#“Now hold up one second I know this….”

[freakied]

part one here

fans of pornstar!gojo are starting to notice he’s not cycling through co-stars on his cam shows like he used to… not since his neighbor started showing up more regularly.

he’s put you in every position he can think of, pulled every type of orgasm out of you, called you every name (sweet and mean)—all for a live audience. you’ve come to know a few regular donors, you recognize names in his audience as people who have come back again and again to watch satoru show you off.

a few months ago, you hardly spoke to the pornstar in the apartment next to yours, and now you’re leaving things in his apartment to avoid having to run back to your own after he’s ruined your clothes, or given you a reason to brush your teeth…

now, you’re sitting between satorus spread legs, with your own legs spread to match his as you face the little camera he has set up. he’s reaching around your body to dip his hand between your thighs, rubbing at your sensitive clit as his free hand holds your chin and makes you keep your eyes on the camera.

“tell everyone who’s making you feel this good,” he says lowly. “it’s not any of the hundreds of people watching you at home, now is it?”

you shake your head and bite back a moan as satoru dips two of his fingers into you. “…no.”

he nips your ear, catching the love between his teeth and pulling back a little before pressing a kiss to the skin beneath it. “then who?”

“you.”

“good,” satoru practically sings. “maybe next show we’ll give these poor guys a chance to make you feel good, huh? we could get you a toy… let them control it while i fuck your pretty mouth, how’s that sound?”

“please,” you nod your head. satoru has unwound an exhibitionist streak in you, and it fires red at his words. he starts to fuck his fingers into you even faster, curling them up to trigger full body jolts that run through you. “god, don’t stop.”

“don’t stop?” he mocks you, voice low and teasing and so soft it’s sexual. “you wanna cum for everyone?”

a glance to his laptop screen shows you lines and lines of praises from people watching you at your most vulnerable. satoru is showing you off like a trophy and you don’t have the capacity to care when just his fingers feel this good pumping in and out of you.

you can’t keep up with the string of comments with how fast they’re moving, and how blurred your vision gets with unshed tears of pleasure. gojo releases your chin to grope at your tits, and then move that hand down your stomach to rub furious circles against your clit.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, and before you can even register it, your cumming loudly around his fingers. you’d feel bad for his neighbor if it wasn’t you—his name spills from your lips like you’re reciting gospel.

and when you ride it out and finally come down from your orgasm, you’re a panting mess of sweat and tears, but gojo is pressing a kiss to the back of your neck and then gently pushing you down and forward into doggy.

he must see how your eyes widen in the feed of his cam show, because he smiles and rubs the tip of his cock through your folds a few times before pushing into you with a deep stroke and a low groan.

“what?” he squeezes your ass. “they wanna know how fast i can get a second one out of you.”

[swightops]

"in every dimension, Mark Grayson falls for you, but not this one."

Shit, you think. Between all the blood and smoke, you weren't sure if colors could be vibrant anymore. No matter how many people you got to safety or buildings you stopped from falling, there was always more.

More screams, more buildings falling, more dead bodies, more chaos.

"You know, all this blood and fire makes you look so much more pretty," a voice teases. You turn, and for a split second, relief floods you before it quickly replaces itself with apprehension. Mark floats there, but he's different; he's not Mark. His hair is parted into a mohawk, and there's something else. This Mark's eyes are rabid, obsessed, and watching you like you're some type of prize.

You try not to show your apprehension, but it's hard when Mark looks at you like that—like the way he looks at Eve. "Confused, huh?" Mark teases, and he softly lands on the ground, only a couple of feet away from you. "From what I've heard, you and I aren't together in this universe. Lameass me is with Eve. So stupid," Mark says, rolling his eyes at the end. "Can't be too surprised though! This world's me is so lame and weak."

Mark goes on and on about how your world's Mark is a sniveling, weak piece of shit, but you stopped listening. You and Mark are together in a different world.

A gust of wind makes you whip around as another Mark appears before you. But like the one with a mohawk, this one isn't your world's Mark. His suit is different, a mesh of white and gray, and no mask to be found. But like the other Mark, he's staring at you like that.

"Ugh! Couldn't give us a moment alone, could you, asshole!" Mohawk Mark complains, his eyebrows furrowed, and lips pulled into a sneer. The other Mark, the one in white and gray, doesn't acknowledge the complaints and insults thrown his way. Instead, his eyes lock onto yours, and you freeze up as he steps closer to you.

"You don't look any different," is all he says before his fingers hover over your cheek. It's wrong, it's so wrong, the way your heart beats a little faster, how your cheeks flush, and how desperately you want to lean into his warmth. Mark, this Mark in front of you, has killed countless people and caused so much damage that the aftercount might be in the hundreds of thousands.

You don't get a second to react before there's another gust of wind, and yet another Mark stands there. His suit colors are now yellow and black instead of black and dark blue. His yellow cape flows behind him, and a twisted grin pulls at his face.

"y/nnnnnn," Mark calls for you, and you hate how it sounds so right, so good. Mohawk Mark and the one right next to you turn to the other one, and a split silence passes before you're dragged up into the air.

Instinctively, you push away before arms are holding yours behind your back. "Let go!" you yell, your arms straining against Mark's.

"No wayyyy, babe," the Mark with a yellow cape says, coming closer to you, his fingers twirling a curl of your hair.

"Can we just get this over with?" Mohawk Mark says, and your heart drops to your stomach as fast as it's beating.

"We're not going to hurt you," the Mark holding you says, his voice deep and his hold tightening.

"Could have fooled me," you finally say, and the two Marks in front of you laugh. The one twirling your hair stops before squishing your cheeks together and laughing again as you struggle to pull your face out of his hold.

"Still a little firecracker like I remember," he says, and you freeze. Were you with this Mark in his universe as well? And the one behind? Was the universe so cruel that you and Mark were together in every other universe except this one? The one where you chickened out of telling you how you felt, and now he was with Eve.

"Don't worry, pretty. This world's Mark is stupid enough to not make you his, but we aren't."

[tonycries]

Bat(man) Romance - T.F.

Synopsis. Running into Batman AKA your ex-husband, Toji, after a heist? Could this night get any worse? Well, there’s also one tiny problem…you’re both covered in séx pollen.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Catwoman! reader, Batman! Toji, BATMAN AU, exes-to-Iovers, PlNING, séx pollen, he goes FÉRAL, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, he’s BIG, making it fit, tummy buIges, overstím, chokíng, p sIapping, making him cúm early, creampíes, cúmplay, he’s RUlNED, bickering during it, latex, cervíx kíssing, bréeding, pússydrúnk Toji, pheromones, spítting, praise, fíngering, proposals, he’s also rich, L bómbs, Megumi cameo, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.0k

A/N. CAUGHT IN BAAAD ROMANCE!!

“Too slow~” You’re snickering to yourself, latex-covered legs swinging in the air as you eye the scattered pinpricks of red n’ blue police lights below. Scouring every road and lane in Gotham City for you - while you gazed with amusement atop a nearby rooftop.

You guess that’s part of being the resident Catwoman. Never to be caught.

Well, never to be caught by anyone other than him. 

You shake off the unwanted memories of your now ex-husband, the billionaire vigilante you were supposed to have happily spent the rest of your life with. And it really didn’t help that the skyscraper you’d found refuge on just-so-happened to be part of his sprawling Fushiguro Enterprises. 

Oh well…

Breathing in the sweet, crispy night air; you turn to what had gotten you in trouble in the first place.

That brilliant - almost glowing - pink flower you’d just stolen from the depths of a ministry vault, now clutched tightly in your cunning hands. “I like something that gives me a lil’ fight.”

“Then you’re gonna love me.”

It was a voice you could recognize anywhere, anytime-– that low, drawling growl that seeped his baritone words with just a bit of danger. 

And you’d forgotten how fast Toji Fushiguro was. 

Because just as soon as the realization hits your startled brain, your front hits the frigid rooftop tile. Tackled down. Face smushing into the smooth marble, chest panting out murked clouds when a heavy weight settles on your sinfully arched back.

Toji slouches sexily on top of you so that his scarred maw tickles your tender earlobe, weight fully rested to pin you down on the ground. Big, beefy arms holding you like a vice, “Heya, wifey.”

“Hello, ex-husband.”

“So- s’it a coincidence that both you and the police are visitin’ me or–?”

Ah- he was just as infuriatingly cocky as ever. Fuck having a happily ever after, you two were more likely to kill each other before that.

You snarl, more so because you’re unsure what else to do than anything. “Oh you know- just missing my favorite ex.” No matter how much you kick and scratch, Toji’s restraint stays firm. Trying to focus your widened peripherals on the ground instead, “I thought they killed you.”

