice low and velvety, the single word carrying weight. “Nice to meet you.”

The moment their hands connect, it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots between them, subtle but undeniable. D’s gaze flicks down to their clasped hands, her pulse quickening despite her best efforts to stay cool. “Nice to meet you too, Roman,” she says, her tone teasingly soft, though the heat in her eyes suggests something much more intense.

The hours stretch, the conversation flowing between them like a lazy river—unhurried but carrying depth beneath the surface. Roman isn’t a man of many words, but D has a way of coaxing his dry humor out, teasing responses from him that feel effortless. She’s quick-witted, throwing out barbs with a smile that softens every edge, and he gives it right back to her, his low, rumbling voice laced with sarcasm and the occasional laugh. 

“So, what’s your deal?” she queries at one point, leaning her chin on her hand as she observes him. “You don’t strike me as the chatty type, but you’re sittin’ here entertaining me like it’s your day job.”

Roman shrugs, swirling the last of his bourbon in the glass. She seems clueless about who he is. He welcomes the anonymity. “Maybe you’re just more interesting than most people.”

“Hmm.” She raises an eyebrow. “That a compliment or your way of dodging the question?”

“Both,” he admits, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

D laughs, the sound rich and warm. “A'ight, I’ma let you slide this time, Mr. Mystery Man.” She shifts in her seat, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward slightly. The movement draws his attention to the deep neckline of her dress. His composure wavers, but just a little. For now.

“What about you? What’s your deal?” he asks.

“I don’t have a ‘deal,’” she insists, feigning innocence. “I’m just a regular ol’ girl who likes good drinks and good company.”

Roman gives her a look, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Yeah, you’re real regular.”

She grins, leaning closer. “You tryna call me extra?”

“Do I need to?”

Their banter continues, easy but charged, the kind of chemistry that hums low in the background, waiting for someone to light the match. Roman notices the way her gaze lingers on him when she thinks he’s not looking, the way her laugh softens into something more intimate when he says something that catches her off guard. 

And Dencia? She notices everything about him—his quiet confidence, how he never touches her unless she makes the first move…how his eyes darken every time her tongue flicks over the rim of her glass. He doesn’t lean too close or let his hand linger when it brushes against her arm. He’s not flirting overtly or trying to rush things. It’s impeccable restraint by design, and D appreciates that—too many men think they can bulldoze their way into her space. But he is giving her room to breathe, to come to him if she wants to. 

And gosh, does she want to.

As the time hits the 45-minute mark, the excitement in the bar picks up. People are gathered, waiting for the countdown, and the clinking of glasses fills the air in eager anticipation. D leans in close to Roman, her lips almost brushing the edge of his ear.

“Midnight’s almost here,” she murmurs. “What are you gonna do when the clock strikes twelve?”

He smirks, his eyes darkening slightly. “I’ll make my move when the time’s right.”

D pulls back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips curving up into that knowing smile again. “Better make it count, then. And it better end with you asking me to leave with you.”

The energy between them shifts, the playful banter now feeling charged, electric. There’s no denying it anymore—something is about to happen. Something neither of them is ready for, but both are clearly craving. The tension between them is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Roman chuckles, shaking his head. “You always this straightforward?”

D sets her glass down, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Only when I know what I want.”

He meets her gaze, the weight of his stare sending a shiver down her spine. “And what do you want, D?”

It doesn't take her that long to answer. “You,” she says simply. 

—--------

His condo is just as she expects—minimalist, sleek, masculine. The city lights spill through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the open space in shades of silver and gold. Roman pours them both another drink, cognac, and they settle onto the couch, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.

“You always this reserved?” D asks, sipping her whiskey.

Roman leans back, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch. “Depends on who I’m with.”

“Hmm. And me?”

He looks at her, his eyes dark and full of something she can’t quite place. “You make me wanna take my time.”

D’s breath hitches, her pulse quickening. She sets her glass down and turns to face him fully. “And what if I told you you don’t have to?”

Roman’s jaw tightens, his restraint visibly cracking. “You sure about that?”

She leans in, her hand resting on his huge thigh as she whispers, “Positive.”

Somewhere outside, the countdown begins, the sound of “ten...nine...eight...” permeating through the window, and yet, everything in the room falls away. For a moment, it’s just Roman and Dencia, two people connected by a shared understanding, a growing fire between them that’s too hot to ignore. They both know that when the clock strikes midnight, it's on. Whatever tension has built up between them will finally break, and neither of them will walk away unchanged.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he says quietly, his voice low, almost a growl as he sidles closer to her.

D meets him halfway, her hands sliding up his chest, her nails grazing the hard planes of muscle beneath his Henley. “Do I look like I wanna change my mind?”

The final seconds tick down. D’s fingers trace the line of Roman’s jaw, and he leans into her touch, his breath hitching ever so slightly. Cheers erupt outside at the stroke of midnight, and it’s in that moment, with the world around them celebrating the start of a new year, that they finally give in to the connection that’s been building all night.

When Roman presses his lips to hers, it’s slow at first, the big man testing the waters. But the second her lips part and her arms wrap around his neck, all restraint goes out the window. He pulls her onto his lap, and she straddles his waist as the kiss deepens, growing hungrier, more urgent. She tastes like whiskey and something sweet, and it’s driving him insane. It’s a kiss that promises more than either of them could have anticipated—a kiss that’s the beginning of something both dangerous and irresistible. 

The slow unraveling of restraint continues, clothes and inhibitions shedding. Dencia’s dress is tossed aside, revealing her insanely voluptuous figure, adorned by smooth, chocolate skin and black lace that leaves little to the imagination. Roman’s shirt and pants join the pile of clothes on the floor, revealing the full expanse of tribal tattoos and muscle beneath. For a moment, they simply sit there, taking each other in.

“You’re even finer up close,” D assesses, her voice dripping with desire.

“And you’re fucking beautiful,” Roman murmurs, his hands resting on her waist.

Dencia smiles and presses a soft kiss to his neck, and then his lips. The moment stretches as they kiss and caress each other, tongues lapping, hands roaming as if memorizing every curve, every sharp angle, soft delicate skin and hard, honed muscle. He keeps their mouths fused together as he stands with her in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carries her to the bedroom. 

The bed is massive, draped in dark, luxurious linens, but neither of them pays it any attention. Roman lays her down carefully and takes his time undressing the rest of her, his touch reverent but firm, his dark eyes blazing with desire as he drinks in her nakedness.

D watches him, her breath hitching as he peels down his briefs, his hand closing around his long, thick shaft that makes her swallow her own spit. “Damn,” she whispers, her voice thick with want, pussy throbbing with anticipation. “You really tryna fuck up my life, huh?”

Roman smirks as he finds himself a condom and rolls it on with her ogling every millisecond of the act. He crawls back over her, his lips brushing against hers as he massages the soft, bountiful flesh of her big breasts. “Only if you want me to.”

What follows is nothing short of earth-shattering. From the kiss, this time hotter and more frenzied, a clash of tongues and teeth that leaves them both dizzy, to his hands roaming over her body, reverent but firm, his touch igniting a fire in her that she expects but still manages to stun her. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down her jaw, to her neck, where he sucks gently at her skin, eliciting a sharp gasp from her, a sound that amplifies when he finally enters her, both groaning at the intensity of his invasion. He is patient yet passionate, driving her to the brink and pulling her back just to push her further. He moves like a man who’s spent years holding back, but now? Now the beast has been unleashed, pouring everything he has into every kiss, every touch, every deep, hard thrust inside her.

D matches his movements, her body arching into his, her fingers threading his long hair as her breathless moans fill the room. Her ankles cross just above his ass, anchoring him to her. Their bodies rock together in perfect rhythm, a dance of raw passion and deep desire. The air is filled with the sounds of their pleasure, of skin meeting wet skin, mingling with the faint hum of the city outside. The connection between them is electric and deep—both feeling the sensations, physical and emotional, with every fiber of their being. 

“Roman.” His name breaks on a whimper as she glances down to watch his dick, all eight inches of it, slide in and out of her wetness. She’s drowning in pleasure, overwhelmed by how deep he reaches inside her, how completely he consumes her. She arches again beneath him, her nails digging into his back. “Oh, my god, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice trembling.

He chuckles against her skin, his breath warm. “You feel amazing, baby girl,” he replies. His hips roll slower, harder, deeper, hitting every place that sends her spiraling. She can feel him shaking with restraint, holding himself back for her. She’s trying to keep up, trying to keep her head above the tidal wave of euphoria threatening to pull her under.

“I’m gonna come,” Dencia moans, her toes curling when he grasps her thick hips in his big hands and pounds her pussy with an increased speed and precision that rolls her eyes back, “Fuck…”

Roman groans as she tightens around him. His lips graze her nipple, her collarbone, her mouth. “That’s it, beautiful,” he murmurs against her lips. “Give it to me. Let me have it all.”

Time seems to stand still as they finally tumble over the edge, her first, him second. Her thighs tremble around his waist, her head rolling back against the pillows as a loud, wanton groan escapes her. They climax with a shattering intensity that leaves them both shaking, their bodies slick with sweat and their hearts pounding.

D hisses quietly as Roman pulls out and crumples beside her. The absence of him on her and in her, however brief, feels sudden, strange and dare she say, a little unpleasant. Luckily, the feeling is eased when he quickly gathers her to his chest and wraps her in his sturdy arms. They lie there in silence for a while, their breathing gradually evening out. She rests her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his inked skin.

“You good?” she asks, a hint of a smile in her voice.

Roman presses a kiss to her forehead, his hand resting on the curve of her ass. “I’m more than good. You?”

She chuckles softly, snuggling closer to him. “Finished. Completely.”

They both laugh, the sound soft and intimate in the quiet of the room. And as their lips meet again, wrapped in each other, Roman can’t help but think that this—this connection, this moment—is worth every second of restraint. His eyes lock with hers in an unspoken agreement, both of them realizing one thing is for certain:

This year, things are going to change. And it’s started tonight.

THE END

————————

How was it? The smut is a lot, I know 😬 But I often try to ensure there’s a story behind it.

Please leave comments! I love comments 😁😙😊

Credit to the owner of the pic. Credit to @romanreigns for the gif.

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[rorysburrow]

Sugar and Spice

Pairings ➼ Joe Burrow x Reader

Summary ➼ You and Joe are making homemade cinnamon rolls in the kitchen—well, trying to make cinnamon rolls. Amid the flour dust and rolling pins, things take a more playful turn when you get a little too close, and Joe realizes just how cold your hands are. Sweetness isn’t just in the rolls anymore.

Word Count ➼ 725

Warnings ➼ pure fluff , hint of allusions to something if you squint.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The kitchen smelled like sugar, cinnamon, and butter—three of the best things in life, if you had to ask yourself. you and Joe were working on a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls, a recipe he had insisted you try together. Of course, the “together” part turned into him making fun of your inability to roll the dough without making it look like a crumpled mess, but that was beside the point.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Joe said, a teasing grin on his face as he peered over your shoulder. He was rolling his dough perfectly, of course, while yours looked like it had been through a war zone.

“Oh, really?” you replied while rolling your eyes. “I thought you were here to help, not critique.”

“I am helping,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m just giving you the pro tips. You’ll get it next time.”

you shot him a playful glare, but just as you were about to roll your dough out again, You felt a chill sweep over you. Your hands, covered in flour, were cold—and Joe’s warmth was too tempting to ignore. Without thinking, You reached around behind him, sliding your hands underneath the hem of his shirt.

Joe went still, the sudden coolness of your hands against his warm skin sending a shiver through him. “Whoa, what are you doing?” he asked, voice a mix of amusement and surprise.

you grinned, rubbing your cold hands against his stomach. “Just warming up. You don’t mind, do you?”

He looked down at you, trying to hold back his smile. “You’re freezing me out here,” he teased, his voice dropping a little, more playful than I’d ever heard. “You know I don’t think that’s the reason you’re getting so close.”

you laughed, pulling your hands back to grab a new handful of dough, but not without making sure to run your hands briefly along his side as you did. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting too hot. You’re wearing a long-sleeve shirt while I’m here in a tank top. That’s not fair.”

Joe leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Oh, I see how it is. You’re using me as a human heating pad now.”

“Pretty much,” you replied, reaching for the rolling pin and purposefully nudging his hip with yours as you did. “And you’re a very good one.”

Joe’s expression softened, his teasing smile shifting to something warmer. ��I don’t mind being your personal heater,” he said, his voice more sincere than before. “But, you know, next time, I expect you to cook a real dinner.”

you chuckled, adjusting the dough, which had now transformed into a much more successful roll thanks to Joe’s “pro tips.” “Don’t worry. After we finish this, I’ll make us something even better. How about a nice, hearty meal?”

“You promise?” He raised an eyebrow, his playful smirk making a return. “Because if it’s anything like this dough… I might need a backup plan.”

“Hey,” you nudged him again with your elbow. “At least we’ll have the best dessert in town. And maybe I’ll even make it up to you with something a little more spicy tonight.”

Joe’s grin spread wider, and I could tell I’d gotten his attention. “You’re on,” he said, leaning closer as if to share a secret. “But just so you know… I have a thing for spicy food.”

you laughed, brushing your hands off and glancing at the oven, which had just beeped. “Well, looks like we’ll be having cinnamon rolls first. Then we can talk about spicy dinner ideas.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, sliding his arm around your waist, pulling you into him for just a moment. “Now, you owe me for the kitchen hijinks. How about a taste test?”

you smirked, reaching for the first hot cinnamon roll fresh out of the oven, breaking off a piece and holding it out to him. “Taste test approved, huh? Fine by me.”

Joe took a bite, his eyes lighting up with exaggerated delight. “Not bad at all,” he said, his voice teasing once again. “But I’m pretty sure I was the one who made this happen.”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes again. “The cinnamon rolls wouldn’t be this good without your expert dough rolling.”

Joe grinned, leaning in closer. “Exactly.”

[fear-is-truth]

THINGS I WANNA SAY TO YOU (BUT I’LL JUST LET YOU LIVE) — bruce wayne x reader

the dark knight has been shouldering gotham’s weight for too long. tonight, he might just need someone else ease the burden. // wc : 773

raindrops traced uneven paths down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the wayne mansion, the soft patter filling the otherwise tranquil room. fire crackled low in the hearth, its amber flickers like demonic fingers, clawing and reaching, scraping at the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings. BRUCE WAYNE sat on the edge of the leather couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded carelessly on the coffee table. there was a dull ache in his shoulders—a reminder of the endless strain he subjected himself to. but tonight, there was nothing demanding his attention. no calls to answer, no suits to don, no crises waiting in the alleyways of gotham. for once, quietness held.

bruce intended to keep it that way.

his gaze followed you as you entered the room, his thoughts unspooling before he could stop them. the life he’d constructed, brick by brick, with walls of steel and grief meant to keep others out. yet somehow, you’d slipped through. the way you fit into his life, seamlessly yet entirely your own, never ceased to disarm him. you were so different from everything he was—light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold.

somehow, you belonged here. with him.

you set the tray down on the coffee table, the clink of ceramic pulling him from his thoughts. you started to sit on the armrest, but he caught your hand, long fingers curling around your wrist. “come here,” he said, tugging you toward him. your brows lifted slightly, but you didn’t resist as he guided you until you were settled in his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips. one of his hands resting on your waist, the other trailing up your arm idly.