“Not yet.”

And oh, you can’t deny that having his familiar hands on you after so long had you a little…electrified.

Shit– fine, on those lonely nights you’d even dreamt of having his thick, doughy fingertips tracing your simmering skin this way. All over. Drawing sloooow hearts near the nape of your neck - that lecherous bastard - before dipping down, down, down to lock both your wrangling wrists with only one of his oversized ones. 

Your fists clench tightly, still grappling onto that priceless exotic flower. The curved fringes of his digits caress the metallic zipper running down your spine, “Hiding something, mama?”

“Meow, tiger—” You’re purring out, “If you wanted to feel me up then you only had to ask~”

“Down, kitty.” His free hand tugs on your cute spiked collar to strangle those jabs, and then immediately unravels your hands to pluck the pretty stem from between your fingerpads. He twirls the blossom casually in his hands, “So this is it, huh? I should hand you to the Gotham police right this second.”

Your nose wrinkles at the sudden waft of syrupy pheromones that puff out from the flower in shimmery pink vapors. Hissing, “No! Give that back-”

Only for the words to tighten themselves into speechless knots at your throat because you’d finally, finally gotten your first good look at Toji Fushiguro since the divorce. 

Ever since you two had decided, after only a few months of marriage, that perhaps love wasn’t enough to keep you two from tying each other down to your own opposing ideologies and purposes. You ruled a crime empire, he was a death-defying hero.

And he was also…hot. 

Had he grown even more handsome than the last time you saw him? Because, fuck, you don’t remember his rugged jawline being quite as sharp. Or his shaggy Stygian bangs curtaining oh-so-intense of a gaze.

And his suit - oh, his suit. Toji was still donning that dark, skin-tight batsuit as you remembered - only right now, his Adonis-like muscles were practically ripping through the elastic material. Illuminated by the yolky moonlight overhead to carve out every dip and curve, every bob of his prominent Adam’s apple.

Slightly horned mask pulled over his head, he doesn’t even bother to hide the sultry roaming of his mossy eyes.

Toji Fushiguro was like sex personified, and that makes you stir impatiently on the polished tile. 

He’s shifting his bulky heft to stop your pathetic motions, straddling now. Lips twisting into a sleazy leer as his silken cape drapes over your body. “Cat got your tongue, wifey?”

“That’s my line, Batman.” You’re huffing out, lower lip jutting out in a way you already knew he loved. Ignoring his murmured rasp of ‘you look good’, you plead for the spoils of your heist once more. God, you could sense the scented perfume already saturating the heady air. “Give that back…p-please-”

“Oho?” Toji raises a sleek black brow, chuckles spouting off in gusts of scorched breath. He inches even closer, letting out a loooow whistle between his surprised lips, “The great Catwoman usin’ her manners? Ohh, say that again.”

“...please?”

“How cute.”

“Fuck off.”

“S’this lil’ flower really that important then?” You hear grumbling from above you - and you really should’ve predicted what would happen next. You really shouldn’t have been surprised when Toji promptly touches the straight bridge of his nose between it’s velvety petals and steals a deep sniff—

“You imbecile!”

And if Toji was swift, you were swifter. 

“Oh, shit- sugar.”

He barely even registers that it’d taken two bats of his long eyelashes for you to break out of his heroic stronghold and slam! his towering body to the ground. Your legs latched onto either side of his toned v-line like glue, one hand of yours clawing onto the unmistakable bat logo on his broad chest. 

“Reminds me of our honeymoon.” Toji cocks a grin from underneath, slender waist bucking - and failing - to throw you off. You were fucking determined. 

“I have never- met a more-” You spit through your clenched teeth, so hard you could taste the raw poison coating your tone. Through each pant of your chest, you swipe for your prize like the cat that was yearning for the cream. “-stubborn- hard-headed- moronic bat-”

Over and over.

And then with a final reach of your free set of fingers, you entrap Toji’s wrist, grab the delicate flower, and–

-crush it.

Only, this was no regular bloom.

The moment its glowy pink petals collide with your fingertips, softened fibre smashing into your eager flesh, the blossom bursts. Bursts. Into a thick, cloudy smog of microscopic pollen that glitters and spreads in front of your eyes. 

The sight was so mesmerizing that by the time you’re trudging your head out of the saccharine-smelling distraction, and crying out a frantic “Don’t breathe it in!”– it’s already too late.

Toji himself can’t see any reason why you’re practically sputtering n’ fraught - he certainly isn’t.

Sure, he was not the one who’d just lost what was likely a few million dollars worth of a rare plant. But when he had you like this? How could he ever even think of- actually, how could he ever even think?

Your chest heaving deliciously in that glossy latex catsuit, cute lips spit-slicked and parted with a never-ending train of complaints, fiery eyes he missed so much locked on him - and sat prettily on top of him, to boot! Oh, how he’d dreamt of this.

“Heh, always did like havin’ you on top of me, mama.” He inches his lolling head carnally closer to steal a few inhales of that sweet, sweet perfume you were wearing. It wasn’t your usual - but damn, did it leave him drunk on you.

And he sounded so gone.

Shit. 

“Oh no, it’s working already.” You bemoan, massaging the looming headache throbbing at your temples.

“What’s workin’?”

“The sex pollen.” You jeer, your heart racing with a slight inkling of satisfaction at the way you’d finally managed to render your taunting ex-husband speechless. Or was it from…something else? You didn’t want to consider that just yet. You’re dragging your hips on top of his and you almost moan.

Instead, stabbing a rigid index right between the cushy valleys of his pecs, lingering. “Which you- would have known if you’d just listened to me. Honestly- this is why we divorced-”

“Sex…”

“Sex pollen.”

And then it’s silence. Tense, deafening silence. 

Not even the sounds of the distantly-blaring police sirens are enough to make the panic set into your shivering body. Because right now it was bubbling with something feverish.

Needy. 

But did you really forget who you were dealing with? Of course, Toji would never let the uncomfortable quiet linger on for too long before he shatters the night stillness with a sharp bark of husked laughter. 

“S-so you’re sayin’...” He starts, and you definitely don’t like that particular tone of his. One which never boded well for you. With a hand squishing either side of your cheeks embarrassingly together, he ogles you dead-on into your hazed irises as he asks, “-you want to fuck me right here, right now, my wife?”

“I-I don’t-”

“I can tell when you lie, sugar.”

“Fuck you.”

His willowy eyes flutter shut with the image - and Toji feels so hot. He feels like he’s burning straight from the inside out, so many degrees higher in temperature at your sexy, sexy glare that told him you wanted murder him in cold blood and dance on his grave. Inhaling deeply, “S’that a request, mama~?”

And it was meant to be a joke - seriously. It was meant to be something stupid that would make you scoff and shove off of his burly body, disappearing into the night as he so often admired. 

But you always did surprise him.

And so did the next word spilling shyly from your mouth– “Yes.”

If Toji thought he was burning before then he was simply aflame with fire right now.

All he can do to steady his dizzy head, all he can do to stagger his greatly heaving chest into choking out a guttural, “Fine- come on.” 

Before you know it, your entire world tilts upside down - and not just because your ex-husband is throwing you over his meaty shoulders, your stomach laid over his rippling muscles. The slinky whoosh! of his grapple gun darting out and hooking onto the side of his building. Firmly. Your ass held high in the air, you swear you feel him give your right cheek a solid spank. “You wanna lose control, wifey? Let’s lose control.”

Fuck.

It takes two seconds for Toji to stride to the edge of the high skyscraper and projectile swing the both of you over to launch inside a conveniently-open window on the highest floor. Pulling himself inside. 

And only one second for you to realize that he’d just line-launched you straight into his fucking bed.

Honestly, your scream had barely had the time to formulate within your throat before you’re being thrown straight onto a plush, dark-blanketed king sized mattress. 

Glassy eyes looking ‘round – you’re realizing that you’d been transported right inside one of his many looming Gotham penthouses. Hell, he’d even fucked you right here in this exact bed a few times before.

Just your luck to choose to hideout in your ex-husband’s fucking house of all places.

“You- you little-” Your shrilling voice cuts out with every springing bounce, which makes the glare thrown in Toji’s direction immensely useless. Thighs emanating a stretchy screech of latex as they press together, you intake deep gulps of his musky cologne. “-you know how I always h-hated that thing.”

And oh, landed only a few feet away from the bed, Toji laughs - he laughs.

Breathy noises coming out in a thick tone, part of his face was obscured with the shadows spilling from outside. But the partial expression you could see made Toji Fushiguro look ruined - sharp, honed canines lifted into a snarl, sage eyes halfway through glowing. Desperate.

He looked at you like he wanted to devour you - and spoke of just the very thing. Gritting out, “And I’ve always hated that damn catsuit, mama.”

Heavy stepfalls thud! thud! thud! closer. And Toji’s sculptured body prowls like a predator closing in on his prey. Closed in on you. 

“L-liar. You know you liked it.”

And closer.

“I did.”

Until it was too close.

And suddenly Toji had two meaty palms loops around your helpless ankles to draaaag you all the way down his decadent bed, your hips flailing until they find purchase somewhere near the very edge. 

Ending off- “And I couldn’t wait to fuckin’ rip it off every time I saw it.”

Your skin feels so hot it’s like it’s melting, parched heat wafting off of you like the damn Sahara as his rude fingers pinch the rubbery material between your legs and riiiiips—! Exposing you for just how soaked n’ pretty you were.

Oh. 

So drenched that just tearing your latex had you forming a damn puddle. Toji isn’t sure whether it’s the sex pollen or just fucking you that makes his heart race faster when he’s watching the slimy globs trickle from between your dewy, swollen folds. 

Throbbing so depravedly that he counts one, two, three adorable quivers of your pussy before finally speaking. 

“Fuck, I missed ‘er.” Toji’s seething between his teeth, already on fucking edge for letting himself go the what– seven months? without his only lady. He breathes in - gulping in that sugary smell of your cunt, and it’s so much. Too much, he’s nibbling on your sleek mask. “Fuck-”

“Y-you’re-”

You’re dazed, your puffy pouted lips glueing together with stupid drool and flapping wildly after the hero lowers himself to gift a wet, smacking kiss on your dripping outer pussy. “A kiss for her, aaaand-” 

Toji tastes you and he flinches. Just for a split-second before the creamy stickiness clinging to his lips presses onto yours-

“-a kiss for her.” Toji’s lapping the scratchy buds of his tongue to slither across your pouted lower lip, sloshing out beaded wads of your own sap. Sweet. “Mmmm- really did miss this hah- pretty mouth, sugar.”

“You’re damn filthy.” You kiss through barren glares, and Toji’s grasping at the crown of your mask to tilt your head back. To swat your throat with a weighty splosh! of saliva. 

“And you’re damn likin’ it. See?”

Fuck- you didn’t know if you even wanted to. Knowing damn well that it would be something enough to drive you into madness.

But, alas, for how relentless of a criminal you were - good always did win in the end, after all. 

Though, as Toji slaps his swollen fingertips over your slick-filled hole to watch the ribbons of slick leak and ooze a glittery gloss over his wrist, you really wondered whether this would have been more evil than good. 

You watched through cracked eyelids at the way Toji was certainly smirking like it was. Your watery eyes can’t look away– “T-Toji.”

“Mhmm–?” He’s gnawing on your sting-buzzed lips like a gummy, itching the top of your wobbly bottom lip with his sultry scar. You really did miss that textured feeling. 

“Want- want you.”

“Are you begging, wifey?”

And right now you couldn’t even bring yourself to correct him - only blubbering with your desperate tongue, incoherent soft gasps about ‘please’. Wrapping your arms unstably around his broad shoulders, you thumb at the sweat-dampened black curls hanging on the nape of his neck. 

Making sure to lock your heart-eyes deeply with his - Toji feels his entire body shudder. He feels his entire body wrack with vulgar shivers from head to toe when your dilated pupils come in direct contact with his own.

It isn’t even that damn sex pollen that makes his heavy tongue wash over with a simmering wave of spit just from the way you tilt your head n’ whine “Baby…”

Now you’ve done it– you’ve used that top secret weakness of his. Pet names. 

The moment the airy syllables leave your cunning lips, you watch as your ex-husband’s darkened eyes flap shut. As if he was holding himself back this entire time. A tick in his jaw growing, a blush on his face burning, and his response has you wondering whether this was really the Toji Fushiguro.

Whether it was really him with his usual bass so hoarse, higher. Wild. “E-evil.”

And it’s like the heat is hitting him tenfold, curdling inside him and culminating in an ultimate, big dollop of syrupy saliva that Toji’s meandering down between your folds. Saturating your pussy with yet another layer of slicked sap, he’s rubbing one of his globed thumbs riiight over the mess. 

“Count f’me, mama.” SMACK! He’s granting a tough pawprint of his fingers on the hood of your clit, grinning sleazily down at you. “Count.”

You feel your skin heat, swamping out a proper pool between your thighs at this point. “F-fuck y-youu- ngh!”

“What was that?” Toji hums, darkly. The cushioned bed dips and creaks! when he’s shifting sloooowly down the bed, closer to where you needed him the most. But so painfully slow. He finds himself snickering at the way your huffs grow louder in impatience. 

“O-one…”

Another filthy thwack, and another cracking whine departing from your slobbery lips. It reaches Toji’s ears like his favorite song and compels him to reward you with another. 

“Two- three.”

And another. 

“Four.”

And another. 

“Hck! Five- five five five-” You’re bucking your hips wildly into his clashing hand, and the slightest smear of his mountainous palm on your pussymound makes your legs twitch animalistically. You arch upwards in repeated grinds- Practically sobbing, from both ends, “Please, Toji- please.”

And it takes him exactly one more sullen spank on your fluttery nub to render you just starstruck enough for him to strike his knees against the floor without yourself noticing. The aching thud! reverberating Toji’s mahogany bedframe with just how urgent he was.

Rapid.

Desperate. 

Toji spends a good chunk of time simply admiring your body, his nostrils flaring with great gusto as he drinks in your fragrance. Like caramel candy. Dripping wet. You were so fucking pretty, and that was something that would never change. 

You’re feeling a sweltering sigh hit the very outside of your cunt, washing over you like a summer breeze right as Toji’s hollowed baritone rings out. “Missed me, kitty?”

Scrambling up onto your elbows with all and any remaining strength, the last thing you manage to see is fucking Toji Fushiguro - the dark knight, still in his snug suit - kneeling at the bedside as if he was worshipping you. 

His pinkish tongue flopped out to smear a little wetspot where your inner thighs were, peeking at you through his dark lashes. Drunken.

Before your head throws back and all you can hear is the plopping squelch! of Toji prying apart your adhesive-slicked folds. Stray snapped strands of sap hitting his plunging lips, he circles your sloppy hole exactly once ahead of bullying inside.

“O-oh my- oh my god.” You’re hiccuping out, white-hot stars of pleasure bursting behind your weighted lids at the sheer stretch.

Toji’s lecherous tongue laps at your entrance and reminds you of just how big he is – how loooong. You swear you feel like his wet muscle is never-ending when he’s smearing your pussylips widely agape to push n’ push n’ push.

Mazing his slobbery way through your mushy walls until the tip of his tastebuds prickled almost near your sweet spots. And he’s just as mean as you never got used to, thrusting in and out of your cunt before you can utter a word.

“Please…oh please-” You’re thrashing back into the slight hill of expensive velveteen bedsheets that had collected underneath your surging hips. 

Hands scrambling anywhere - everywhere - from the plush of his mattress, to clenching into fists, to creeping onto Toji’s bulky deltoids and reeling him in deeper-

“Oi, mind ya manners, wifey.” He’s stretching his tongue out wiiiide, swabbing the flattened fringes in a massage down your raw walls. It’s a scissoring sensation that leaves you sobbing for mercy, your cheek bitten in a desperate attempt to keep your composure. Failing. 

“But- but I want more.”

“More, huh?” Shit, he’s humping his hips ferally into the smooth bedstead, rolling his throb-throb-throbbing bulge into it so hard that his words start veering into a…growl. “My wife wants more- more more more.”

The invisible pollen sticks to you like gum, leaving you insatiable. 

A few steamy wads of drool trickle down your pussylips, and Toji makes sure to keep your fattened folds open so that he can slouch back for a second and watch the wads seep inside your hole. One beefy arm is all it takes to keep your legs open when you try to shut them cutely closed. 

You’re both holding direct eye-contact as he bites down on a snagged edge of his glossy gloves and draaaags it slowly off. Displaying your unfocused eyes with rugged, tannish skin. 

“How ‘bout a lil’ ‘thank you’, huh?” 

“Sh-shut up…”

“Spit in my mouth then-”

And when you reach over to, he’s slurping it allll up. Every translucent speckle. “Ungrateful girl.” He’s moaning into your pussy, and you gasp at the sensation of his honed fangs sinking around your pulsating clit and biting. “She’s h-happy to see me though, riiiight?”