“what was that for?” you tilted your head with a curious smile, your hands instinctively settling on his shoulders. bruce didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on your face as his mind scrambled for the right word to capture the sight before him. eloquent, articulate bruce wayne, who always seemed to find the perfect phrase, drew a perfect blank. ethereal was the closest candidate, but even that felt inadequate. the firelight danced across your features, softening the curve of your lips and the elegant slope of your nose. for a fleeting moment, he felt utterly unmoored.

“you’re so tense,” you murmured, breaking the quiet as your fingers pressed into the tight muscles along his shoulders, working with a steady rhythm. bruce allowed his head to tilt back slightly, eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to your touch. your fingertips dug into the knots, slowly unraveling the tension that had built up over days, coaxing a deep exhale from his chest. the pressure was firm but gentle, easing away the stiffness in his muscles. as you continued, bruce’s thoughts drifted, and this time, he made no effort to reign them in.

the sound came first—a sharp, ominous crack. bruce stood on an endless pane of dark glass, its surface trembling under pressure. fractures raced outward like veins, jagged and merciless, the splintering sound echoing like gunfire. beneath his feet was nothing but darkness, a bottomless void that yawned wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

shit, he’s going to fall.

and then, your touch—fingers gentle but firm against his skin—and the cracks stilled as though startled into submission, the jagged edges softening under the warmth of your palms. the glass rippled, smooth and fluid like water, its sharpness dissolving as if it had never been.

he swallowed back a groan, adam’s apple bobbing as his fingers tightened briefly on your hip. the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “relax,” you teased, your voice a lilting chirp of amusement. his lips twitched in response, though his grip on you remained firm. “you make that sound easy,” bruce countered gruffly, the strain in his voice a contraction to his words. your hands slowed, one drifting to rest over his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum beneath your palm. leaning forward, warm breath skimmed his jaw, impossibly close yet maddeningly restrained.

“better?” you asked softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes searching.

“better,” he replied, though the word couldn’t begin to articulate even a fraction of what he felt.

[zablife]

When They Leave Bruises

A/N: 🔞 A few quick headcanons. No editing just my unfiltered thoughts.

John

🖤 John can't help his strength, pinning your arms above your head as you play fight in the betting shop after hours.

🖤 His fingers dig into the delicate flesh of your wrists as he kisses you hard, reminding you why you pretend to be slower than him when he gives chase.

🖤 As you pretend to push back against the crushing weight of his hips, you have to admit his dominance is a turn on.

🖤 You’d let him do anything to you so the press of his fingertips is little to worry over, until you notice the marks next day.

🖤 John rolls your sleeves back to examine your skin the moment he glimpses the first mark and kisses each one softly.

🖤 He promises not to be so rough with you, but you only shake your head in disagreement. “I like it when you’re rough,” you confess and he smirks against your neck.

Tommy

🖤 Tommy loves taking you against his desk, gripping your hips in a vice like grip.

🖤 When he’s in need of stress relief, he’ll pull you toward him knowing you’re the only one who can stop the wheels turning in his overactive mind.

🖤 He often doesn’t realize when he crosses the line from passionate to brutal as he fucks you and it’s in those moments he’s most likely to mark you up. Crescent shaped marks dug into your supple flesh.

🖤 When he catches sight of the bruises marring your skin, he’s wracked with guilt and tries his best to make it up to you.

🖤 Even if you tell him it doesn’t bother you, he’ll shower you with kisses and presents until you’ve assured him many times over that you wanted it just as much as he did.

Arthur

🖤 Arthur isn’t like his brothers, he won’t apologize for his lovemaking, even if he’s under the influence.

🖤 You belong to him and being insecure, he marks you up to show his ownership.

🖤 He’s been known to leave handprints around your throat when he’s high on snow, choking you for your pleasure and his.

🖤 Tommy is the one to make him stop, threatening to hide you away from him if he doesn’t stop hurting you.

🖤 What Tommy doesn’t understand is your masochistic streak, needing Arthur’s punishments to feel loved.

🖤 When you explain this to your brother-in-law, he leaves you and Arthur to your own, twisted desires.

Luca

🖤 Luca expects obedience from his girl. If you so much as look at another man, his jaw clenches in anger to be revisited upon you later.

🖤 He’d never lay a finger on you in front of others, preferring to teach you a lesson at home.

🖤 His particular brand of punishment isn’t entirely unwelcome tho. He’ll spread your legs with his large hands, coaxing you into a trance like state with his tongue and leaving prints along the inside of your thighs as he holds them open to deliver another shattering orgasm.

🖤 The final mark comes from his possessive bite to your thigh, the sting causing you to whimper.

🖤 He’ll soothe it with his warm mouth and gentle words, telling you how much you mean to him. Then he’ll insist you reciprocate.

🖤 And you’ll echo the sentiment back to him in your blissful stupor.

Alfie

🖤 Alfie might seem fearsome to others, but he’s a gentle giant with you.

🖤 You practically have to beg him to choke you and even then, his hold is disappointingly limp. “You can’t hurt me, Alf,” you assure him, but he’s resolute in his decision. “I could tho, dove,” he answers with tears in his eyes.

🖤 He’s far more open to spanking tho, knowing it’s a safe area for impact. He enjoys watching your ass jiggle as he delivers a firm slap.

🖤 When he begins walking with a cane, you are the one to persuade him to strike you with it.

🖤 Tho hesitant at first, he comes around to it when he hears the lovely little gasps of pleasure from your mouth.

🖤 He’ll insist on rubbing the red marks with ointment to care for you tho.

Michael

🖤 Michael is a sadist and your pain is his pleasure.

🖤 He makes it clear to you when you begin dating that he wants full agency over your body.

🖤 He trains you to crave his brutality until you’re practically begging for his hand against your skin.

🖤 He delights in your corruption as well as the breathtaking sight of purple and blue blossoming over your skin.

🖤 And you wear them proudly, knowing you’re his and his alone.

Bonnie

🖤 Bonnie is a gentle soul who only shows his temper in the ring. His opponents are the ones most likely to receive the brunt of his aggression.

🖤 However, the adrenaline pumping thru his veins after a fight often means he takes certain liberties with you.

🖤 Without realizing, he’ll force you down for a fuck while he’s still feeling that high, his hands and mouth clamping down against you possessively.

🖤 It never occurs to him until later that he’s capable of hurting you and he always chastises himself when he sees the damage he’s done.

🖤 He’ll beg forgiveness for the bruises left across your swan like neck, fingertips tracing the pattern lightly until his forehead drops to your collarbone in shame. But you always stroke his hair and whisper words of comfort to assuage his guilt.

———————-

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[growthhyp]

Amazing stories! Would be hot to seem some dad/son stories.

The Milk Carton

James, a 40-year-old male with a skinny flat body, standing tall and straight as an arrow, reflecting his strong and unwavering sexual preference. He is dressed casually in a baggy pink shirt that complements his bright skin color, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thin arms, showcasing his meticulous nature and attention to detail, much like the work he does as an accountant. His short, blonde, straight hair is neatly styled, framing a gentle smile that lights up the room. In the background is a cozy living room, filled with the warmth of home and a hint of his organized lifestyle. Sitting across from James on a comfortable sofa is his son, Elijah, who shares the same bright skin tone and blonde hair. At 18 years old, Elijah is also slim and fit, mirroring his father's physique. He wears a gray hoodie and jeans, his youthful energy and curiosity visible in his posture. With his eyes slightly cast down, Elijah is absorbed in a conversation with James, displaying his shyness but also the deep love he holds for his father. Both of them are engaged in a heartfelt moment, with a sense of understanding and mutual respect, as Elijah follows in James' footsteps, pursuing a career in accounting. The room is adorned with subtle hints of their shared interests, creating an inviting and harmonious environment that celebrates their bond. Despite their different sexual preferences, the unspoken connection between them is palpable, as they share a passion for numbers and a love for each other that transcends any labels or expectations.

After the discussion, Elijah retreats to his sanctuary, his bedroom. He closes the door with a gentle click, the sound echoing through the corridor. His room is a stark contrast to the rest of the house, a cocoon of his own personality, filled with vibrant colors. The walls are lined with bookshelves, their contents revealing his love for fantasy and adventure. His computer, a gateway to his digital world, sits on a neatly organized desk, surrounded by notebooks and textbooks, a testament to his academic pursuits.

With the door closed, Elijah feels a sense of liberation. He opens his laptop and logs into his Tumblr account, his heart racing with anticipation. The screen flickers to life, displaying a dashboard filled with images of muscular men in various states of undress. His eyes widen, and his breath quickens as he scrolls through the feed, each picture more enticing than the last. The men are chiseled, their bodies sculpted by what seems like the gods themselves. The sight of them fills him with a warmth that spreads through his body, igniting a spark of desire in his loins.

He pulls off his shirt, revealing his own flat chest and slender frame. Elijah's gaze lingers on his reflection in the mirror, a silent reminder of the physique he craves. He runs his fingers over his chest, imagining the feel of solid muscles beneath his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and lets his hand drift down to the waistband of his jeans. With trembling fingers, he unbuttons them and slides the fabric down his legs, stepping out of them with a sense of urgency.

Elijah's hand wraps around his cock, stroking it gently as he sits on the edge of his bed. His eyes remain glued to the screen, watching as the men in the images flex and pose for the camera. Each stroke is a silent plea for transformation, a wish to embody the strength and dominance that he sees in the men before him. His cheeks flush with arousal as he picks up the pace, his breaths coming faster and more ragged. The room is filled with the sound of his hand moving against his skin, a rhythmic dance that matches the pounding in his chest.

His body responds with a spasm of pleasure, and with a soft and quiet groan, Elijah ejaculates, his seed spurting onto the fabric of his favorite pillow. The sensation is overwhelming. He collapses back onto the bed, his body shaking with the intensity of his climax. The room is quiet once more, the only evidence of his passion the sticky mess on his stomach and the soft, satisfied smile on his lips.

As he cleans himself up, Elijah's mind wanders to the outside world. He opens his phone and logs into his social media account. Scrolling through the feed, a vibrant poster catches his eye. "CARNIVAL COMING SOON!" it reads, with images of flashing lights and thrilling rides. His heart leaps at the sight of it. The carnival is opening just a short bike ride away. It's an opportunity too tempting to ignore.

With newfound excitement, Elijah walks out of his room, the scent of his desire still lingering in the air. He finds James in the kitchen, preparing dinner. "Hey, Dad," he says, trying to sound casual. "Could I go to the carnival tomorrow afternoon?"

James looks up from the stove, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. He wipes his hand on his apron, leaving a smudge of flour on his cheek. "The carnival, huh? What's the occasion?"

Elijah shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. "Just thought it'd be fun to check out the new rides and stuff."

James nods, his expression a blend of amusement and concern. "Alright, be safe. And don't let those carnies sweet-talk you into anything, you know how they can be."

Elijah laughs, the sound light and carefree. "I'll be fine, Dad. I've got street smarts," he says, flashing a grin that James can't help but return.

With a nod of approval, James goes back to cooking, his mind drifting to the pile of paperwork waiting for him in his home office. Meanwhile, Elijah heads to the bathroom, the anticipation of tomorrow's adventure buzzing through him like an electric current. He brushes his teeth, the minty toothpaste a refreshing counterpoint to the lingering scent of his desire.

===

The next morning, Elijah wakes with a start, his body heavy and his thoughts immediately drifting to the carnival. He glances down and notices the familiar outline of his morning erection pushing against the fabric of his briefs. With a smirk, he reaches down to adjust himself, his hand grazing the sensitive skin. His thoughts of the carnival and the men he'll see there only add to his arousal. He quickly takes care of his morning routine, eager to get dressed and set out for the day.

The sun is high in the sky when he arrives at the carnival, the air thick with the smells of popcorn and cotton candy. The vibrant colors of the rides and games assault his senses, and the laughter and music create an intoxicating symphony that fills his soul. The crowd is a sea of people, all shapes and sizes, their faces alight with excitement and wonder. Elijah weaves through the throngs of visitors, his eyes darting from one attraction to the next, searching for something fun to do.

And then he sees it. A tent, standing tall and proud, with a sign that reads "The Greatest Sebastian - Your Wishes, Our Command!" Below the words is an illustration of a wizard, his muscles bulging as he holds a staff adorned with a crystal that seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Elijah's heart skips a beat, and without a moment's hesitation, he strides toward it. The flap of the tent opens with a flourish, and he steps inside, his eyes widening in amazement.

Before him is Sebastian, the very embodiment of masculine perfection. He's a towering figure with a body that seems to have been carved from marble by a master sculptor. His long, curly brown hair cascades down his broad shoulders, and his piercing yellow eyes seem to see into the depths of Elijah's soul. He's dressed in a velvet magician's robe that hides his incredible physique, but Elijah can't help but imagine the rippling muscles that surely lie beneath. On the table in front of him sits a single, glowing white orb that seems to pulsate.

Sebastian looks up from his crystal ball with a knowing smile, his teeth a dazzling white against his tanned skin. "Welcome, young man," he says, his voice a rich baritone that sends shivers down Elijah's spine. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

Elijah clears his throat, trying to find the right words. "Well, I… I've heard that you can grant wishes," he stammers, his cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and hope.

Sebastian's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Ah, a young soul seeking change," he says, stroking his chin. "What is it that you wish for? Riches, fame, perhaps a lover's heart?"

Elijah's gaze lingers on the wizard's bulging biceps, and he swallows hard. "I… I want to be like you," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to be strong, muscular, and… dominant."

Sebastian's eyes narrow, and he leans in closer, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement. "A noble aspiration, indeed," he says, his smile turning into a smirk. "But such transformations are not for the faint of heart. They come with great power, but also great… changes."

Elijah's eyes light up with determination, his voice steady. "I'm not faint of heart," he says firmly. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, his smile never wavering. "Very well," he says, his tone dripping with amusement. "But remember, once you embark on this journey, there is no turning back."

Elijah nods, his heart pounding in his chest. "I understand," he says, his voice strong and steady.

Sebastian rises from his chair, his movements fluid and graceful despite his towering frame. He gestures to a shelf behind him, where an assortment of bottles and jars glint in the soft light of the tent. He reaches for a bottle that seems to call out to him, its crystal surface shimmering with an ethereal glow. It's filled with a white liquid that swirls hypnotically when he holds it up to the light. The potion is contained in a simple glass bottle with a cork stopper, sealed with a crimson wax that matches the color of the wizard's robe. The muscular man's hand dwarfs the container as he holds it out to Elijah.