And it was true. Your diveling pussy was on overdrive, pulse after pulse that let out the most conversational noises Toji would nod and hum along to. “Damn, mama- ya sure yer my ngh- ex-wife? Fuckin’ missed how wet she got.” Sopping out so many more luscious splotches of slick - raining, fountaining out and he still couldn’t get enough. 

You’re letting off whiny babbling mewls as you’re feeling Toji ladle out the clingy residue onto the capped tops of two fingertips. Pecking your quivering hole with a loud sluuuuurp, before he’s thickly stretching his way inside.

“Fuck- fuuuuuuck–!” You’re squealing, your cheek lolling further into the moist puddle of drool that was constantly escaping your poor maw. Insatiable. 

And it was safe to say that your pathetic pussy hadn’t experienced anyone as staggeringly big n’ girthy as Toji. Ever. Because all that solid fucking length on his fingers and he only had to slip inside the very sensory pads to get you to feel like the world was spinning.

“They’re- they’re so big–” You’re hiccuping out through the leaden ball stuck in your throat, and it’s hard enough to pitch your words up to an audible level over all the waterlogged squelches. 

So filthy, every damp inch inside of you curls up deliciously. He’s plugging your overspilling cunt up all the way to his knobbly knuckles, “S’that a compliment? From you?”

The bed shakes as Toji’s gyrating his hips even deeper, the plummy crown of his tip streaming out wet, syrupy smears of pre all across his overpriced mahogany.

You’re sinking deeper into the humid bed when he slaps his manicured crescents of fingernails right over the orifice of your g-spot. Oh. Pushing. Pleasing.

Delving purposefully deep to set you off maddeningly, “C’mon, sugar—-” Toji croons out, trawling his greedy tongue all over from the drenched crevices of your thighs to where your clit was all plump n’ perky. 

Delicately outlining the cutest of wet hearts on your leaky pussy, he swabs a targeted whack right into your g-spot and makes you cry– “Yeah- tha’s right. Tha’s right.” Breathy tone hurried, rough. “Heh- meow f’me, kitty.”

You swear you were about to open your stupid maw and teach him a thing or two - maybe about how you wanted more - you swear. But right at that very moment, Toji’s third finger eases in past your gushing walls and toys with the buttons of your g-spot just right.

Rendering your jaw permanently slack, your cunt smeared wide open - sap waterfalling out like it was nonstop. 

And all this time whilst Toji had been driving you to insanity with his right hand - oh, the man himself is fucking slobbering out viscid pearls of slobber as he brushes over the cold, cold wedding ring on his left hand over your clit and makes you arch—

He still had it?

“Please–” Your eyes moisten with big, salty tears, streaking down your face and making it so fucking difficult for Toji to keep himself from reaching over and licking them clean off. “M’not gonna last- fuck! M’not gonna…”

Ahhh, how cute. 

Unruly locks of his hair plastered onto his perspired head, you’re just barely able to make out the sassy roll of Toji’s eyes. “Where’s that stamina of yours- ngh- wifey?”

“Where are those fuuuuck! d-divorce papers–?”

“Ooooo, fuck- I’ve missed that damn mouth.” He almost fucking whines, bloated cock twitching. And thereafter every wet slap! of his lips is followed by a pained grunt, every thud of his fingers deep into your goopy pussy crazed. Toji’s taking all of you - everything he can. 

Making up for how many nights he’s fucking missed you, he twinges his frigid ring over your sensitive nub and pinches. All the way until your fleshy clit scorches with heat, painful n’ yet so good. “Mmm– seems like heh- someone’s gonna cum–” 

And, shit, it might just be the both of you right about now — but your pretty self didn’t have to know that right now.

Every sloppy clench of your soft insides squeezing instinctively ‘round him only made Toji’s fat balls even tighter. Fuller. And the completely primal sounds ripping out of you are nothing if not sexy.

Only growing louder. Faster. 

Your tight ring stings with the ramming slams of his rounded knuckles hitting again and again.

Toji wheezes out a slurring few mumbles over your clit and your toes curl. Pushing your hips back to glue your oversaturated folds lecherously against his scarred lips. Itching yeeeearningly over n’ over your shaky pussy. Your tummy flutters carnally as he rasps, “Go on then. C-cum f’me, mama- cum goddammit.”

The pollen was scorching him– making him starved. 

And the sheer bliss that overtakes your body and makes you shake is ridiculous. Like something buried deep inside of you snaps–

“Cumming—” You trill out shrillingly, “Cumming cumming cumming– fuuuck, baby–!”

“I already know, kitty.”

Toji’s already crushing the massive bulge tenting his pants against the polished bedframe, hungrily lapping up every spurt, every twitch, every ounce of sappy slick that angrily swashed out of you. And ohhhh, this was heaven on Earth.

His lips were stinging at this point, drinking up all the ribbons of translucent juices that slipped down his tongue like a lacquer. He was so thoroughly at home, making out away between your pretty tremblin’ legs.

The edges of his pearly whites getting caught on your tender clit and sopping out your large splashes of sap even more feverishly. “So fuckin’ sweeeet, my wife.”

Toji lets his pointed chin droop open to smear over the very base of your treacly pussy, creaming all out into his steaming hot mouth. He’s drifting the metallic band of his ring over your hole - soaked with a thin layer of perspiration and smooching your clit with the buttony tip of his nose. 

Spitting, just to watch the drenched way in which it spills out of your flooded entrance, Toji’s dark lashes shutter as it sprays a glittery sheen all over his sexy features.

“H-heh- clean your act up, mama.” Toji husks out, his clenched teeth gleaming with so many multiple laminations of dripping wet slick. Your sweet cunt was so filthy, and he can’t help but let out a wild, unrestrained laugh– “Should punish ya for this fuckin’ mess.”

And you’re barely even done with the Earth-shattering highs of your orgasm, toes still curling every time the teasing tip of his tongue flickers in and out of your hole a few recurring times. 

Thighs tremoring as you shake out an unsteady, “Y-you made it.”

“That I did.” Another swopping slap, and Toji pulls himself off with a wet plop! It’s so fuckin’ loud, because that’s just how drenched you were, he hisses at the vicious spanks of stranded slick hitting his face. Grunting out - because oh, he missed you already.

Couldn’t stop himself from departing a throaty groan and kissing your dripping cunt again. And again. And again. Snog after slippery snog. 

He’s panting out in scorched syllables, “Really fuckin’ missed my hah- wife’s pretty pussy.”

“I’m not-”

“After this?” His smile was so smug as he finally – finally, managed to reel in ‘nough self-control to actually pull away. Making such an exaggerated show of sucking his thick, sopping wet digits all the way from his knuckles to the very tip. Satisfied, “You sure…wifey?”

Your needy hips twitch from the last few dredges of your high, “M’your ex- oh.”

And yet, you can’t even defend your honor - not when Toji starts shedding that stupid hero suit of his and he looks like that.

Ohhh, all the way from head-to-toe. One by one. The yellowish oval of his Batman logo almost splitting straight in half when it snags on one of his ridged obliques. And fuck– you certainly did miss this - maybe you wouldn’t really mind his renewal of your titles…

Your eyes rovered all greeeedily to take in the swole puff of his broad pecs, spine curved deliciously in a slight ‘S’ from his muscular back to his sinful waistline. 

Shit, he wasn’t even wearing much underneath his suit. 

Nothing other than a tight, stuffed underwear that didn’t hide much- anything, actually. You’re ogling unblinkingly at the raven curls that stick out in a rugged happy trail. Bumpin’ up and down his exact eight washboard abs and tufting out at his swollen base.

Taking his sticky boxers off.

Fuck…

The bed dips and sings out creaking praises as Toji splays his bulky, capped knees on either side and meets you somewhere in the middle. Close. 

Manspread so vulgarly that you can count the precise number of times his biiiig cock bobs up n’ down, you’re gasping at the sheer way he seems to have grown. Because surely Toji Fushiguro wasn’t always this massive, right? 

Swollen. All proudly near damn ten or eleven inches and covered in decorative zig-zags of veins, he was so fucking hard that his glistening shaft was twitching with every pounding ba-dump–! of his pulse. 

Your mouth waters as you take in the overwhelming streams of warm, see-through pre that was frosting his reddish crownhead in a thickly cap. Aching to be inside you. So fucking hot. Burning. 

Toji was as bloated as a ripe strawberry and just as pink, you’re licking your lips at the lewd wonderment of whether or not his firm, mushroomed tip would taste like it, too. And before you know it, you’re crawling slyly to where he was kneeled on the bed. 

Your kiss-bruised lips just flopping on top of his curvaceous head to give a sweltering, steamy smooch before–

“Fuh-fuuuuck! Nuh uh, mama…” Sparkly dewdrops of sweat swing to and fro as Toji shakes his head vehemently. Curling a soft hand at your throat and manhandling you to lay out flat on the puffy mattress, “Now.”

It’s all that’s said – it’s all that has to be said.

And by the grating, gone tonality sticking to his words, your husband meant it. 

Not even soon enough.

Especially once he’s getting his hands on the glossy fabric of your catsuit and teeearing it all down into unapologetic tatters. Thrown all over his messy floor, Toji can’t help but admire that gorgeous body he’s thought about night after night after night.

“T-Toji–” You’re whimpering impatiently, and it takes only the slightest buck of your hips for him to lug over a meaty knee and press it down on your slobbering pussymound. 

Your silvery slit slopping out a glistening splotch right where his capped limb was pinning you down with pressure. Hard. Though, honestly, it doesn’t even take much of his ripped muscles to hold you still.

“Eeeasy. Easy there, sugar.” He spits into your saggingly ajar mouth. And only nanosecond later you’re stung with the striking clap! of his ballooned-up length falling on your dribbling pussylips. Rubbing over the tender flesh with his wiry, tamed hairs, “Jus’ wanna nghh- admire my wife a lil’.”

Shit, you almost forgot what a complete tease he was.

Sandwiching his cylindrical length between your raw folds - he’s almost warming his vicious hips up. Sliding loooong drags of his blushing tip up and down your teary slit, you were so helplessly needy underneath him. 

Smack! Smack! Smack! There he went spanking your nubbed clit with a few prodding veins of his, one after the other. 

And he’s skimming a fat thumb to watch your frothing hole even better, slabbing your cunt with another slab of spittle through titters. Taking a countless deep inhale of your sweet, sweet scent.

Pure heat.

“Ad-admire me later—” You’re sounding out your complaints so prettily, droplets of tears starting to accumulate by the edges of your droopy gaze. Just simply soaked through, your mouth overspills with saccharine water to catch up to the rest. Needed it. You needed this.

“So you admit it?”

“Wh-ngh- what?”

“Admit that you’re m-my…” You almost don’t have the privilege of hearing the rest of Toji’s smug grumbles because of the way he promptly aligns himself on the target of your dripping cunt. Of the way he slouches forward, your ears popping once he sinks in– “-wife.”

And oh, for how full Toji was leaving you with only his sheer size - cramming n’ cramming his solid fucking length desperately - the hero was stuffing you only fuller when he eases a red, swollen inch and cums.

You’re hearing it before you register it - that sickly sweet sluuuurp of being filled to the utter brim. Your poor, gummy walls ram with so many knotted wads of cum that you feel dizzy. Stretching, stretching, stretching until the tautness pulled by his snaggling veins bloats even further with the splosh of thick seed. Filling you up. 

He was ruthless on a normal day, but with the pollen he was merciless. Leaving none alive. 

“T-Tooooji–!” You yowl out at the poke of his fattened, bludgeoning tip scraping your insides deeply. He wasn’t going easy on you. At all. No, you were going to take it. 

Your eyes widen a fraction at the scalding trickle of goopy seed that was pouring out of you, buttering your lips with frosty white icing. One of your fingers twitch to smear a mess of the puddle, “Did- did you just c-”

“Move that damn hand.”

“Wha-”

“I said-” Toji leans in close enough that you can count every strand of gold in his jade eyes, dark brows furrowing. And you’re not quite sure that the fire in his gaze is solely because of the pollen, “-move that damn hand.”

Before you can make a singular motion, his calloused hand dips down and rudely swats away your curious fingers. 

And then Toji thumbs your pussy open to spit– once on your gaping pussy, once in your mouth. Tilting your stupid mouth shut with a flick to your chin and bottoming out. 

Loooong and slow so that you can feel your dribbling nooks and crannies massage all down with the lightning bolts of his prodding veins. Such deep, magical spots he’s discovering just by hitting the juts of his hip bones to your front - just trying to fit his thick cock inside. 

Smacking and smacking. 

And was so fucking big. You can’t stop the tiny whimpers that leave you every time he’s funneling your pretty lil’ cunt with such a large, barreling length. Just the feeling of his hefty weight sagging your walls had your knees buckling, his tip reaching scorched insides only known to him.

Oh, it was all so familiar having his fat breeder balls nuzzling your sensitive lips, and with a content hum Toji rests the weight of his sweat-glossed abs down onto your front. 

His spit-sheened lips hovering over the heated curve of your ear, whispering. “We’re gonna have the ngh- cutest kids, wifey.”

Toji claws one of his engulfing hands on the matted, bedraggled mess of your scalp, and you gasp at the twitch of his big, bulging biceps pushing you down. Fitted all the way to his fat hilt, and he’s still bucking and bucking. 

“Oh- ohhhh fuck!” You wail with every plump pinprick of his geysering divot streaking out long lines of precum along your dewy wet walls. Wobbly legs pushing off the bed, “You’re so big- nghhh you’re so big.”

He’s cracking a lewd smile at the way you’re already running away from his rummaging stretches - and he hasn’t even started putting his back into it yet, seriously. 

“C’mere, kitty kitty~” As if you could even think about running away from him. His own bloated cock stiffens at the way that lil’ nickname makes your glassy eyes widen, using the diversion swiftly to grip your throat and pull.

Spearheading your sap-soaked channel open until the four walls reverberated like an orchestra of your carnal squeals.

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuck–! You’re in s-sooo deep–”

“Ya think that’s deep?”

Shit, your gaping drenched hole is gulping down so many barreling inches and he’s still pounding in more. More and more and more squeezing in past your tight muscle, and batting at the bullseye of your cute g-spot.

Trailing a hand over to poke where his bumpy tip was pressing pretty pecks on your sweetest spots, the crest of his shaft slips n’ slides until it reaches your spongy cervix to give a good, long prod. 

“Ya loooove it here, huh?” He’s huffing, hips slamming into yours so hard that you could feel the ridden heat. You could see the blushing red stains where his fleshy mounds were papping against yours. Red n’ raw. “Can practically hear that k-kitty ngh- purring, mama.”

And Toji’s version of “purring” were those slimy wet splashes that emanated non-stop from your pussy. Ringing up and out so roughly that you couldn’t even wrap your cottony mind ‘round just how hard Toji was fucking you.

Like he hated you.

When it was anything but. 

With a dark, quirked brow at the way your maw unfastens when he picks up speed. “Yeah? Yeah? Louder, mama, louder.”

Every hit was a homerun, precisely. Toji’s knees part your legs to crumble open so far apart that the muscles of your inner thighs burned. With both friction and stretch.

He looks down at you with a lipstick-stained smile, sexy even when he isn’t even trying to be. “Maaan, I m-missed this sight, my wife.” Huskily, he grips his way to your hips and manhandles you to thrust even deeper. “Missed this pussy— never been the s-same hck! without ya, sugar.”

Toji’s tenderly leaving the wholly bruising marks of his thickened digits all over your throat, making sure to pivot his hips so that your throbbing clit catches on his textured happy trail. Swervin’ to and fro right as he buries himself to the entire base. Pounding you open spaciously. 

You’re molded oh-so-voluminously spread to take his exact hits that your jaw hangs agape, eyes woozily criss-crossing - and it wasn’t even the sex pollen that had you like this. 

“Sh-shooo good—” You’re bawling out, and it’s so cute how your pussy dribbles even wetter when Toji bends his plank position to massage you with his washboard abs.

Juuust the way he knew you liked it.

A sheened layer of sweat transfers from Toji’s sultry, sliiiiding muscles to yours. Making those raggedly-run vocals of yours pitch into something broken while you ached out more n’ more of that deeply carnal scratch of his puffy bubble-gum pink nipples massaging your own tits. His toned pelvis batter-ramming away as he pleased. 

He hits perfectly at your g-spot once more, honing in on it over and over until you’re left sputtering on the hammered glazes of drool that coats your dry mouth. “M-missed you- ngh! toooo–!” 

One of your eager hands tug on one of his smooth, sensitive nub and Toji damn near cums. His mouth - oh, his scarred mouth was curving into the most accomplished smile. 

Splotching your own sloppy lips - missing the gasping cavern of your mouth, purposefully. Just so Toji could watch the showy way his glob of spit splatters the ends of your twitchy maw, while he counted every plap plap plap. 

“H-heh–” Though, the tips of Toji’s ears blush primally red. “Knew it. Knew ya missed- missed me…Probably couldn’t go a haaaah- second without thinkin’ of me, hmmm?”