"This," he says, his voice low and serious, "is a potion of transformation. Drink from it, and you shall become as I am: a man of great strength and power." His eyes dance with mischief as he adds, "But remember, young one, with great power comes great… attraction to those of your kind."

Elijah takes the bottle with trembling hands, the weight of the potion seeming to echo the gravity of the decision he's about to make. "What do you mean by 'those of my kind'?" he asks, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Sebastian's smirk deepens, his yellow eyes gleaming. "The potion has a peculiar side effect," he says, leaning in to whisper in Elijah's ear. "It tends to… enhance one's attraction to the same gender. You, my dear, will crave the touch of men as you never have before."

Elijah's eyes widen, but the excitement in his voice is clear. "I'm okay with that," he says, his voice barely audible. "I'm… I'm already…"

Sebastian's smile softens, his eyes filled with understanding. "You're already aware of your desires," he says gently. "That's good. The potion will simply amplify what's already within you. But remember, young man, it's not just about physical changes. The transformation will also alter your very essence, shaping your identity in ways you can't begin to imagine."

Elijah nods, his heart racing with excitement and anticipation. He takes the bottle from Sebastian's hand, the cool glass a stark contrast to his warm, sweaty palm. "Thank you," he murmurs, the words thick with emotion.

"Ah, but nothing in life is free, my young friend," Sebastian says, holding up a hand to stop him. "The price for such a transformation is steep. I require your payment in cold, hard cash."

Elijah's stomach flips, but his desire is stronger than his doubt. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his wallet, counting the crumpled bills with trembling fingers. "How much?"

Sebastian names a sum that seems exorbitant, but to Elijah, it's a price he's willing to pay for the body of his dreams. He hands over the money without hesitation, his eyes never leaving the potion. The wizard takes the cash, his grin widening as he counts the bills. "Ah, the currency of desperation," he says, tucking the money into a velvet pouch at his side.

Elijah pockets the bottle, his heart racing. He thanks Sebastian and practically sprints out of the tent, the sound of the carnival fading behind him as he makes his way home. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more exhilarating than the last. He can't wait to be alone in his room, to drink the potion and finally become the man he's always envied.

===

Once home, he slips into the kitchen, his eyes immediately drawn to the refrigerator. He opens the door and glances around, ensuring that James is nowhere in sight. The milk carton is exactly where he left it that morning, almost empty but with enough room for the potion. He opens the bottle and carefully pours the swirling white liquid into the remaining milk, watching as the two blend together. The potion's glow dims slightly as it mixes with the milk, but the energy it radiates is undeniable.

Elijah's heart races as he seals the carton and puts it back in the fridge. He glances at the clock; it's almost dinner time. He needs to get cleaned up and pretend that it's just another ordinary evening. With a deep breath, he heads to the bathroom, the bottle now a distant memory in the trash. The hot water of the shower cascades over his body, washing away the sticky sweat from his journey. The scent of the potion lingers on his fingertips, a tantalizing promise of what's to come.

James, on the other hand, is in the throes of a marathon cleaning session. The weekend has arrived, and he's determined to get the house in tip-top shape. He's scrubbed, dusted, and vacuumed every nook and cranny. His eyes are red from the dust, and his throat is parched.

He stumbles into the kitchen, his shirt sticking to his sweaty back. The fridge is a beacon of cold relief, and without thinking twice, he opens the door and grabs the milk carton.

James tilts his head back, the cold liquid cascading down his throat, quenching the fire that burns from his exertion. He pauses, his taste buds catching a hint of something peculiar, something different from the usual blandness of the milk. But thirst is a powerful motivator, and he dismisses the thought, chalking it up to the heat of the day playing tricks on his senses.

As he returns the carton to the refrigerator, the cold air hits his bare chest, causing his nipples to pebble. The room spins for a brief moment, and he sways on his feet, catching himself before he topples over. He chuckles at his own clumsiness and wipes the bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The carton feels heavier than before, the remaining 1/5 of the contents sloshing around like a silent taunt.

James stumbles towards his bedroom, his legs feeling like jelly. He's not sure what's happening to him, but the sensation is unlike anything he's ever felt. The warmth spreads from his core, radiating outward, enveloping his entire body in a gentle heat that's both comforting and disconcerting.

Suddenly, his legs seem to come alive, swelling and stretching before his very eyes. His feet feel massive, the skin taut and unyielding as his calves balloon to almost comical proportions. His blue pants are now nothing but shreds of fabric, clinging to his rapidly growing limbs. He looks down in shock, watching as his legs morph into powerful, muscular pillars of strength that resemble nothing of his former self.

James' hand fumbles to his crotch, feeling the fabric of his underwear strain against his growing cock. He gasps as it swells, the pressure building until the waistband snaps, the briefs falling away to reveal his new, massive erection. It stands tall and proud, thick veins pulsing with the potion's power. His testicles, now heavy and full, hang low between his legs. He can't help but touch himself, the sensation overwhelming. His hand wraps around his shaft, and he groans in pleasure as he feels his body respond to his own touch.

The transformation isn't finished yet. James' torso starts to expand, his chest puffing out as if inflated by an invisible pump. His ribcage widens, and the skin stretches taut over the burgeoning muscles beneath. The white sando he's wearing strains to contain his newfound bulk, the fabric stretching until it finally gives way with a resounding rip. His abs, once a sad six-pack, now form a perfect 10-pack, each muscle clearly defined and rippling with power. His pectorals balloon outward, pressing against his skin. His back muscles spasm, the tendons standing out in stark relief as they swell with newfound power. His shoulders broaden, making him seem even more Herculean.

As his arms begin to grow, James can feel the potion coursing through his veins, a tingling sensation that's both exhilarating and terrifying. The muscles in his biceps and triceps swell, bulging with newfound strength. His forearms thicken, the veins becoming more prominent as his hands grow to match his new frame. His fingers elongate and thicken, each digit now a testament to the power within him. His newfound biceps and triceps stand out like rounded boulders, begging to be touched and admired.

The potion's effects soon reach his face, and James gasps as he feels the skin around his eyes tighten and the lines around his mouth fade away. His cheeks plump up, giving him the youthful glow of an 18-year-old. The stubble on his chin retreats, leaving behind smooth, hairless skin that seems to glow with vitality. He runs his hand over his face, the touch of his fingers alien on the youthful contours. His eyes widen with shock as he looks in the mirror, seeing the reflection of a man who could be his own son. The only hint of his true age is the hint of curiosity and fear in his gaze.

James' body is now a masterpiece of masculine beauty, and he can't resist the urge to explore it further. He starts jerking his huge cock, the motion slow and deliberate. The feeling is unlike anything he's ever experienced, the potion amplifying every sensation. The veins bulge and pulse as he works his shaft, his moans growing louder with each stroke. His balls are heavy with cum, and the anticipation of release is almost unbearable. His hand is a blur, moving up and down with a mind of its own, driven by a primal need that's been unlocked within him.

But as he tries to think of the women he's been with, their faces and bodies failing to arouse him. His mind is a blank canvas, until images of muscular men start to flood his thoughts, their sculpted forms and piercing gazes igniting a fire deep in his soul. He tries to push them away, to focus on the familiar, but the potion's power is too strong. His hand moves faster, his strokes more urgent, as he imagines the touch of those men's strong hands on his body, their lips on his, their cocks inside him. The very thought sends a shockwave of pleasure through him, and he feels his body respond, his cock growing even harder in his grip.

Elijah finishes his shower and wraps a towel around his waist, the steam from the bathroom clinging to his skin. He walks into the kitchen, he opens the fridge, his hand reaching for the milk carton on autopilot, when something catches his eye. It's lighter than before, almost empty.

A muffled sound of pleasure reaches his ears, echoing through the hallway from his father's bedroom. Curiosity and confusion swirl within him as he tiptoes towards the door, straining to listen. The moaning grows louder, unmistakable in its urgency. It's definitely a man's voice, but it's not his father's. Elijah's heart races as he gently turns the doorknob and peeks in.

What greets him is a scene he could never have anticipated. There, in the place where James should be, lies a muscular 18-year-old boy, his skin glistening with sweat, his body a sculpted work of art that matches the men from Elijah's fantasies. The stranger's eyes are closed in ecstasy, his mouth open in a silent scream as his hand moves rapidly over his thick, erect cock. The sight is both mesmerizing and terrifying.

Elijah stumbles back, his mind racing. This can't be his father. The man before him is too young, too perfect. Panic sets in, and he retreats to his bedroom, his heart hammering in his chest.

He locks the door behind him, his thoughts spinning wildly. He must be dreaming, or maybe he's hallucinating. But the sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echo through the house. They're real. The intruder is real.

Elijah's eyes dart around his room, searching for anything he can use as a weapon. His hand closes around a heavy book, but he knows it won't be enough. Then he remembers the potion. If Sebastian's claims are true, then he too can become a tower of strength. He rushes to the kitchen, his heart in his throat, and grabs the milk carton from the fridge.

The liquid inside is barely a quarter of its former volume. He quickly downs the remaining potion, the sweet taste of milk mixing with something else, something potent and powerful. He feels a warmth spread through him, starting in his stomach and moving outwards to his extremities. His body begins to tingle, and he knows that the transformation has begun.

Elijah retreats to his bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't lock the door. What if the intruder comes in? But the potion's magic is already working, and he's too focused on the changes happening to his body to worry about anything else. He sets the carton on his nightstand and watches in the mirror as his reflection starts to shift.

The towel around his waist feels tighter, and he looks down to see his cock growing, thick and hard. It's as if it has a mind of its own, reaching for the fabric as if to break free. He gasps, his hand moving to cover his mouth, as he watches his abs ripple and multiply, forming a perfect 10-pack that he's always dreamed of. His chest swells, filling out the space between his pecs and stomach, the muscles growing more defined with every second that passes. His skin stretches and tightens, the towel now a mere strip of material clinging to his burgeoning physique.

Elijah's legs, once skinny and unremarkable, now balloon with muscle, pushing him back onto the bed. He feels the mattress sink beneath the weight of his new body. His legs, now thick and powerful, are a work of art, each muscle clearly defined. He runs his hand over his newfound bulk, the sensation foreign and exhilarating. His calves bulge and his thighs thicken, the fabric of his towel giving way to reveal his massive cock and balls.

His arms follow suit, growing longer and more muscular. He watches, his eyes wide with wonder, as his biceps and triceps swell with power. His shoulders broaden, the towel slipping away to reveal a body that's no longer his own. His skin stretches taut over his newfound muscles, the veins standing out like rivers of life beneath the surface. His fingers elongate, the sensation strange and thrilling as he flexes his hands, feeling the strength that now courses through them.

The tingling sensation in Elijah's back intensifies, and he feels his spine stretch and realign. His shoulders pull back, and a defined V taper forms, highlighting the stark contrast between his narrow waist and broad back. He gasps as his ribcage expands, the sound echoing through the room. His face, once a reflection of his youthful curiosity, now takes on a more mature, angular structure, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His nose becomes more aquiline, and his lips fuller, framing a smile that promises both strength and sensuality.

But it's the sudden onslaught of testosterone that truly overwhelms him. His mind is bombarded by a deluge of sexual desire, so intense it's almost painful. Every nerve in his body is alive with new sensations, each one more electrifying than the last. The potion's power courses through his veins like molten lava, setting every inch of his skin alight with arousal. He can feel his cock growing even thicker, the weight of it heavy and demanding against his abs. His balls swell, the ache of impending release growing more insistent by the second.

James can't fight it anymore. He gives in to the potion's power, his hand moving faster and faster over his shaft. He feels the orgasm building, a pressure that threatens to consume him. His moans grow louder, and his hips buck involuntarily. His body is no longer his own, a marionette dancing on the strings of his newfound desires.

With a roar that echoes through the house, James climaxes. Cum spurts from his cock like a geyser, painting the walls and floor with his thick, white seed. The force of his release sends waves of pleasure throughout his transformed body, each muscle contracting in ecstasy. He collapses onto the bed, panting and spent.

Elijah, still in the throes of his own transformation, can't ignore the commotion. The intruder's moans of pleasure have turned to gasps for breath, and the smell of sex fills the air. He clenches the book tightly, steeling himself for what he might find. He opens his bedroom door and tiptoes down the hall, his newfound muscles flexing with each step.

The door to his father's room is ajar, and through the crack, he sees the figure of a man sitting on the edge of the bed. His heart stops as he recognizes James' bed, the bed he's slept in countless nights, now stained with a puddle of cum.

James sees the shadow in the doorway and turns, his eyes locking onto Elijah. For a moment, there's confusion in his gaze, as if he's seeing a ghost. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He tries to stand, his muscular legs protesting the sudden movement. "E…Elijah?" he finally manages, his voice a mix of wonder and fear.

Elijah's heart skips a beat. That's his father's voice, but the body? It's the stuff of his wildest dreams. "Dad?" he whispers, the word barely making it past the lump in his throat. The man before him looks up, and in those piercing blue eyes, Elijah sees the unmistakable spark of recognition.

James' eyes widen, taking in Elijah's new form. "What…what's happened to us?" he stammers, his voice a mix of shock and awe. The potion's power seems to hum in the air between them, a palpable force that neither can ignore.

Elijah swallows hard, his hand tightening on the book. "I… I don't know," he says, his voice shaking. "But… I think we should talk."

James nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the book in Elijah's hand before lifting to meet his son's eyes again. "Yeah," he says, his voice a gruff whisper. "Talk."

But talking seems to be the last thing on either of their minds as the potion's power surges through them, drawing them closer together. Before Elijah can say another word, James is on his feet, his massive frame towering over his son. The younger man's hand falls away from the book, his arm muscles flexing involuntarily as he watches his father approach.

Their eyes lock, the tension in the air thick with unspoken desires. Without warning, James leans in, his newfound strength and confidence driving him forward. His hand cups the back of Elijah's head, and their lips meet in a kiss that's equal parts tender and hungry. Elijah's eyes flutter closed, his body responding instinctively to the touch of the man he's always admired.

Their tongues dance together, exploring and tasting, as their hands roam over each other's transformed bodies. Elijah's strong, muscular arms wrap around James' broad back, feeling the heat of his newfound power. James' hands glide over Elijah's sculpted chest, the muscles flexing beneath his touch like living marble. Each caress sends sparks of pleasure through them, the potion's magic amplifying their senses to an unprecedented level.

Their kiss deepens, growing more urgent as the desire between them builds. Elijah can feel James' cock, now fully engorged and heavy, pressing against his stomach. It's a sensation that sends a jolt of excitement straight to his own groin, his cock pulsing with need.

James breaks the kiss, his eyes blazing with passion. He gently pushes Elijah back onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath their combined weight. His hands are everywhere, exploring every inch of his son's newfound muscles. He can't believe this is happening, but the potion's power is too strong to resist.