Grumbling out something incoherent as he kisses the tender side of your neck, something along the lines of a pathetically pitched “C-cocky bast…ard.”

“Wha’s that now?” Free hand toying over your clit, other tightening on your neck.

“Fuh-f–”

“Fuuuuh–?” Toji’s naturally chiseled chest ripples as he keeps mocking you from above. And even the ridged curve of his heavy cock was drowning out your thoughts with utterly fuzzy cockdrunkenness. 

It takes you a long while - and a vulgar few plaps of achingly hard, gloss-dribbling cock - for you to finally manage out. “F-fuck you.”

And ohhh, Toji Fushiguro isn’t a masochistic man - but hearing those rude words come out of your beautiful lips always did make his overworked hips shiver dangerously. Closely. 

“I’m fucking you, mama.”

He was hot.

Soooo hot. Scalding you. Drilling into you like he was out of control— so hard that one-two-three slaps strike you in sloppy succession, almost every nanosecond. Pushing you further and further up the rickety headboard, swashing around the thick, milky cum snugly pumped inside you until you were dripping from the inside out. 

Stupid enough to murmur out a thick, “Then c-cum- cum inside me–”

“Ohhh now you’re talkin’ outta ya fuuuck- pussy?” He’s gritting out, tense abdomen pinning you down further so all the chatty gusts of air leave your throat. “Shut up n’ cum f’me, wifey.”

And shit- Toji himself didn’t think that would fucking work like it used to.

Your poor, infatuated pussy still so deeply in love with him that they’re basically melding into the perfect heart shape inside when you reach your high. 

Toji feels it first with the way your gluey-like walls cling onto his sensitive, plunging shaft like never before. Slouching forwards to sniff in your candied scent with a groan, “Atta girl. Aaaatta girl, jus’ like- like that- cum allll for your ngh! husband.”

You’re already so sensitive from your last high that this one hits you like five semi-trucks at once, and your head tumbles uselessly backwards into the silk-covered pillows. Vision blacking out near the edges - and all you can concentrate on was Toji Toji Toji.

This wasn’t even the sex pollen’s fault - you just needed him so bad. 

“Inside- inside-”

“H-heh, my cockdrunk wife. If I c-cum ngh! inside m’reeeally gonna wife ya up.”

“T-Tooooji–!” It falls from your mouth as if a sinful mantra, and you’re hiccuping with every prominent vein of his cock rubbing the insides of your tense spots. Ramming. Pulsing. “Look- look at me.”

Toji could barely even flap his eyes open but oh, was he looking at you.

Through predatory, half-lidded eyes that devoured you. “Mhm— Toji’s here, Toji’s here. Your husband’s here, sugar.”

One of your hands slithers up to the sweat-wetted locks of his black hair, other caressing Toji’s left pectoral. To thumb your thick fingerpad over his rosy nipples, and to also feel the ba-dump–! of his rapidly increasing heartbeat. You’re mumbling into his plump lips, “You’re catnip to a g-girl like me. Wan’ you inside.” Nuzzling his flush scorched cheek, “I still hngh! love you, y’know-”

Fuck. 

The syllables are barely dangling off of your slimy tastebuds before Toji’s finally finishing - inside you. 

And it’s so sloppy.

If you thought that Toji was making a mess before, then this made you realize that he was - in fact - holding back. The strawberry end of his red, red shaft roaming your sodden walls until he knocks against the door to your womb and cums.

Straight As for his aim, a great dollop of buttery seed starts piling up right where your g-spot is. And your cute cunt is stretched out wiiide on the slathers of ribbony sap he pumps you full with.

Your walls spreeeead.

All the way to the brim. Your head starts spiralling at just how full you felt - you didn’t know it was even possible, and yet, here you were. The tummy bulge Toji was fucking from the inside only inflating bigger by the second, cute lil’ knots of cum swirled ‘round and ‘round by his swollen tip.

With a face burying right into the clammy crook of your neck, he’s hiding away the cherry blush on his cheekbones. 

But you could already feel the thin trickle of drool spilling from either side of his parted mouth, feel Toji’s Adam’s apple rip with a whimper–

“S-still love you- too, mama.” He’s kneeing open your legs further to make sure you take every last drop. Breathless at the glued-together skin of your thighs, stained all creamy white with his seed. His own bulky thighs twitch whilst he bucked, all milking himself out. “Always- always have. Always will.”

You find the wet insides of your mouth sizzling by the time Toji’s wrung his tender, twitching balls free from every teensy tiny drop of cum he had to give your starving pussy. 

Though, still rolling his hips lazily into yours, still pressing the damp skin of his forehead into your own– his calloused fingertips break apart from your neck to give the pearly dewdrops of juices pouring from your slit a lil’ smear. 

Languidly trailing up, up, up until he cups that protruding bumpy outline - drawing an adorable heart out of his warmly slicked mess. 

“N’- m’gonna- ngh- gonna love our d-daughter j-jus’ as much.” He’s whispering through a low, almost reverent tone. So sure it’s going to be a girl. His girl. His daughter. Both of yours. “She could be our Robin.”

Your heart swells, and you’re just about to breathe in Toji’s piney, sweetened smell you loved so much - until he plugs his candy-glazed fingers in his mouth to suck, before promptly reaching underneath the very pillow you were laid out on. 

And within the blink of an eye, you’re staring at one of the biggest sparkly diamonds you’ve seen your entire life - your wedding ring. One to match his. 

“Always kept ya c-close ta me, my wife.” Toji murmurs. Gently grasping your hands to slide the cool band onto your finger, while he still fucked you through the last few lecherous throes of his high.

His emerald, half-open eyes stare deeply into yours as the ring sits rightfully in its home after so long. His shaggy bangs falling over your own eyes, Toji connects his forehead with yours. “Always will.”

And you already knew that the sex pollen wasn’t long-lasting, that it was firmly and happily fucked out of your system.

Yet, you still partially blame it for the way it takes you all of two split-seconds to push Toji from his shoulders until his back hits the back with a springy whoosh! A surprised gasp retreating from his scarred lips, turning into a growl once he catches sight of the thiiiick oodles of cum that gushed down your legs. Doubly full. 

“S’gonna hafta hah! take if we’re gonna have a daughter.” You’re musing, a greedy smirk playing on your lips. 

Seating yourself down slowly, slowly, sensually to do an experimental figure eight on his overstimulated, ruby-red cock. Still so hard, but hitting your cervix with a line of wispy cum - just from seeing you like this.

What was it he said–? Ah yes, he always did like having you on top of him.

Toji interlocks your trembly fingers with his so that he could leave a loving peck on your clinking wedding rings. And you’re purring, “Better not tap out now, Batman.”

Yeahhh, he’s marrying you again tomorrow first thing. If you two make it alive by then, that is. 

“W-wouldn’t dream of it, Catwoman.”

.

.

.

And then just about nine months later; when your darling baby boy, Megumi, is born- well, your overeager husband only sleazes that you try and try and try again. He always did want a big Bat Family.

A/N. TOLD Y’ALL I’D DO IT. Also my period started RIP send help.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[abyssyby]

to be devoured, to be held

— a storm brews in your head as you grapple with the longing to take up a little more space in sylus’s life— would he mind?

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: something i conjured up @ 2am thinking about spending time with sylus fresh-relationship, when things are still a little fragile & a little unsure. struggling w this myself, to all who do— you are allowed to take up space. you are enough. fueled by the singular image of sylus chasing fingers with kisses. also!!! the free 5 star henckskd i canT WAIT 😫. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, self-conscious reader, overthinker sylus, longing, smoochie kisses, face masks!

Sylus is visibly busy. He doesn’t move much when he works, resembling more a statue really— one carved with passion and love, if you were to gush. 

Were it not for the rapid flickering of his eyes and the tack-tack-tack of his fingers on his keyboard, you’d wonder if he was even breathing. 

Your gaze lingers on the thin-framed glasses you gifted him, now perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need them, you’d think regeneration would grant him immunity against mere blue-light, but he wears them anyway. A silent gratitude, a heart-fluttering token of you in all his endeavors. Your fingers itch to push them up just that little bit. 

But he’s busy. 

You linger by the door of his office. Meticulous as you take in the set of his jaw, the slight pout of his lips, the subtle crease in his brow and his soft, disheveled hair. You swallow down the burn to run your fingers through the cloud-like tufts and smooth them away from his forehead. 

He’s busy. 

“Sweetie.” You stiffen, pulled from the haze by low, thundering endearment. His eyes never leave the screen, his fingers never cease typing. But you know he’s got every intention of luring you in like a siren. 

“Mm?” you reply, clearing you throat. How you can make a simple hum so utterly pathetic, you’ve no idea. Your face heats, your scalp prickles. Your gut churns at how little of him it takes to undo you.

But he only smiles, just the slightest bit. Eyes require strain to capture its split-second existence. “Need something?”

Your eyes widen. Oh, the last thing you want is for him to think you’re insensitive and entitled enough to distract him. “No— no! I’m okay.” 

His brow raises. The clacking beneath his fingers is silenced. Once shifting eyes now focused on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yes. I’ll go.” 

You’re turning away before he catches a glimpse of the tingles you feel beneath your skin. You shouldn’t disturb him. He had come home late last night. Slipped into bed to hold you for an hour at most before you felt him drift away once more. Back into his office. To his very important schedule. 

The lump in your throat is remedied by a big gulp of water but the irritation for your self-pity is a fire you cannot easily douse. 

You should be grateful that he accepted you into his home for the holidays. Overjoyed that he’d become more comfortable with your intimate (albeit shy) advances like fingers caressing his own, and lips brushing on any exposed speckle of flesh of his you see. He always indulges you with a shudder and a controlled breath. 

Looks at you like you’d wronged him, like he’s piously holding back unforgivable sin should he touch you back. 

And yet, your chest aches at the lack of attention. You grind your teeth. Dramatically and truthfully, you’re starved, thirsty, and craving for his regard. But how greedy would you be to demand that of him.

Digging your nails in your palms, you relent. He has enough on his plate. He invited you in despite his work schedule. Because you insisted, asked, wanted. And now you must adjust. Be mindful. Behave.

The skin of your cheeks is agitated, you’re sure, when you run your fingers down your face. In hopes to silence a groan. Annoying. Can’t help but be. You’re annoyed— with him, with his work, with yourself for being annoyed. 

Not knowing that as soon as you fled from the threshold, Sylus was quick to stand and follow after you. Had it not been for the shrieking of his infernal phone, you’d be eating your words and thriving in your greed for him by now. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

In three hours, you’ve successfully explored the base in efforts of distracting yourself or making yourself useful— hit the underground gym, sketched the pristine dragon statue down the hall on a piece of sticky note, made an ice cream sandwich, taken a shower and applied your skincare. 

And he— he’d been standing from his desk every few minutes to look for you. But deals were falling through, there are new programs to be coded and all his men were apparently incompetent today. 

He caught glimpses of you— your hair disappearing around corners, your humming as you doodled and made snacks, your silhouette through fogged glass. But something always pulled him away— another problem, another issue, something infuriatingly needing his attention. 

And if he were just so terrible, he’d throw the entirety of Onychinus away just to join you in the shower. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The clay mask is tightening on your face when you exit the kitchen. Just beginning to crust at the edges, but goopy still. You might have mixed it wrong. The cucumbers you cut out rest on your cheeks for now, until you no longer need to navigate your way through the winding halls from the kitchen back to Sylus’s bedroom. 

A groan escapes your throat as you throw yourself into his plush mattress and silk sheets— knocking the breath out of you at the impact. Gravity pulls your spine down, pops each vertebra into place in a glorious melody of release. Then, you flip the cucumbers over your eyes and draw out a long, loud exhale.

Ten minutes, your app said, orange little happy face promising the silence of your thoughts. Ten minutes of focusing on your breath and your fingers and your toes and your skin. Ten minutes of listening to the sound of a ticking clock you otherwise would never have noticed. Of resisting the urge to twitch a muscle. Of constantly reminding yourself to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. Ten minutes of—

“A salad.” 

The bed dips on your side and your breathing— that you’ve been working so hard on— ceases. You feel his hot fingers on your arm, trailing, trickling down to your wrist and over your open palms. Drawing shapes. Making a home. “How appetizing.” 

You don’t need to remove your cucumbers to know the look he has on his face. Cocky, teasing and deep with that unspoken desire. “Got a moment away?” 

He hums. Fed up, he made one final call and warned his partners that if they did anything to disrupt his time with you again, heads would roll— or something along those lines. His phone rests ominously silent in his office. 

Yearning for him all day and finally having him, you are overwhelmed— his touch burns you, and you slip your wrist from his grasp without thinking.

He tries hard not to let that affect him. He is thankful for your lack of vision right now, because the scowl he gives you borderlines on homicidal. 

There is a cant to your tone— one you could not quite be rid of from your initial irritation despite it slowly fizzling away in his presence. One he bristles at. 

“You’ve had a lot on your plate.” you simply state, a supposed expression of sympathy. I feel bad for your workload, I’m sorry I cannot do anything to lighten it. 

But your lips had twitched, pressed into a firm line. This reads like criticism to him— You’d ignored me all day and now, now take this distance as consequence. He swallows. “I have.” 

You rise from your position. He’d laugh if he didn’t feel liquid dread swirling in his stomach now. You pulled away— you don’t want to be touched. Your tone— you don’t want to hear his excuses. He’d scorned you, and now knows not what to do with his lungs or limbs.

“Hungry?” you ask, a cucumber slipping down your eye to your cheek, finally revealing his perplexed gaze and— oh, no. He’s upset. Your mind connects it to your initial worries: of wanting too much, of clinging and pulling him away from the important things. And now he’s here, not there. Had he picked up on your discomfort? Were you so overbearing that he felt the need to check on you? You avert your gaze. 

“I— I made ice cream sandwiches.” because being useful right now seems like the best route. Offering him something he can take and consume for his benefit— that will soften the blow somehow. Make you worth his time. 

And he broods, swallowed in his own clouding thoughts, and follows you to the kitchen. “Alright.” 

The sandwich is a scoop of cookie dough squished between two graham crackers. You put a little mint leaf on top to make it look cute (Keiran commended this detail as Luke choked on it). 

You place it on a plate and serve it to Sylus quietly. 

He barely looks at it. No, he’s too busy, busy, busy with you. What you’re thinking; what you’re feeling. What you think— what you feel for him. “Sweetie—“ 

“It’s cookie dough.” you blurt to fill the deafening silence. Unintentionally loud, drowning out his gentle coaxing. “If— if you want vanilla, there’s vanilla. And, sorry, I don’t know if you like chocolate, but we have some. There’s strawberry too.” 

Sylus furrows his brows. Were you so upset that you didn’t want a word out of him? “Okay.” 

“Enjoy,” you say.

He frowns. “I will.” 

And as he eats, his gaze never leaves you. You in that ridiculous clay mask with cucumbers on your cheeks. In his shirt and your hair in a mangled twist. Your beautiful, divine self— upset with him.

Was it how he failed to approach you throughout the day? Was it something more specific? Something he said? The way he probed for your needs? How he didn’t look at you when you stood by his door? How he didn’t reach for you when you passed his office several times more?

He’d thought you’d wanted space. That you’d appreciate a day without his coddling and clinging, after being so ecstatic about you spending the holidays with him. He asked if you needed something, didn’t he? Asked and, inside, desperately wanted you to say ‘yes, you.’ But now… now?

“It’s delicious.” he finally comments. Shamelessly pushing, testing this boundary you seemed to have put before him. Ever so carefully. Not wanting to make it feel worse that it already does. He must show you how he appreciates you being here. 

“Oh?” 

“I’d like another.”

“Mm.” 

Shit. Has he miscalculated? “I mean… share one with me?” 

Your eyes widen. “Ah.” 

“Or, or not.” He’s fumbling. Tripping and falling over himself but who cares. He can’t take the bile rising up his throat with the way you look at him. Brows scrunched. Hesitant. Wary. It’s sending him into a spiral. “Just… sit with me, please.” 

The hoarseness of his voice is enough to make you soften. Something in you clicks, and your anxiety makes way for his. Work must have been a lot, you think. And he doesn’t deserve your insecurities getting the best of you when he needs you. 

You do as he asks once you take a strawberry sandwich out of the freezer and settle with your own fork. 

“The twins told me you liked strawberry best.” you start, voice now calmer than it was before. Returning like the gradual seeping in of the tide. Sylus— oh, Sylus revels in it quietly. “But I remember you snuck spoonfuls of my cookie dough from my fridge when you were at my place.” 

The acid neutralizes. “Oh?”

“And I thought,” he watches you take a bite, how your plump and shiny lips close around the fork. “What if that was another one of your cover ups? You are particular, yes, but never polarizing. 

“We had this whole debate on whether or not you’d like the strawberry more than the cookie. Luke was very adamant about you only having one favorite.” you cut another piece of the sandwich and bring it up to his lips. An offering. A truce. An understanding. “But if you’ve influenced me to be anything— it’s to be greedy.” 