Elijah's body responds to James' touch, his cock standing at attention as his father's fingers trace a line down his chest and stomach. The anticipation is agonizing, a sweet torment that makes him ache for more. He watches, his breath hitching, as James' hand wraps around his shaft, the older man's grip firm and sure.

James's gaze never leaves Elijah's face, his eyes searching for any sign of fear or hesitation. But what he sees instead is a hunger that matches his own, a need that's been stoked by the potion and their shared transformation. With a gentle tug, he guides Elijah's cock to the side, exposing his puckered hole.

The tip of James's massive cock, now slick with precum, hovers at the entrance to Elijah's ass. Elijah feels a mix of terror and excitement as he prepares to accept his father in the most intimate way possible. The heat of James's shaft sends shivers down his spine, and he can't help but arch his back, offering himself up.

With a low growl, James lines himself up and pushes in, the potion's magic allowing him to breach Elijah's tight hole with surprising ease. Elijah gasps as he's filled to the brim, his body stretching to accommodate his father's girth. James takes a moment to savor the feeling before pulling almost all the way out, only to slam back in, his balls slapping against Elijah's ass with a wet smack.

Their bodies move in a rhythmic dance of passion, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through Elijah, his moans growing louder as James hits all the right spots. James' muscles flex and bulge with every movement, the potion's power evident in every powerful thrust. Elijah can feel his father's strength, the weight of his new body pressing him into the mattress.

Their breaths mingle, both men lost in the moment, the only sounds the grunts and gasps of their shared passion. James' hand wraps around Elijah's cock, the friction of his palm against the sensitive skin driving him closer and closer to the edge. Elijah's eyes roll back in his head, his hips bucking up to meet every thrust. The potion's power is a drug, a heady mix of arousal and confusion that only seems to make the sensations more intense.

James feels it building within him, the pressure in his balls reaching a fever pitch. He can't hold back any longer. With one final, powerful thrust, he lets out a roar that shakes the room, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside Elijah. The warmth and wetness of his cum fills the space between them, a testament to the bond that's been forged in the crucible of the potion's magic.

At the same moment, Elijah's body tenses, his own orgasm ripping through him like a bolt of lightning. He cums in thick ropes, the sensation so intense that his vision blurs. The potion has not only transformed their bodies but also their very beings, stripping away any remaining barriers between them.

As the aftershocks of pleasure begin to fade, the reality of what they've just done sets in. James pulls out slowly, his cock still half-hard, and they both lay there, panting and staring at the ceiling. The silence is deafening, the weight of their actions pressing down on them like a heavy blanket.

Elijah is the first to speak, his voice a soft whisper. "Dad, what have we done?" The tremble in his tone betrays his fear and confusion.

James turns to look at his son, his new muscular body a stark contrast to the man Elijah has known all his life. "I don't know," he admits, his voice gruff with emotion. "But it's what the potion did to us."

Elijah nods, his own muscles still quivering from the intense pleasure of their union. They need to clean up, to process what's happened.

He pushes himself up from the bed, his body feeling both new and unfamiliar. He walks to his father's dresser, his muscular legs moving with a newfound grace. He opens the drawer and pulls out a pair of black shorts, feeling the soft fabric in his hand. The sight of them sends a thrill through his body, a symbol of the power and masculinity he's always envied in the men he desires. He steps into them, the shorts hugging his muscular thighs and accentuating his now prominent bulge.

James watches, his eyes taking in Elijah's new form, the potion-induced changes making it clear that his son is no longer a boy. The white shorts Elijah throws to him seem to glow in the dim light of the room, a stark contrast to the black Elijah has chosen. He sluggishly rises, his legs feeling like they're made of lead. He pulls the shorts on, the fabric stretching to cover his own massive thighs and the heavy weight of his cum-covered cock. The shorts fit surprisingly well, hugging his new body in a way that makes him feel both exposed and powerful.

"We need to talk," James says, his voice still unsteady. "We can't just…go on like this."

Elijah nods, his heart racing as he looks at his father's transformed body. "I know," he whispers. "What do we do?"

James takes a deep breath, his mind racing. "We can't tell anyone," he says, his voice firm. "We'll say I'm your cousin."

Elijah nods, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Okay, from now on, you're Joe."

"Joe," James repeats, testing out the name that now fits the youthful, muscular form he finds himself in. The lie feels strange on his tongue, but he knows it's a necessary one.

"Elijah, your dad had to leave for an overseas job," Joe says, the words feeling more real with each passing second. "We're all alone in this house now."

Elijah nods, the lie a protective shield around their new reality. "Yeah," he murmurs, his eyes still glued to his father's transformed body. "It's just you and me."

Their smiles are tentative, a blend of relief and the beginnings of excitement. They're in this together, two men who share more than just a surname. Joe runs a hand over his new abs, feeling the ridges and valleys of muscle that now define his physique. Elijah's gaze follows the movement, his own smile growing a little bolder.

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

I GET YOU

rafe cameron x fem!reader

( moodboard does NOT depict readers appearance !! )

WARNINGS: none? i can’t really think of anything, just pure fluff! soft!rafe :’) maybe the slightest mention of worrying about what others think/fear of being judged? lmk if i missed anything !!

SUMMARY: rafe and weird!reader are one of the strangest couples in the obx. nobody has any clue how the cunning and cruel rafe cameron is dating the epitome of sunshine. but rafe just gets her, and she just gets him🫶

based on this ask !! i hope you enjoy 🍮🍒 anon, and i hope it was what you asked for, and i added in that the reader makes jewellery and collects sonny’s angels :) and sorry for the late post !! <3

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

THIRD PERSON +

The Outer Banks sun was blazing overhead as Y/N wandered down the streets of Kildare Island. The vibrant clinking of her many bracelets echoed softly in the quiet cul-de-sac as she adjusted her brightly colored tote bag over her shoulder. It was filled to the brim with craft supplies—beads of every color, rolls of thread, and the newest addition to her collection: two tiny Sonny’s Angels figurines she’d found at a small thrift shop on the mainland.

She was a walking burst of color. Her patchwork denim jeans were covered in hand-sewn floral patterns, her lime-green tank top layered over a long-sleeved baby tee, and her hair was adorned with barrette clips in the shape of stars and hearts. The contrast between her aesthetic and the neutral, coastal tones of the OBX locals was stark. She stuck out like a sore thumb—and she didn’t care.

And Rafe Cameron loved her for it.

From his perch on the porch steps of Tannyhill, Rafe’s blue eyes tracked her approach, his lips quirking into a soft, almost amused smile. He watched as she practically skipped up the gravel driveway, clutching her tote bag like it held treasure.

“Rafey!” she called out, her voice a melodic lilt that never failed to make his chest ache in the best way. “Guess what I found!”

He chuckled, standing up and brushing off his khaki shorts. “What, another one of those creepy little baby dolls?”

She gasped in mock outrage, clutching her heart. “They’re not creepy! They’re little angels, and they’re adorable. Look!” She yanked the two figurines from her bag and held them up like prized possessions. One was dressed as a strawberry, the other as a little chef.

Rafe leaned down, squinting at the tiny figures in her hands. “Yeah, adorable is one way to put it,” he teased, but his grin betrayed his words.

“Don’t be mean,” she said, poking his chest lightly. Her rings sparkled in the sunlight as she did so. “You just don’t understand their charm.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shrug, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his chest. “But I understand you, and that’s enough for me.”

Her cheeks flushed at his words, and she buried her face in his chest. “You’re such a sap sometimes.”

“Only for you.”

The two of them stood like that for a moment, swaying slightly in the breeze. The Cameron estate was quiet; Ward and Rose were off on one of their trips, and Sarah was, well, doing whatever Sarah did these days. It left Rafe and Y/N in a little bubble of their own, untouched by the world’s judgments.

“You wanna help me make something?” Y/N asked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.

“Make what?”

“A bracelet!” She stepped out of his arms, already rummaging through her bag. “I got these new beads, and I think they’d look great with your eyes.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “You wanna make me a bracelet?”

“Why not?” she said, grinning. “It’s not like you’re gonna wear it in public or anything. Unless…” Her grin turned mischievous.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, though his tone was light.

She giggled, plopping down on the porch steps and spreading her supplies out like an artist preparing her canvas. Rafe followed, sitting beside her and watching as her nimble fingers worked to thread beads onto a piece of elastic.

“Why do you do this?” he asked after a while, his voice soft.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestured to her array of beads, figurines, and tiny tools. “All of it. The bright clothes, the crafts… you’re not exactly like anyone else around here.”

She paused, looking up at him with a small smile. “Because it makes me happy,” she said simply. “I like colours. I like making things. It’s who I am.”

Rafe nodded, taking her answer in stride. He’d always admired her confidence in being herself, even when people whispered about her behind her back or shot her strange looks in town. It was a level of self-assuredness he wasn’t sure he’d ever reach.

“You know,” she said after a moment, stringing a star-shaped bead onto the bracelet, “a lot of people think it’s weird that we’re together.”

“They’re idiots.”

She laughed, a light, airy sound that made his heart swell. “I know that. But still… you’re Rafe Cameron. People expect you to date, like, the cheerleader type. Not someone who spends their weekends thrifting for doll clothes.”

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against the plastic barrette clipped in her hair. “Let them think what they want,” he said firmly. “You make me happy. That’s all that matters.”

Her smile widened, and she leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re too good to me, Rafe Cameron.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with a smirk, though the teasing edge in his voice was softened by the way he gazed at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

She finished the bracelet a few minutes later, tying it off and holding it up for inspection. It was a mix of blue and white beads, with a single star charm in the center. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” he said, letting her slide it onto his wrist. The contrast between the delicate bracelet and his rugged, calloused hands was almost laughable, but he wore it with pride.

“You look so cute,” she cooed, taking his hand in hers to admire her handiwork.

“Don’t push it,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting to the horizon where the sun was beginning to set. “You know, I used to think no one would ever get me,” she admitted quietly. “Like, really get me.”

Rafe turned his head to look at her, his expression softening. “I get you,” he said simply.

She smiled, tilting her head up to kiss him softly. “Yeah,” she whispered against his lips. “You do.”

The world around them seemed to fade away as they sat together on the porch steps, wrapped in their own little universe. It didn’t matter what the rest of the Outer Banks thought of them. They had each other, and that was more than enough.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt like he could be himself. And for Y/N, that was the greatest gift of all.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was so so cute and so much fun to write !! i LOVE weird girl!reader soooo much and this was just the CUTEST🥹 i really hope this was what you wanted 🍮🍒 anon and i hope i got the aesthetics correct :) as always, please like and reblog as it means the WORLD to me <333

[squatch-and-stretch]

Do You Remember?

Fiddleford McGucket/Ford Pines | 2,916 words | Memory Lapse, Hurt/Comfort

An old man wakes up in an unknown room with a handsome stranger and no memory of who he is.

Fic under the cut.

He wakes up tucked into a comfortable bed with a pounding headache and a pervasive sense that something is wrong. When he opens his eyes and sees the opulent room around him, that feeling only intensifies. He can’t quite recall where he’s supposed to be, but it’s certainly nowhere quite so fancy-shmancy. He’s not quite sure who he is, but he’s not the fancy-shmancy sort.

He should probably know who he is, right? That seems sensible. He should figure that out.

He sits up, shrugging off a thick duvet. His head swims, vision spotting for a moment before it clears. The air is a little cold, but it’s tolerable. He’s wearing a large sweatshirt, and as he looks down at his hands, he realizes he’s old. His fingers, blurry even at this distance, are nearly skeletal, swollen around the joints, skin pale and paper-thin, spotted with a hundred small scars and age spots. He pushes the sleeve up, admiring the body he seems to occupy. There’s a thick scar along one arm, and as he runs his fingers over it, he feels something strange beneath the skin. He checks it against his other arm, and yes, there’s something wrong with that one that isn’t wrong with the other.

Or maybe it’s the other way around…? No, he’s fairly certain the unscarred arm is the normal one.

He runs a hand down his face curiously. There’s only a few stubborn wisps of hair still on his head, but he’s got a pretty impressive beard underneath one heck of a big nose.

He rolls his sleeves back down. The room is a little cold. The window across the room is cracked just slightly, letting in chilly morning air. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but when it does, it’ll shine right through that window. He usually wakes up before it does.

So he’s an early riser, and his room is on the east side of whatever building he’s in. He’s old and he broke his arm at one point. He’s also pretty darn sure he’s a he, now that he thinks about it, and that’s something.

“Fiddleford?” a voice says gently, accompanied by a light knock on the doorframe.

He— Fiddleford, is he Fiddleford? What a ridiculous name— freezes like a deer in headlights. Without waiting for a response, the person at the door opens it.

He’s tall, somewhere around 60, and very handsome. Fiddleford— yes, that’s him, he’s Fiddleford— does not recognize this man, but a strange flurry of emotion is stirred at the sight of him.

Anger, betrayal, terror, concern, affection, all at once, suffocating in their strength. It’s all so confusing, but he focuses on the fear. It’s not the most powerful, but it is the most understandable reaction to having a stranger in his (his? is it Fiddleford’s?) bedroom. He does not know this man and he does not know why he’s evoking such a powerful emotional response from him and he does not know where he is and why this man is here.

“Who’re you?” Fiddleford demands shakily, and there’s a southern twang to his voice that this stranger does not possess. He draws the blankets back up to his chest like a shield, backing himself up against the headboard. “Where am I?”

The man, who had moved to enter the room, freezes. The gentle expression on his face gives way to confusion, then alarm, then concern.

“Fiddleford, it’s me, Stanford,” he says, stepping closer. Fiddleford flinches, pressing himself tighter against the headboard. The name sends a shiver down his spine.

“I… I don’t reckon I know you,” Fiddleford says, nearly a whine. Does his voice really sound like that? It’s terrible.

“No, I don’t suppose you would, at the moment,” ‘Stanford’ says, soft and heartbroken, “but please, believe me when I say that I mean you no harm.”

“I… I dunno that I do,” Fiddleford mumbles, watching him like a hawk.

Standing there looking like a wet dog, this man does not cut a particularly intimidating figure. There’s a bulk to his shoulders and chest that implies strength, but he’s hunched over, hands fluttering awkwardly. They’re big hands, wide, with one more finger than Fiddleford’s. His own hands tingle, a phantom sensation of warm, thick fingers between his own. He clenches his hand into a fist to squash the feeling.

“If you really don’t wanna hurt me none, how ‘bout you stay over there and answer my questions?” Fiddleford says sharply. As sharply as he can with his voice shaking, anyway.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, keeping his hands in view as he steps out of the doorway.

His eyes flick towards the open door, looking away from Fiddleford for the first time since he’s entered. He looks like he wants to close the door, but he doesn’t.

The door opens out into a long hallway, and even if he can’t see the entrance from where he’s sitting, he knows it’s that way.

He glances at Stanford. Stanford stares back, brows furrowed, eyes wide.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Stanford asks, gesturing with one hand toward a cushioned wooden rocking chair in one corner, the wall behind it lined with bookshelves. A well-loved quilt is thrown over the back of it, and a banjo leans against it.

Part of Fiddleford prickles possessively. He doesn’t recognize anything in this room, not really, but they’re his. He doesn’t have much, what he does have he needs to protect.

But that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Isn’t this his fancy house?

No, it can’t be. Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong in a place like this. This must be Stanford’s house. He doesn’t know why or when or how, but Stanford must have dragged him here himself.

What does he want from him? He’s a frail and confused old man. If he has— had— any skills, he doesn’t remember them now.

He was smart once, wasn’t he? Was he? He certainly isn’t now, not when he’s taking advice from the small, scared animal burrowed in his chest.

It’s telling him to run.

The man, Stanford, he said something, didn’t he?

“Huh?” Fiddleford breathes.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Stanford repeats, patiently.

“… go ahead,” Fiddleford allows. “Careful with that there banjo.”

Don’t provoke him! the scared animal squeals, but Stanford just smiles at him. The concern— fake, he’s tricking you!— remains in his eyes, but there’s a soft, kind curl to his lips. He looks fond.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, gently repositioning the banjo so it’s leaning against the wall instead of the chair. “Now what did you want to ask me?”

Fiddleford watches him. He’s leaning forward, templing his hands, and his eyes do not leave Fiddleford.

“Well, uh…” Fiddleford glances around. “First things first, just what is that?”

Fiddleford points away from the door. Stanford, that gullible son of a gun, falls for it, following his finger to frown at the bookcase.

Go, go, go, hurry, he’ll hurt you if he catches you, the scared animal says, and Fiddleford agrees.

He scrambles out of bed, and his balance tilts, vision going dark for a moment. He comes back to himself on his hands and knees, and he doesn’t know how long he was out but he needs to get out. Stanford isn’t blocking the way to the door yet, so Fiddleford scampers on four legs towards the opening.

“Fiddleford!” Stanford gasps, and he steps in front of him, hands extended.

He can’t stop himself before he’s crashing into Stanford’s legs, and a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t think, just reacts, and he twists his head to bite at Stanford’s wrist. His teeth— of which he has very few, he’s realizing— catch on the sleeve of his sweater. Stanford doesn’t back off though, he just secures him with his other hand.

“No!” Fiddleford yelps. “No, no, lemme go!”

“Fiddleford, please,” Stanford nearly begs, but his firm grip doesn’t falter, “I don’t want to do this but we’re on the second floor, you’ll hurt yourself on the stairs!”

“No! No no no, stop!” Fiddleford sobs. He hears the words, but he doesn’t register them. “Lemme go, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Something familiar scratches at the back of his head. Yellow eyes, skin so pale it was nearly transparent, large clawed hands, men in uniform and scowling townsfolk.

A crowded room that always smelled like coffee and tobacco and damp, a couch beneath a stained glass window, caves and campfires and constellations.

His head throbs painfully, and the thoughts leave his head as quickly as they came. Stanford’s grip shifts, tightens, and Fiddleford struggles until he feels his wide palm on the back of his head, pulling his head into the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Stanford says. His neck is right there. Even through his sweater, he could hurt him. The scared animal demands that he do so, but he knows this man. He doesn’t know why, but he does, and his tired old body aches.

“Stanford…” he whines, and the name tastes familiar in his mouth. He buries his nose in his shoulder as he goes limp against the larger man. He smells like sweat and coffee. “What… what’s goin’ on?”

He sighs. Fiddleford can feel it against the top of his head.

“You’re having a memory lapse. It’s a side effect of a device you invented,” he explains, stroking the thin hairs clinging stubbornly to the back of his head. “I have yet to help you through one, but I have plenty of experience with my brother’s. I… I could get him, if you’d prefer.”

“Brother…” Fiddleford echoes. He knows the meaning of the word, understands its importance to this man in particular, but he doesn’t know why.

“Stanley, my twin brother. He was… affected by the same device, so he has direct personal experiences with its consequences,” Stanford elaborates, voice strained. “Besides, your relationship with him is less… complicated than our own. It may be best—“

“No!” Fiddleford fists his hands into the back of Stanford’s sweater. “Please, I don’t…”

I don’t want you to leave, I don’t want to see anyone else, I don’t want to bother anyone, I don’t… Fiddleford doesn’t know what he means, but Stanford hushes him with a gentle noise and lets it go.

“Let’s get you off the floor, m— Fiddleford,” Stanford says.

What had he been about to say? Fiddleford has bigger concerns, but the curiosity claws at him.

“Mm-hm,” Fiddleford agrees, and for some reason, instead of moving away to stand up, his body curls closer to Stanford’s.

Stanford takes this in stride, carefully repositioning Fiddleford in his arms. With an ease that’s a bit irritating given his apparent age, he stands up with Fiddleford held against him. His stomach swoops with nausea, and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face further into Stanford’s neck as he lets out a soft whine.

Stanford replies with a soothing, wordless noise from deep in his throat. Carefully, he sits down on the bed and releases Fiddleford, keeping himself between him and the door. Fiddleford wiggles out of his lap, but stays close beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He still doesn’t know this man, doesn’t know if he can trust him, but his body seems to think he should. Or maybe he’s just that lonely, so lonely that he’ll seek comfort in some home invader or kidnapper that possibly gave him brain damage.

“So,” Stanford began, clearing his throat, “what is the last thing you remember?”

Fiddleford tried to think back, but everything beyond this morning was a blur. Thinking about any of it too hard sent a painful pulse through his already aching brain.

“Um… well, I reckon I remember wakin’ up this mornin’.”

“You… you don’t remember anything?” Stanford says, voice tight. Fiddleford looks down at his lap, twisting his hands together anxiously as he nods.

“Okay… okay. I don’t— this has never happened with Stanley, but that’s fine! That’s… that’s fine.”

“Your name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and you were born the second of five siblings on a hog farm in Eastern Tennessee. You have an older sister, two younger sisters, and a younger brother, as well as countless cousins, I swear you changed the number every time we talked.”

“I didn’t change the number just for the heck of it, my aunts and uncles just kept havin’ kids,” Fiddleford argues. “That’s what happens when you’ve got seven uncles and nine aunts of varying ages.”

“You remember?” Stanford says, delighted.

Fiddleford blinks.

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Fantastic! It’s working then! What else do you remember?”

“My siblings, we used to be real close, loved ‘em to death and I reckon I still do, but after I got married—“ Fiddleford stops, heart stuttering in his chest. All the comfort his mind had tricked him into taking in the other man drains away in an instant, and he scrambles away from him. He hits his back hard on the headboard. “My wife! Emma-May, where’s my wife!? My son!?”

“They’re okay! They’re fine, I promise I haven’t done anything to harm them!” Stanford holds his hands up placatingly, but his expression falters slightly. “At least, not directly, and not in the last thirty years…”

“Then where are they? What are you talking about!?”

“Emma-May still lives in California, I believe, but…” Stanford sighs, “the two of you got divorced approximately thirty-one years ago.”

“… oh,” Fiddleford says. It really isn’t a surprise. Emma-May, the poor darling, was bound to catch onto him eventually.

… catch onto him? About what? What was he hiding from her? He looks at the man sitting in bed with him and knows that he is related.

“Why? What happened?”

Stanford winces.

“It’s not really my place to say, but… I took you from them. We met in college, do you remember?”

“… the McGucket/Pines Hologram Conjecture Theory,” Fiddleford says. He remembers it, remembers the heat on his face from embarrassment and tears, remembers the taste of coffee and cola, the equations scribbled on paper and sticky notes and windows, the weight of this man’s arm around his shoulder, their wide grins. He remembers the excitement, the joy, the affection. At some point, he had loved this man.

So that’s what it was.

“Exactly right!” Ford agrees, and his smile now is so much more restrained, but twice as affectionate. “After we graduated…”

“You moved to Oregon, I went back to Tennessee. Reconnected with Emma-May, and we got married, but…” Fiddleford frowns. He knows Emma-May, knew that he loved her in some sort of way, but… but he didn’t do it right. Always too reserved, too awkward, too distant. He couldn’t love her how he was supposed to.

“I called you up to Oregon, to Gravity Falls, to work on a project.”

“A polydimensional meta-vortex,” Fiddleford agrees, heart twisting at the words, “and I did it. I left them both, easy as that.”

Ford remains silent for a long moment, watching Fiddleford with palpable guilt.

“I don’t think it was easy. You visited when you could,” Ford says eventually, and his hand flutters as if he wants to reach out to comfort him, before it falls in his lap.

“It wasn’t enough,” Fiddleford sighs. “I left her, and she made sure it stayed that way.”

Ford nods, ashamed.

“And we did it, didn’t we? We made… we made the vortex,” Fiddleford continues, voice shaking. He remembers breathless terror, even if he can’t quite recall what made him feel that way, can’t recall what he saw beyond a single massive eye. “That’s why I’m like this.”

“Yes,” Ford agrees, voice thick. For all his bulk, he looks like a scolded child. How was he ever afraid of this darling man? “Though you were its inventor, I was the one to drive you to create the memory gun.”

“None of that, darlin’,” Fiddleford soothes, and even though his head throbs with every thought and memory that flows through it, reaching out to him is easy as breathing. He takes Ford’s hand, threading their fingers together. Ford flinches, but Fiddleford holds tight, squeezes his hand gently. “I made it, I decided to use it on myself, I got addicted to it. Now you aren’t one to take credit for other people’s work, are ya?”

Ford smiles, even as his eyes remain pained.

“We’ve done this before,” Fiddleford muses.

“We’ve been doing it a lot, ever since I came back to you,” Ford agrees. “I still struggle to believe I’ve earned your forgiveness.”

“Ain’t something you really had to earn, hun,” Fiddleford soothes, and he wiggles closer to Ford now that he knows who he is, now that he knows that his body’s instincts to trust him were right. “I had enough of being angry and scared, and I certainly had enough of forgettin’.”

Things still don’t make a whole lot of sense, and his head hurts like no tomorrow, but he knows he’s safe here, with this man in this house. Ford pulls him closer and presses a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

“Are you alright, my love?” Ford asks, soft and sweet.

“Hurts,” he says vaguely, curling into the man.

“I know,” he soothes. “I should get you some water and painkillers.”

He tenses as if to move away, but Fiddleford shakes his head, burying it in his chest.

“Later,” he mumbles. “Just stay with me?”

“Of course.”

[jolapeno]

the blueberry archives #1

frankie morales x ofc!reader from the strings attached series

warnings: none, all fluff. a domestic outtake. although in 3rd person* word count: <500

an: a "deleted" scene if you will, but you don't need to read the pair to enjoy, it's just a domestic morning. but, they are pretty cool. for @polaroidpascal and @chippedowlmug for loving these two as much as me. I adore you both.

*i always wished i wrote WNSA in third once i dediced to make blue an OFC!reader, but i guess i can have fun from now on like this, so this is a little taste of what it would be like if i did/do.

The smell hits first—something warm, savoury, intentional.

It draws her from the bathroom, skin damp, towel hung loosely over the hook, pulling her in the direction of the scent. She glances toward the kitchen, spotting him and the way he moves with surprising familiarity: barefoot, sleeves rolled up, his hand steady on the frying pan as he slides eggs onto a plate he clearly had to hunt for.

Blue leans against the doorframe, watching—Frankie Morales, in her kitchen, looking like he’s always belonged there. His brow furrows as he tidies the counter with one hand, reaching for a stray cloth. The domesticity of it all tugs at a string in her chest, plucks it, all unexpected, but scarily welcome.

For a moment, she just watches, fingers brushing the doorframe, a tug low in her chest. It’s unnerving, how right it feels—him here, moving like he belongs. Like it wouldn’t be impossible to reach out and ask him to stay, for longer than what's been agreed on this visit as sunlight filters through the open blinds, painting soft, lined shadows across the kitchen. It’s his humming that pulls her smile wider, paired with the stiff sway of his hips. How someone who can make her body bend the way he does and yet can’t seem to dance is beyond her. She bites back a laugh, clearing her throat, and is greeted with brown—warm, beautiful, heart-stopping brown.

“Breakfast,” he says, smile slow and deliberate, paired with a quick, self-satisfied shrug. “Hope you don’t mind. Found the plates and everything.”

Shaking her head, she can’t fight the grin tugging at her lips. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t want to hear you complain about being hungry,” he teases, holding the plate out like an offering.

Their fingers brush as she takes it, and he lingers—just long enough to make her want to pull him close. A yearning fills her that's far too big for what they are. Instead, her gaze drops to the plate, the eggs and slightly unevenly buttered toast. Something warm trickles through her, settling low in her stomach.

“Be careful, Captain,” she murmurs, lifting a brow, “might start to think you really like me.”

“Would that be so bad?”

His voice is too soft, too knowing, and it sits in her chest like a question she’s too scared to answer. Not yet. Lifting a slice of toast, her heart catches in her throat, mind screaming no even as she shrugs, taking a bite. Smirking, she glances up, finding his mouth mirrors hers within seconds.

[be-ee]

Two

a short series where you share a multitude of kisses with childhood friend to lovers Alhaitham (All credits to the wonderful writer @aurumalatus. They have something very similar for kinich! Go read it.)

The funny thing about labels is how stubbornly they stick. A silly nickname, once given, seems to follow you everywhere, no matter how much you outgrow it. Two years later, despite all your efforts to prove you’ve matured, you’re still “the troublesome one.”

Alright, maybe you jumped a fence. Or two. Or... well, let’s not count. But still, it made absolutely no sense why you, Y/N L/N, at the very grown age of twelve, were being babysat by Alhaitham—a boy who, let’s be honest, was only five months older than you.

Preposterous, stupid, nonsensical.

These were the only words running through your head as you stood at the front door, arms crossed, while Alhaitham waved off your parents like this entire situation made perfect sense.

Once the door clicked shut, sealing your fate, Alhaitham turned to you with the air of someone who had just been handed a particularly dull chore.  

“Well,” he said, adjusting his sleeves with deliberate care, “shall we establish some ground rules?”  

You stared at him, incredulous. “Ground rules? You’re not my parent.”  

“No,” he agreed, his tone maddeningly calm. “But I am in charge. And seeing as you apparently can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble, it’s my job to make sure you don’t, let’s say, burn something.”  

Your cheeks burned at the reminder. “That was one time!”  

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I counted three.”  

“You weren’t even there!”  

“Doesn’t matter. The evidence speaks for itself.”  

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

It took a painstaking 20 minutes to endure his lecture on “rules,” another 20 to talk him out of playing chess, and an excruciating 10 more to convince him to do something—anything—besides stare at the wall like a bored statue, occasionally punctuated by his mouth breathing. ( He calls it meditation?)

And that’s how you found yourselves in the kitchen. You rolled up your sleeves, hopping onto the counter with a sigh of resignation. Opening a nearby cabinet, you grabbed a bowl and a few ingredients, handing them off to Alhaitham with an exaggerated flourish.  

Alhaitham raised an eyebrow but took the items without a word, arranging them on the island counter.

“Alright,” you said, as you hopped down next to him.

“Could you please fill me in on…this?” Alhaitham spoke

"Cookie dough," you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We're making cookie dough.”

No room for argument there and an hour later, the kitchen looked like a disaster zone. Flour dusted the countertops, sugar was spilled in various corners, and a few eggshells had found their way onto the floor.You stared at the mess, then back at Alhaitham, who was standing at the centre of it all, looking utterly fazed. 

“Come on. You’re being dramatic. I’m not that bad,” you said, casually dusting some flour off the counter—directly onto the floor.  

Alhaitham looked at the mess, then back at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “I’m not sure ‘dramatic’ is the word I’d use.”  

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Details, details.”

“Now the moment of truth…Taste test!” You said as you brought the bowl of cookie dough to the centre, along side two spoons.

Alhaitham gave you a wary look, eyeing the bowl before slowly reaching for the spoon. “You’re sure this is… edible?”  

You grinned. “If it’s not, we can always blame it on you.”

Alhaitham hesitated for a moment, then scooped up a spoonful of the dough, eyeing it skeptically before taking a small bite. His expression remained neutral, but his eyebrows twitched slightly, a sign that he was trying to process the taste.

"Well?" you asked, leaning in, eager for his verdict.

He set the spoon down slowly, his usual composure slipping for just a second. "It's... not terrible," he admitted, though there was a hint of surprise in his voice.

You grinned triumphantly, grabbing your own spoonful. "See? Told you. It’s basically perfect."  

You took a bite, savoring the sweetness. But as you chewed, your face scrunched slightly. "...Okay, maybe just a little too much sugar."  

Alhaitham glanced at you with a smirk. "A little?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I was being generous."  

"Still good though," you said with a shrug, grabbing another spoonful of cookie dough and popping it into your mouth.  

Alhaitham watched you for a moment, then sighed, clearly resisting the urge to comment on the growing mess. Just as you were about to scoop another bite, he reached over, gently stopping your hand.  

"Wait," he said, before using his thumb to wipe a bit of dough off the corner of your mouth.  

Your eyes widened slightly as he slowly licked the remains off his thumb, his gaze not leaving yours. "You can finish that thing," he said with a quiet, almost amused tone, "while we clean up."  

You blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected gesture, but quickly recovered. "Right, sure." you muttered, still a little flustered as you grabbed the bowl to take another bite.  

[hauntedhokage]

this is going to be the longest friday of your life

word count: 9.7k

warnings: references to sex explicit sexual content

[read on ao3] [masterlist] [ko-fi]

“You’re up early.”

“Could say the same to you.” You mumble back, pushing his hair back so you could clearly see him while his eyes try to focus on the new light of the room. He’d been working hard the last few days, you’re confident this is the first morning all week that he’d woken up in a bed and not his office chair or an unused gurney left in a hallway. “Sleep well?”

“Getting to sleep in bed with you is always preferable.”

“I’m glad I could inspire you to take me to dinner and to bed, then.” His smile as you speak is warm, full of adoration that makes your heart flutter with your own smile stretching across your face. “Could I possibly inspire you to make breakfast?”

“I can be bought.”

“How so?”

“Kiss tax, plus a few extra, and I’ll even make the coffee.”

You pretend to think about it, finger tracing patterns against his bare chest as his hand carefully caresses your jaw. There’s a clench to his jaw that you catch, reflective of the urges you knew he was fighting to repress for the sake of whatever moment it was that you were sharing in your bed - urges that you’d press with hope that he’d let himself go again like he had the night before. “I think we have a deal.” 

His own fingers dance across your lips before he leans in, the feather light sensation replaced by his soft lips that somehow still tasted of his minty chapstick. His kiss is languid, your movements still affected by the haze of the lingering sleepiness mixed with the warm bed sheets and body heat. His hands pull you to roll with him so you’re laying on him, holding you by your hips to keep you with him. 

“Does that only count as one? Or can we make that two?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Not that it mattered, the rumbling of your stomach was enough to cut off any escalation of your physical intimacy with Zayne for a while. He carefully sits up, keeping you in his arms until you’re both upright before he’s depositing you to sit beside him so he can stand then help you to your feet. 

“You always look so cute when you steal my clothes.”

You look down at the green long sleeve you had picked up on your way back from the bathroom last night, one of Zayne’s oversized shirts that he slept in but was now serving a higher purpose - not just keeping you warm, but also keeping you cute for your boyfriend. Cute wasn’t a normal word for Zayne, but you were going to take it and savor it because you liked being cute for him. 

So cute that he keeps you perched on the counter, passing a mug of coffee between you that you have to turn around and refill as he cooks. Your kiss tax for breakfast is paid in full at least twice over by the time he’s helping you down so you can make your way to the table with your plate and coffee to eat. 

“Thank you for cooking, Zayne.”

“It’s never a hassle for you.” His assurance has you smiling as you bite into your toast, warm with the knowledge that he enjoyed taking care of you. “Is there anything you’d like to do today?”

“Not really. Let’s just see where the day takes us and, if it’s just laying on the couch then that’s fine by me.”

The faint sound of a ringtone can be heard from the bedroom, and you pause mid-bite as you focus your hearing on the noise. That was your phone, and Zayne nods when you tell him as you stand from your chair so you can half-jog to the bedroom to see who was calling. Your hope that it was just someone inviting you out is squashed when Jenna’s name lights up your screen, and you can only redirect your hope in the direction that she’s only checking on you instead of needing you in the field. 

That hope is squashed as soon as you hear her tone on the other line, laced with apologies unspoken for calling on your day off. But apparently Xavier needed your help with a Wanderer he’d been tracking, and that was a big enough deal for having your day interrupted. 

“...If Xavier wasn’t specifically requesting you, then-”

“Yeah, I know Captain. I’ll be out there ASAP.”

And you know that he knows exactly what had just happened, knows what you’re about to tell him when you reappear wearing your usual combat pants, but you still have to brace yourself for the words to leave your mouth. 

“I hate to dine and dash, but-“

“I know, duty calls.” He doesn’t look surprised nor disappointed, only shooing you towards your bedroom as he stands from the table. “Go finish getting ready, I’ll make some coffee for you to take with you.”

You nod, starting to head that way but quickly doubling back to steal a kiss from him. “You’re the best.” 

“I try to be.”

“Hey Xav,” you greet, sneaking up on him for once and laughing when his startled expression meets your own smug grin. 

“I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Extremely. Even more proud that you requested my help.”

“I stole your kill yesterday, this is a courtesy.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” You check your gun one last time, nudging him with your elbow to signal that you were ready to move. “You just like spending time with me.”

“I won’t argue that, partner.”

You listen as he tells you about the wanderer he’d been tracking this morning, now aware of why he’d requested your backup as he explains that this wanderer was being drawn to a Luminivore that he’d been trying to pin down for about a month. He didn’t want to risk letting it go, and after this long it would be strong - better to get the help than not and risk it getting even stronger by feeding off more wanderers. 

When you do find it, the battle is difficult. The creature was more unpredictable than any wanderer you’d come face-to-face with, moved faster and was all around nasty - even Xavier had been caught off guard a couple times and was reliant on his speed being greater and trusting in your aim being steady and not shooting him by accident. Aiming at blurry subjects was never easy, and you're grateful that you hadn’t come close to hitting Xavier even once throughout the battle despite what you felt were a couple close calls.

“This restaurant just opened today.” Xavier tells you as you walk through the city, having relaxed from the tough battle. “I figured it was something we could try together.”

You nod, not looking up from your phone while you texted Zayne to let him know your mission had gone well and that you were going to get lunch with Xavier. You don’t expect an immediate response so you pocket your phone so you can give Xavier you full attention.  

“I was given a flier the other day on my way to the no-hunt zone.” It’s a simple explanation that makes perfect sense, and you nod again while teasing him for being able to sniff out a new restaurant in town without the help of a promotional flier. He rubs his neck as he agrees, earning some nudges from your elbow to his side as you enter the building.

He orders a roast beef sandwich while you go with the waitress’ recommendation, and you’re pleasantly surprised by the chicken salad that’s put in front of you just ten minutes later. There’s discussion between you and Xavier about the fight, as you need the additional reassurance that you hadn’t come close to hitting him with any of your shots while he’s happy to make you feel better about that. Next you talk about any plans you might have for the rest of your day off, since you both already know that he’s going back to sleep after exerting so much energy on the wanderer. 

When you leave you’re happy 

“Careful.” Xavier comments, his hand tugging you back by your collar to get you out of the narrow crosswalk just in time to avoid the truck barreling through the intersection. A good call, since the vehicle was huge and probably would have killed you if he hadn’t pulled you out of the crosswalk. 

“Katie!?”

You both turn at the sound, your eyes seeing the woman rushing into the intersection before they find that she was rushing towards. A young girl, no older than twelve, was laid in the center of a growing group of people. Xavier is already calling for help as you move in to push the crowd back to give the girl and her mother space, but the whole time you can only think about the fact that it was almost you in that position.  

Maybe it should have been you? Better you than a kid, right? 

The thought haunts you through the rest of your day. You’d come home to an empty apartment, a text from Zayne telling you that he’d been called in to the hospital to assess a cardiac patient admitted from the emergency room but he’d ordered you dinner in advance that would be delivered around six. You text him asking if he’d heard anything about the girl that he could share with you before you get into the shower. Your shoulder aches, and your fingers find blood from a small wound that you’d have to wrap up on your own and ask Zayne to look at in the morning. You weren’t going to the hospital today, you just needed to lay down now. 

DAY TWO

This felt unusually similar to the last day, but you shake the unease as you watch Zayne continue to sleep - or at least pretend to be sleeping. 

“What time do you need to be at the hospital?” 

A smile as he knows he’s been caught, and your hand gently caresses his cheek as he sighs into your pillows before telling you, “Not at all. I’m yours all day, if you’ll have me.”

There wasn’t a single place you’d rather be than with him, and the way his cheeks develop a pink tint makes you smile as you lean in to kiss his nose. You swear you’ve had this conversation before, down to the way Zayne bashfully presses his face deeper into the pillow to try and mask the normally uncharacteristic smile - but that was your smile and you weren’t going to let him hide it. 

“Stop hiding your handsome little face from me right now.”

“Is that a request or a demand, miss hunter?”

“A…req-mand,” you respond with a grin, sitting up in the bed so you could look down at him. “If I may make another?”

“Yes, I’d happily cook our breakfast.”

“You’re a blessing and a doctor and a wonderful boyfriend.” 

“Anything else?”

“You’re also great in bed, but you knew all of that already.”

“I still like to hear you say it.”

Your phone rings as you’re eating, and you sigh as you stand to retrieve it from the bedroom. It seemed you never got a day off, even when you were supposed to have one. Two days in a row wasn’t fair, and you have half a mind to complain to Jenna about it after she explains the situation but hold off in favor of keeping your job. 

Zayne had followed you to the bedroom, and you’re disappointed at the slight frown that graces his usually stoic features, but he was just in demand as you were so you know he understood your situation. It still sucked though.  

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you assure, leaning against the doorframe as he presses his forehead to yours. The strong hand on your hip keeps you in place, three little words weighing down the tip of your tongue as he leans in to capture the kiss he’d been seeking. “It’d just be nice to have a day with you.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” he assures, kissing you again in something much more weighted with the adoration he held for you - a true parting kiss that you needed to be able to leave comfortably. I’ll see you later, I hope.” 

“Yeah, I should hopefully be back around dinnertime so you can make sure I eat something.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

It had to have just been deja vu. That made the most sense as to why you felt like you’d been to this exact area with Xavier telling you it was him wanting to make up for stealing your kill. This entire morning felt familiar, down to the way the wanderer swung at your left shoulder. Any closer and it would’ve gotten your skin instead of just slicing through your shirt and you’d be gang lectured by Xavier, Jenna, Tara, then Zayne in that order. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Lunch?”

“Lunch.” 

He tells you about the little diner he’d found and wanted to try, and you nod along as you walk back towards the city. Walking with Xavier was always refreshing, even when you felt uneasy- as if you’d been in the exact situation before. But it was possible that after how long you and Xavier had been partners that every battle felt like a repeat of one before it. 

When you go into the dinner you pause, looking around only to realize that you’d been here before. There was no way this was the first day they were open, and Xavier only shakes his head as you take your seat across from him in the booth. 

“Maybe you’d been to whatever was here before,” he starts, tilting his head when you shake yours. “This building has been closed for the last year while they remodeled for this restaurant to open.”

“I swear we were just here yesterday.”

“We didn’t see each other yesterday, remember? I had the day off and you were with that artist.”

You had been with Rafayel, but that was two days ago. Yesterday you had been with Xavier in this restaurant. He ordered-

“I’ll have the roast beef sandwich.” 

That.

“And you, miss?”

You weren’t ready, too busy staring at your menu in disbelief at being correct. Xavier was impossible to guess when it came to a menu that didn’t have hot pot, and you were able to get that? How?

“I’ll have whatever you recommend.” 

You’d done that yesterday, too. This waitress would likely bring a salad like she had yesterday, and it would be a damn good salad. 

“She’s going to bring a salad, and I know this because we were here yesterday.”

“Here yesterday but she didn’t recognize us?” Xavier retorts, leaning back into the booth as you cross your arms over your chest. “Did that wanderer hit you? Do I need to get you to the hospital?”

“No it didn’t, but thanks for your concern. Maybe it’s just deja vu, then.”

“Or maybe you need to buy a lottery ticket.”

It was possible that you should’ve bought a lottery ticket, as you find yourself an hour later in the same intersection trying to keep the crowd away from the horrified mother and the daughter who’d been hit by a truck. But this time you don’t go home, you call a taxi to take you to Akso Hospital where the girl had been taken for emergency care. 

You just weren’t expecting to see Zayne crossing the reception area when you walked in, needing to be redirected by a receptionist to see you.

“What are you doing here?” He’s carefully inspecting your body for injuries, even carefully gazing into your eyes to look for signs of head injury. You let him look until he’s satisfied, knowing that if you didn’t he’d just continue to worry and check you out as discreetly as possible - even holding your hand a particular way so he could check your pulse for any irregularities.

“I promise you I’m fine. A girl was brought here after being hit by a truck,” you start, something that has Zayne instantly registering who you were talking about. “I wanted to see how she was doing.”

He adjusts his glasses, and you know that he wasn’t going to have an answer for you that would feel satisfactory. But there was also very little that he could actually tell you, due to patient privacy laws and the like. But even hearing that she was projected to be okay would be enough for you. 

“She’s in surgery now.”

That was better than being dead on arrival, but you’re right in not feeling satisfied by the answer. He wasn’t even supposed to be here, so you can’t fault him for not texting you from the operating room about a kid you had no obvious connection to. 

“Why are you here?”

“Cardiac patient admitted to the emergency room displaying signs of protocore syndrome. I needed to come in to operate with the goal of stabilizing their condition.”

“Dr. Zayne the elite cardiac surgeon.”

“Specialist, not elite, but I appreciate the compliment.”

“Yes, yes, ‘medicine is about helping people, not being popular’,” your impersonation of him earns a smile, his hand catching yours before you could back away from him. But something is tugging at your heart, your repeated close calls enough to remind you that life was very fleeting. “Zayne?”

It’s not the right time, the hospital reception area had too many eyes on you and so many listening ears courtesy of the receptionists and passing nurses that watched with interest as you talked. “You look tired, I’m sorry to have kept you up last night.”

“I’m hoping for a repeat tonight, Doctor.”

“I hope I’ll be able to leave in time to give you that.”

You did too, but for now you were content with just the kiss pressed to your forehead and a whispered request that you text him when you got home so he knew there weren’t any other truck incidents. You just attracted trouble, and you knew that worried him but there wasn’t anything you could do about it - it’s not like you were intentionally seeking it out but you trusted that he knew that. 

DAY THREE

“You’re acting strange,” Xavier points out, a hand on yours to stop its anxious tapping against the table top. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

You only shake your head at first, weighing your options before you settle on, “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” 

“That ship sailed a few months ago. I do watch you throw yourself into danger at every possible corner, y’know.” His teasing does exactly what it was meant to do: make you feel better about telling him what had been bothering you. Now that you’d thought about it, he had a bunch of experience with Wanderers and their abilities, maybe he knew how to help?

“This is my third Friday. I’ve woken up three days in a row, and it’s been Friday. Every. Day.”

“I thought time loops only existed in comics and movies,” he mumbles, bringing his finger to his lips as his face settles into something much more serious. Your hope that he would know something about the cause dissipates quickly, and he also deflates a bit when he sees your dejected slump back into the booth. “Everything was the same both days?”

“For the most part. Yester- I guess the last loop is a better description -  I had a slightly different conversation with Zayne but that didn’t change anything about waking up this morning.” 

“You have to figure out what it is you need to change to break the loop.”

“Do you think this could be the effect of a Wanderer?” you ask, leaning forward on the table once more as Xavier also leans in a bit. Asking directly would likely get you to where you wanted to be information-wise. “That one yesterday was a little weird.”

“It was weird, but not time-manipulative kind of weird. I haven’t heard of a Wanderer who could do that.” That has you slumping back into your seat, a pout on your face as he sighs. “What happens next today?”

His question makes you check your watch, seeing 1:47 looking back at you has you rushing from your seat and out the door of the restaurant. If you could prevent the girl’s accident, maybe that would break the loop? It happened at 1:49pm on the opposite corner of the restaurant you were eating at, and you see the bright floral sundress of the young girl approaching the corner as you use your evol to boost your speed just that much more so you can pull her out of harm’s way just in time. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine! Thank you Miss Hunter!” 

“Be more careful crossing streets,” is what you leave the girl with before making your way back to the restaurant.

Xavier is still sitting patiently at the table, an amused smile on his face at how winded you were after the show of talent to save the girl from getting hit by a car. It’s all you can do to simply shrug when he asks, “You knew exactly when that was going to happen?”

“The last two loops we were out of here at 1:45, then you pull me out of traffic but she gets hit. Today, neither of us got hit.”

“Loop broken?”

“Let’s hope so.” To celebrate, you order a dessert for you and Xavier, trying to relax but unable to shake the feeling that something still didn’t feel right. It could just be that the loop was truly broken, and now your universe had shifted just that much to create a strange feeling, but you supposed you’d find out when you woke up the next day. 

“Where do you go next?” 

“I’m not sure. The first time in went home, last time I went to the hospital.”

“I think we’ll need to go to the hospital again,” Xavier comments, pointing his fork at your shoulder where red was blooming under your white blouse. “From this morning?”

“Probably made it worse when I grabbed the girl. I can get myself there, though.”

“Let me at least make sure you get there in one piece. Then you can do whatever and I’ll go home and sleep.”

You reluctantly agree, and find yourself sitting next to your partner on the train as it speeds towards the hospital. Outside the doors you perform your little handshake with Xavier before he leaves you with a request to check in and update him on your status throughout the evening, something you agree to with a smile before thanking him for listening to you and giving you his own advice. 

Regardless of the day or time, there is always at least one receptionist working who knows exactly who you are and has sent a message to Zayne indicating your arrival and the state in which you walked through the door. You know this time there is a new receptionist available to greet you, ready to have you redirected to the urgent care area until Theresa - a long time receptionist very aware of your relationship with Zayne - tells her not to bother since your primary care physician would be seeing you shortly. 

Three minutes and twenty two seconds. That was likely a new record, something you tease him about as Theresa lets him know that an appointment had been booked for him. She always looked out for him in her own little ways, safeguarding the time he’d get to attend to your health without interruption was just one of those things she did for him. 

He’s always so composed as he leads you to the elevator, a composure you do your best to mimic for his sake despite knowing that wasn’t necessary. The security of the elevator is when that composure crumbles a bit, and he’s turning to face you properly as he asks, “How deep is it?”

“Not sure.” You’d shrug if you could, but all you’ve got is leaning against the wall of the small elevator. “I didn’t know I was hurt until half an hour ago.”

“What made it open up more?”

“I rushed to pull a girl out of traffic before a large truck could hit her.”

“Always the hero,” he comments with a smile, hand on your back to guide you out of the elevator when the doors open. “My daring Hunter.”

A kiss grazes the top of your head as he leads you to the exam room that he’d use to stitch you up. That’s the only purpose this white room would serve, you know the rest of your appointment time followed by whatever free moments he potentially had would be spent in his office to ensure true privacy as you enjoyed each other's company. 

His fingers are nimble as they traverse the familiar road that was undoing the straps of your protective gear then continue into the buttons of your blouse. His eyes always drift to appreciate your skin as he gets the honor of exposing it, a crack in the perfectly crafted mask of professionalism that Zayne always wore in the hospital - a crack only you could’ve created and only you get the pleasure of looking into to see Zayne without the title of Doctor in front of it. His fingertips drag along your skin as he helps you remove your blouse without further agitating your wound, allowing himself to touch you ever so slightly in the way a lover should rather than a doctor, and you can only reach up to cup his cheek once your healthy arm is free to move. 

“I worry about you when you’re out of my line of sight.” A tilt of his head to kiss your palm, his hand coming to hold yours to his lips while also giving a small squeeze. “I know that you’re capable, and trust that you aren’t throwing yourself around recklessly, but I still worry. Seeing you hurt like this, it’s a smaller wound but I never want to see your blood.”

“I know,” is all you can say, continuing to hold his eye contact despite how small that focused gaze made you feel sometimes. “I try my best.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Let’s get you patched up.”

You were as good of a patient as you could be, given the situation you’d found yourself in. Stitches were never an easy procedure to sit through, and the location of your injury meant that you got to look at Zayne as he did it. He was so focused, eyes locked onto his task with minimal room for distraction. That hand that wandered previously to graze at your chest as he cleaned the wound was perfectly still as it helps to hold you still while his other hand handled the sutures. His eyes didn’t even move to look up at you, not until he was done and bandaging your fresh stitches. 

“Please go home and rest. Don’t lay on it, no alcohol, but eat before you take any medications.”

“Yes, Dr. Zayne.”

“I’m serious. If they call tomorrow you need to say no.”

“I know, and I will,” you assure, hand on his chest as he sighs. 

You’re not sensitive enough to think he’d be mad at you, you both knew the risks involved with your career and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that you’d always be out of harm’s way. You were damn good at your job but you weren’t resistant to wanderer attacks nor were you able to truly predict their moves before they were made.

“I know. You’re quite the capable patient.” His praise as he helps you get your shirt buttoned back up makes you smile. “We’ll both take a real day off tomorrow.”

You weren’t confident that he wouldn’t get called in again tomorrow, but it sounds so nice to hear him say it anyway. He didn’t promise, which is how you know he’s not confident either, but  that was a concern for tomorrow and not this moment where Zayne is helping you down from the table. The air still feels heavy, even as he meads you out of the room and turns to leave after a kiss. 

“Zayne, I-” You stop short when he turns to look at you, biting your lip as you try to look away from his dissecting gaze. “I’m sorry for worrying you. Thank you for always taking care of me.” 

He smiles, closing the distance between you two and taking your hand in his own. “It’s my job as your primary care provider. Will you be heading home?”

“You don’t have time for dinner?”

“Not anymore. The emergency room has seen quite a few patients get fully admitted, it’ll be a busy night tonight.” 

“Oh, then I can bring you something so you’ve got some protein when you’ve got a few minutes to breathe. I’ll just leave it in the little fridge you keep in your office.”

“You’re too kind to me. I love-“ he stops to clear his throat, and you’re ready to say it back until he finishes with, “Excuse me. I appreciate how much you want to take care of me.”

“It’s my job as my primary care provider’s care provider.” You’re grinning at him despite the dull ache in your shoulder, and he leans in to sneak a chaste kiss before you start to back away. “Will you come by when you’re off shift? Give me something nice to wake up to?”

“If I get out of here in time. If I don't, will you come see me here?”

DAY FOUR

You wake up surprised to feel that Zayne had made it to your home last night with how busy the ward was. But it was still nice to have his warmth encase you and keep you hidden away from the evils of the world for as long as you could stay in this bed with him - and even more relieving that he was resting after such a busy afternoon and evening. 

It was still a day off for you both, at least it was supposed to be, so staying home all day was definitely required. You had a balcony with decent chairs, so you’d get the sunlight that you know the doctor will suggest and that would suffice for one day - it had to after the last three Fridays you’d been forced to experience. 

You lift your phone to send a text to Xavier, excited that the loop had been broken, only to pause when you see the time and date over the picture of you and Zayne that was your background. 

06:52

Friday 

You want to throw it, you really do. Anything to make it feel like it was any different day. But you can’t, since phones were very expensive to replace - as if that would matter if you lived the same day anyway. 

“Fuck me,” you groan, sinking back under the covers and burrowing yourself into Zayne’s waiting arms. 

“I’d be glad to, but what’s the occasion?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy.” 

A thoughtful hum leaves the doctor, followed by a kiss to the top of your head as he pulls you in closer. “For the record, I’ve thought you were crazy since we were children. Second, I like that you’re a bit…eccentric at times.”

“I’m stuck in a time loop.”

“Repeat that?”

“I’m stuck in a time loop. This is Friday round four, Zayne.”

You don’t even want to look up at him, can’t bring yourself to see the face he was making before he asked if you’d hit your head while out on assignment yesterday. Zayne was a man of logic and science, a time loop did not follow any real logic. It sounded crazy saying it to Xavier before, but saying that to Zayne makes you feel batshit nuts. 

“I know, it’s ‘wanderer ate my baby’ nuts, but I know what I’m experiencing.”

“Then you’ll stay home today. I have today off as well, so we’ll stay in and keep you out of trouble.”

“You believe me?”

“I have no reason not to.” That had you looking up at him in surprise, confusion clearly etched on your features when he shrugs as he sits up. “There’s a lot you would mess around with me about, but I know your tones well enough to know that this isn’t a joke. So we’ll stay home and hope that breaks this vicious cycle you’ve managed to find yourself in.”

“But it’s-“

“It’s absolutely ‘wanderer ate my baby’ crazy, and I don’t understand the logic, but still if this is happening we’ll figure it out.”

“And if we don’t figure it out today, and tomorrow I wake up and it’s still today and you don’t remember?”

There’s only a moment of hesitation, a slight furrow in his brow as he considered the fact that if this didn’t work then he’d forget about all of this. But he relaxes, a smile on his face as he assures, “Then you’ll tell me again. I believe you today, don’t I?” 

“You get called in at around one.”

“That’s a problem for the afternoon. It’s only seven.”

“Jenna calls at like eight fifteen.”

“Then we have time. Just lay back and let me take care of you.”

These were doctor’s orders that you would never ignore, and you watch as he moves to the end of the bed to have the room you needed to shimmy back into a lying position with him between your legs. The hem of his sweater that you wore is bunched up near your belly button, allowing him full access to see what had become favorite treat. Those eyes are almost dissecting you as he takes you in, long fingers carefully parting your folds so he could see his handiwork from the night before. 

“You’re already so wet,” he starts, bringing his thumb into his mouth to wet it. That thumb is then gently rubbing circles against your clit as he watches your body react to the pleasure. “But more is always better.”

It takes everything for you to keep still, keep looking at him as he watches you. They said that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Zayne believed that which was why he’d always watch you so intently. He thrived on eye contact, needing it as his way of assessing whether or not he was succeeding in his goal of pleasuring you.

“Please don’t tease,” you whine, reaching down between your legs to catch his free hand. “I’ve been through too much, Zayne.”

He only gives your hand a squeeze, kissing the inside of your thigh then leaning in to lick at your tender clit. His fingers graze the inside of your labia, teasing the edges of your already fluttering hole before two long digits easily slide in. A third joins quickly after, Zayne clearly wanting to stretch you out some more than he had the night before. His eyes have left yours, now more enamored by his fingers disappearing inside of you and how sweet your breaths sound as your hips rock up to meet his pace. 

“Think you can take one more?”

You’re nodding without hesitation, although your brain doesn’t register just what you’re agreeing to until you feel his hand shift to allow his pinky to join the other three fingers that were stretching you out. The initial discomfort quickly dissolves into pleasure, and you’re struggling to keep your legs open as you feel your stomach tighten with your impending orgasm. His head disappears between your legs again, lips suctioning to your clit in a way that sends you toppling over the edge with a cry of his name. He just holds your thighs that now hold his head in place, letting you ride out your orgasm against his tongue that was eagerly lapping at your essence. There’s a pleasured groan that leaves him at your taste, the vibrations against your clit causing your legs to tighten around his head until he’s gently prying your thighs apart so he can sit up to look at you. 

“I think you’re ready, are you ready for my cock?”

You nod, but you know he wants to hear you so you gather yourself just enough to give him that verbal confirmation. He’s pleased, hands caressing your thighs before he moves up along your body while pushing his sweater up as he goes, leaving the occasional kiss to your skin as he exposes it. 

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers, tossing the sweater to the side once it’s over your head and smiling when you grin up at him. “I’m incredibly lucky that you chose me.”

“Every day I’ll make the same choice.”

The air between you grows heavy; a sentiment that you can’t voice lingering on your tongue, just waiting to be captured and held by him. The look in his eyes is one you’re familiar with but unable to decode, the only thing you’re certain of is that it’s an affectionate gaze and nothing less, a gaze that betrays his evol and sets your heart ablaze and makes your fingers tingle with the intensity held in those green irises. 

The strong vibration of your phone against your nightstand has you sighing, pushing your head back into the pillows as Zayne whispers for you to ignore it.  You weigh you could, but you know what time it is and that it means Jenna is calling to let you know that you will need to meet Xavier to complete a mission, and failure to answer the call would mean that someone would be sent to you to make sure you were okay and instead would walk in on Zayne fucking you on some surface in your apartment. Your attempt to reach for it is stopped by Zayne as he starts to push his length into your waiting cunt. 

“It’s Jenna,” you inform, struggling to keep your eyes open when he starts to push his cock past your slick folds. “I can’t ignore it.”

“Give it here.” 

The exchange is brief, but Zayne catches your hand before you could pull away to kiss your palm as he settles into the base of his length. You feel so full, so content when he’s inside you like this regardless of how often you had sex with him. He completed you, you always knew that he did and that no other partner would compliment you as Zayne did. He truly was perfect, despite all of his perceived flaws. You’re so caught up in the feeling that you almost forgot that he was supposed to be answering your phone, but he didn’t. 

“Yes good morning,” Zayne greets, lowering his fingers to play with your sensitive clit to keep you occupied while he spoke to your captain. “Yes, she’s still in bed under my care. Running a high fever of over a hundred degrees with severe nausea, I wouldn’t recommend her leaving home today.”

His finger moves faster, the pattern becoming recognizable the more you feel it. Only now he’s moving, something that has you biting your knuckle to keep from moaning at the sensation of his cock stretching you open more. 

Z-A-Y-N-E-Z-A-Y-N-E-Z-A-Y-N-E

His name, over and over again against your clit until your body is tightening around him while he nods along to whatever it was Jenna was saying to him. But he’s proud of himself, watching the fingers of your left hand curl into the pillow under your head as your nails dig into the taut skin of his thigh. He's proud that he’d made you cum now for the second time when he was just getting started. 

“I will pass along those sentiments and let her know to reach out once she’s feeling better ... Yes, and to you as well.”

He tosses your phone to the side, promising to buy you a new one when he hears it bounce off of your bed and hit the floor with a harsh smack that lands in time with the first full meeting of his hips against yours.  Not that you really cared; the phone was replaceable, these moments with Zayne were not.  

“How do you recommend treating this high fever, Dr. Zayne?”

“Careful attention from your primary care provider. There is also a special medicine I can provide, but it’s internal.” You only quirk a brow at him, knowing that dirty talk wasn’t his strongest skill when it came to sex but proud of him for trying. “That didn’t sound sexy, did it?”

“Not exactly,” you respond, a smile on your face as you rub his thigh. “But I could listen to you read a medical textbook and still get off, so don’t worry.”

“You’re too kind,” he murmurs, taking one of your thighs into his firm grip to bring it up and around his hip. “Be a good patient for me.”

You follow the doctor’s orders for once, very pleased with the praise he gives you as he fucked the stress of the time loop out of your system. It was still a bit awkward, given that he wasn’t the most experienced or really comfortable being vocal in bed, but that was Zayne and you wouldn’t have him any other way. 

“Feeling any better?” He asks when he returns from the bathroom, washcloth in hand so he could help you clean up. 

“A bit. I feel better that you know and are just as bamboozled as I am, but it’s still a weird situation.”

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.” His assurance makes you feel a bit better, the gentle nudge to your cheek with his knuckle getting a smile out of you as he carefully cleans up the mess he’d made of you. You were so in love with this man it was unreal, but it didn’t feel like the right time to tell him that. 

“I’ll go make breakfast now, you’ve got to be starving.”

“Let me,” you request, something that has him looking at you in surprise. He always made breakfast since you preferred the way he cooked your eggs compared to your own, but you were desperate to force any change to the routine in hopes it would break the cycle. “Trying to break the loop.”

“Right. I’m going to take a quick shower, I should be out by the time you’re done cooking.”

You nod as you pick your robe up from the bedroom floor, giving him a wave as you leave your bedroom. 

The breakfast you cook is the same as the previous ones he’d made, only instead of coffee you opt to pour some orange juice for the both of you. A small change that could have a huge impact, like a butterfly effect in time travel. 

After breakfast Zayne pulls you to lounge on the couch with him, putting on the drama you’d been watching together in hopes that it would distract you from your predicament. You’re comfortable between his legs with your head on his chest, his fingers gently massaging and scratching at your scalp making you drowsy halfway through the episode.  

“Relax and get some rest, we can always restart it when you wake up.”

DAY FIVE

This time when you wake up you’re mad. 

Why would the loop reset when you’d only laid down for a nap? 

What did the universe want from you? If it wasnt avoiding reckless combat, or saving the girl, or letting the girl be injured - what the actual fuck did it want from you? 

It’s with a sigh that you pull yourself from Zayne enough that you can sit up, leaning back against your headboard while trying not to look at your phone. The date and time would only make you cry, you’re sure of that fact, so you only tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. 

You might as well get your morning started. 

“I know you’re faking,” you tease, gently poking Zayne’s cheek when he smiles. “Doctor faker.”

“Good morning to you too.” His greeting comes with a hand on your side, pulling you into him but laying across him slightly due to your previous positioning. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good. I’m still kinda tired but I don’t want to go back to bed. You?”

“I also slept well. Going to sleep with you helps me sleep better.”

“Is it me or the sex?” There’s a dusting of pink across his cheeks, something that has you grinning as you pull back to sit up again. “I know I wear you out both in and out of bed.”

“You do, but you’re the sweetest cause of exhaustion,” he murmurs, sitting up and stealing a kiss from you. His hand slips under your shirt, warm against your skin as he tries to nudge you into his lap. But his attempt at getting more than just a kiss from you is thwarted when you pull away and roll off of your bed - landing solidly on your feet while flashing a thumbs up at him. “You’re cruel, honey.”

“Maybe you can dip into your honey pot later.” You suggest with a smile, though you know that he likely wouldn’t get the opportunity since Jenna would be calling. But he didn’t need to know all that since clearly it didn’t make a difference in the time loop if he did or didn’t know. As frustrated as you were with this situation, you would simply let it be and enjoy the little variations of this morning with him. “Breakfast time, Doctor Zayne.”

The day has the same elements every other Friday has had.

Breakfast.

Call from Jenna.

Hunting a wanderer with Xavier.

Save the girl.

Hospital for stitches.

You’d probably be able to do the whole day with your eyes closed, including shooting at the high-speed wanderer. You felt like a hamster on a wheel, destined to do this forever while chasing a reward that didn’t exist. How this ended, you fear you’d never know, and that is disheartening at best but heartbreaking at worst. You were looking forward to a lifetime with Zayne, but instead you were likely to live the same Friday forever. Maybe this was your forever?

“You’re thinking hard, are you alright?” Zayne asks as he fixes your shirt, eyes scrutinizing your expression in a way that tells you that you won’t get away with lying to him but you were going to try anyway. 

Telling him about the loop doesn’t help you at all, so why waste the breath? All you can muster is an “just tired” that he certainly doesn’t buy, and that has him inviting you to sit in his office with him for as long as he can avoid his duties without being negligent. 

You choose to stand by the window, looking out at the hospital courtyard to see a couple children attempting to fly kites despite there being no wind. If you had an evol that could create the breeze they needed, you’d do it in an instant to provide them that joy of flying kites together. 

“Alright, what’s bothering you? Was it the-”

“Wanderer was fine, and the girl is okay so that’s not on my mind.” You assure, finally looking at him as you turn to lean against the windowsill. “It’s just been a long day and my shoulder hurts. I’ll be okay.”

There’s a lot of unspoken emotion hanging in the air around you, creating a tension that wasn’t unbearable but only because this was standard for these moments with him. After the day you’d had with the abrupt exit in the middle of breakfast to meet with Xavier, his own call into the hospital to perform an emergency surgery, your injury made worse by pulling that girl out of traffic - it was quite a bit stacked onto itself and that was without considering your additional stress that was the time loop. He’s boxing you in against the windowsill, hands on your hips with thumbs gently massaging into your skin beneath your shirt, it seemed like there was always something that he looked like he wanted to say, and you had your own sentiments that you wanted to share but never felt like it was the right time. Another mission, another patient - just too many distractions that ruined the moment. 

The realization hits you like that truck almost had earlier in the day - and you feel stupid at the fact that it took five rounds to get to this point. 

There was only one thing you hadn’t done, the one thing you’d been terrified to do, and you were going to be brave and just say it. He already knew, you were sure of it, but you couldn’t let it go unspoken any longer. Two near death experiences in a day clearly meant that you needed to just get it off your chest before you couldn’t and you were going to do it now. Potential disruption from another doctor or nurse be damned - you had to do this before you lost the resolve. You’d been stuck in this stupid time loop for far too long, you had to see if this would break it. 

“Zayne,” you start, hands carefully holding onto the lapels of his lab coat to keep him close to you - as if he’d be going anywhere with how wedged between your legs he’d made himself. “I love you, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to just get the words out.”

“You know that you can’t hide anything from me, right?”

“You’ve known this whole time?”

“You mumble it when I leave in the morning and you’re still sleeping. I’ve always said it back.”

“Doesn’t count if I’m sleeping.”

“You’re right,” he states, his nose brushing against yours as he leans in. He’s looking at you through his lashes, and you’re grateful that he’d pocketed his glasses so you had a clear view of the deep green irises. “I love you, and I’m very grateful to have you love me in return.”

You’re in his place of work, the door to his office only providing a slight protection of your privacy for this intimate moment with him, but still he kisses you. Large hands moving from your hips to carefully cradle your face and keep you close to him as his lips coax yours into opening for him. He has work to do, patients to attend to and nurses to provide medicinal instructions to, but he’s standing here kissing you against the window without reservation for your location. Your hands move up his shoulders to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you relish in the taste of bitter coffee and mint on his tongue. 

His pager beeping forces you to separate, the sound bringing a disappointed sigh from your boyfriend as his hand has to leave your warm cheek to check the notification. “Surgery patient just woke up.”

“I suppose you need to go handle that,” you murmur, smiling when his lips reconnect to yours in a much more chaste affair. “I’ll allow it.”

“You’ll be rewarded for your sacrifice. I should be able to leave in about an hour, if you’re willing to wait.”

“You wanna take me home?”

“Every night for the rest of our lives together,” he whispers, stealing another kiss from you. “Get comfortable here. I’ve got to finish up some rounds and check on my patient, but we should be heading home soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” And you are, there was plenty to do with him - mostly catch up on lost sleep and exchange some more words of love and affection to make up for the weeks of intended exchanges left unspoken. “I love you.”

A smile, small and shy with cheeks red and radiating a warmth is what you get from Zayne - uncharacteristic given the location and his need for a collected personality at work. He needed to be as cool as his evol, but with a kindness that kept patients calm and comfortable in his presence. But that was your smile, your bashful boyfriend who exposed his emotions to you as if he were a painting in a museum, a private collection with only your name on the invite list. 

“I love you, too. Stay out of trouble and please don’t shift items slightly to the left while I’m gone.”

You hadn’t planned on it, having seen the book you’d left last time you visited sitting on his desk and ready to sit and read that, but now you’re inspired to shift a few things to the right this time. Maybe move his pen cup and other things that were more convenient being on the side of his dominant hand. He hadn’t said anything about moving things to the right, bringing a mischievous grin to your face that makes him shake his head as he backs away from you with just a warning to behave. 

DAY SIX

Another morning comes, sunlight sneaking in through a crack in the curtains that is perfectly positioned to hit your eyelids. Just bright enough to be annoying, so you turn to hide your face into the warm chest at your back while pulling the duvet over your head for good measure. 

You’re terrified to open your eyes, not wanting to have to relive yet another Friday since you weren’t sure what would break the loop if telling Zayne that you loved him didn’t do the trick. You were tired of learning a lesson, you’d been through enough. 

“You’re too tense for just waking up.”

…that was different. 

Now that you were thinking about it, this wasn’t your bed. Your bedroom smelled sweeter, vanilla and spice courtesy of the incense Zayne had bought you for your last birthday. This was bergamot, mint, and sandalwood, an earthy scent that was unique to Zayne and his bedroom - and when you open your eyes you come face to face with the picture of you both that he kept on your nightstand and the Wasabi Octopus that sat beside it. The picture had you both with arms full of plushies because you’d gotten much too lucky one afternoon, the octopus on the nightstand balanced perfectly atop Zayne’s head but he didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. He was excited to have all those plushies, but more excited at how happy you were - he was looking at you rather than the camera. 

This wasn’t Friday morning, there was no sun to assault your eyes but there were gentle fingers tapping Mary had a Little Lamb along your side - light enough that it wouldn’t have woken you but noticeable enough for you to make out the pattern. The only song the doctor’s fingers could perform, a pattern your skin could never forget and a song you’d never tire of. This wasn’t your bedroom, this wasn’t your bed - this whole morning was different. 

Finally, a change in the loop. 

Your head almost slams into his in your haste to sit up, Zayne barely dodging by laying back on the bed as you move.He can only watch as you scramble to grab your phone from the nightstand, only to groan when you see that it was dead courtesy of you forgetting to plug it in, then turn to lean over him to grab his. Your elbow knocks into his ribs a bit in your scramble, pulling a pained grunt from your lover that is met with your apology as you frantically tap on his phone screen to wake it up and check the time.

 ignoring the fact that you were naked since every other Friday you’d woken up in Zayne’s very comfortable green sweater that he’d worn when he met you for dinner on Thursday night. 

07:34

Saturday

“It’s Saturday?”

“That is the day that comes after Friday, is it not?”

“Zayne, it’s Saturday.” You could honestly cry, having never been happier to see Saturday than after experiencing five Fridays in a row that were tragically nearly identical to the other. You can only stare at the date and time that covered the landscape of his lock screen, the image perfectly placed to avoid blocking your face at the last festival you’d gone to. “It’s Saturday, and we love each other, and-and-“

You’re overwhelmed with emotion as you pull him in for a kiss, his very confused hands settling on your back and carefully rubbing your skin as he kisses you back. It doesn’t take long for you to be straddling him, continuing to make out with your now accepting boyfriend as his hands move to get your body ready for the inevitable conclusion to your early morning. 

“I’ve never seen you so excited for Saturday,” he mumbles when you give him time to breathe, his hand leaving your breast to wipe at the tears that had fallen down your cheeks. “Are you alright?”

“Yesterday just sucked, aside from the love confessions.”

His promise to wash it away is mostly successful, his touch tender but delivering exactly what you had needed to lose yourself in him and his love for you, only for him to do it again in the shower before carefully scrubbing at your sensitive body and freshly stitched shoulder wound to properly clean you up. You then get to sit on his countertop, watching as he cooks a simple breakfast that would tide you over until your lunch reservation.

“What made your Friday so awful, if I may ask?”

“It was…” You trail off as you consider your choice of words, reaching out and cupping his cheek as he smiles at you. Explaining the loop of Fridays didn’t seem worth it when you’d come out of it on top, especially since you know Zayne wouldn’t want you to spare a detail So he could understand it better. “Just extremely tedious.”

“We’ll just have to make sure your Saturday is anything but.”

“I love you, Zayne.”

“And I love you. Now let's have breakfast and then we can visit the arcade before lunch.”