He takes a bite from your fork. Curling his lips and dragging it over where yours had just been. He is zeroed in on your face, reading every tick, every twitch. And ultimately searching for any absolution. 

He catches your wrist, prays you don’t pull away, and removes the fork from your fingers in favor of his face. He presses his hard edges into the softness of your palm and closes his eyes at the contact. “Tell me what I did so I never do it again.” he breathes.

You frown, blindsided by this reaction— he’s… worried? Anguished and anxious because he thought he was at fault for something? “What?” 

He opens his mouth to explain again but you drag your thumb over his lower lip. He is compelled to silence. “I’m not upset with you.” 

He’s breathless. Clinging to your warmth. “Then what—“

 His lingering stare, almost a scowl, so focused on the micro expressions he cannot read. His sudden distance: a courtesy. It clicks— his upset really just… dejection.

Oh. 

He thinks you were punishing him. 

The thought slams into you, hollow and sickening. So afraid of asking for too much, of being too much— that you never realized how it projected onto him. What it looked like from outside the eye of the hurricane. How it would have made him believe… How could you have let him think—? 

The weight of it presses down, suffocates you harder than the insecurity ever did. You would never— never. But you share this, this inability to comprehend how utterly forgiving and needing the other is. 

So wrapped up in pondering a space you don’t deserve, you’d done this. That space, now, he is mourning. Begging you to fill again, as he drowns in desperation to fix a mistake he never made. 

“I thought I was being a burden.” you mutter, searching his eyes for confirmation that never arrives. “That I was lingering around you too much, hovering and you’d had enough—“

His brows furrow bringing an intensity in his eyes that worsens the caving in your chest.  He exhales then, more than air— everything that has choked and squeezed him inside.

“No. Never.” he cuts you off quickly, too overwhelmed by fear and sorrow and relief to even be the least bit composed. Oh, he was so relieved. His lips chase and kiss the tips of your fingers like a man starved. He mutters, low and clear against your skin, “Could never have enough of you, beloved.” 

You melt into his touch as he circles his arms around your waist and finally pulls you against his warm body. His breath tickles your neck as he presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of body wash, shampoo and you. “I am yours for the rest of the week.”

“No, stop that.” you argue, but your tone does not reflect. It dissolves, melts away. “Sylus, I’m not asking…”

“Neither am I.” he states, sturdy vibrations traveling from his lips down your spine. “I need to make you greedier. Be greedier for me.”

Your lips press together in a shy smile and you feather them over his pulse point. You seize control of your fingers. At last, you get to push his glasses up his nose, press on the fat of his jutted lip, ease the crumple of his brow and run your fingers through his soft, unkempt hair— just before you kiss him. Consume him. Devour him.

Sylus corrodes at the edges, unmoored at the feel of your lips on his. He presses, holding you to him, needing to be closer, closer, closer. To taste. To feel. To have. 

Putting your each wretched thought of unworthiness to shame. Silenced. Dust.

When you pull away, your eyes take a while to adjust, still giddy and tingling from the static in the air. He lingers, nuzzling into your skin, nose skimming reverently along your cheek. Once your vision returns you let out a genuine giggle. 

He swoons at the sound. Half lidded eyes and lips curved into a stupid smirk, asks, “What?” 

Your laugh escalates into a shriek as he dips to kiss you again and again. “Stop!” 

He’s grinning. The epitome of sunlight. “Why?”

You’re in tears at his appearance— light green smears of clay over his lips and cheeks, a stray cucumber hanging off his jaw. Shaky fingers go to right him, wipe away the remnants of a passionate kiss. Meanwhile, he turns to nip at your wrist and kiss your palm, and you think fondly: it is impossible to clean him up here. He is impossible.

“Come on.” you say instead, dragging him by his fingers which he meticulously intertwines with yours.

He follows, wordlessly, obediently. More than overjoyed to be led to— it does’t matter. He would be led anywhere as long as it were you. He savors how he can press on the soft skin on your palm, how he can so easily stop you in your tracks to kiss you soundly. All because he can. He can and he will. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Not long after, you’re wriggling in his iron grasp, tickled by the movement of his digits on the dips of your waist. You hiss, “Hold still!”

“I’m not the one squirming here, sweetie.” he chuckles, breathy and deep. His hand slides up the curve of your back and up the length of your arm, drawing one up over your head to pin you to the wall. “My little bird, trying to get away? Won’t you check your work?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.” you say pointedly, a fond grin on your gracious lips he cannot help but devour. You stop him in his tracks as he leans down, “We just got you cleaned up!” 

“I can clean up again.” he insists, leans again. To his displeasure, you turn your head to dodge him.

“Let me kiss you.” he whispers, begging with no sense of subtlety. Laid bare and open. With only the thought of tasting you. He nods to the jar in your hand. “Before you put that on me.” 

You click your tongue, but inside your belly swoops at his open expression. Head fuzzy with affection. “You said you couldn’t wait.”

“Your touch is enough to intoxicate and persuade. I am yours all week..” he purrs. He hopes you allow him a kiss— the sudden need make his ears pink. “Sweetie?” 

“One.” you relent, and he is quick to accept. Pressing his lips to yours lightly, to your surprise, as he swallows your gasp in delightful satisfaction. 

He pulls away clean, none of your replenished mask on his face. Then he drops his hands to cage your thighs on the sink you sit on. His eyes glint playfully as he inspects your flustered state, “Done playing around? I can’t wait.” 

You scowl at him— like he didn’t just beg you to… you sigh in kind exasperation and get to work.

To say he was putty in your hands was an understatement. Sylus has always been sensitive, that is a fact, but at every touch of your fingers on the bridge of his nose, the brush of the pads of your thumbs under his eyes, the scrape of your nails just under his jaw make him lose a shuddering breath. The devotion trickles down your spine like rain. 

When you place the cucumbers on his cheeks, he smiles, earth-shattering and gorgeous. Such a powerful man in a matcha-green clay mask. “There.” 

“Now we match.” he says so tenderly it aches. Every valve gives way.

For the rest of the afternoon, you are both in clay masks. Cucumbers over your eyes; happily wrapped around each other in bed like the greedy scum you are. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

[inkandapex]

tides of change

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary : Lando and Y/N’s not so situationship had become the talk of everyone around them. It was clear to everyone but the two of them that their connection was something worth fighting for. The question on everyone’s lips: When will Lando finally stop holding back and risk it all?

Words : 4.1k

Warnings : swearing, mentions of sex, poorly translated french

It was a rainy day in Monaco, the kind of weather that made everything feel a little slower. The usual buzz of the city was muffled by the constant drizzle, and the three friends—Lando, Max, and Charles—found themselves on a paddle court, looking for a way to pass the time during their break.

Sweaty and winded from their last round, the trio stood around, sipping on drinks, exchanging small talk about the upcoming season. Max, ever the competitive one, wiped his brow with a towel, giving Lando a smirk. "I think you might be getting worse, mate."

Charles finally looks up from his phone after being preoccupied for the past few minutes. "Lando, Y/N is here?"

"Yeah, she got in last morning. Why?" Lando nods, still catching his breath from the last game.

Charles grins and pockets his phone. "Alex just texted me—she just found out today. You should invite her to join us on the yacht. It's supposed to be a clear day tomorrow."

Lando raises an eyebrow. "Who else is coming?"

"Couple of other friends, Carlos and Rebecca too."

Lando smirks, glancing over at Max. "Max?"

"Nah, mate," Max chimes in, wiping his face with a towel. "Don't think being out at sea would help with Kelly's morning sickness." He laughs lightly, clearly trying to keep the mood light, but there’s a genuine care in his tone.

Lando’s grin softens, and he nods. "Fair enough. I’ll let Y/N know then."

"Speaking of which... what's ugh, going on with you two? Finally asked her out?" Max smirks, leaning back against the wall.

A small smirk crept up on Lando’s face, but he quickly took a swig from his bottle, picking up his racket as if the question never happened. "Are we playing another round or what?"

"Well, that’s a clear no," Charles laughs, crossing his arms.

Max raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. "You idiot, how long has this situationship been a thing for now? Two seasons?"

Lando freezes for a second, then points a finger at Max. "First of all, don’t ever use ‘situationship’ again. Sounds weird coming from you." He shrugs nonchalantly. "And... we’re just friends."

Charles snickers. "Friends who kiss every now and then—"

Max jumps in. "And sleep together."

Lando's eyes widen slightly. "Hey, that’s not—"

"So you haven’t?" Max presses, his grin growing.

Lando bites his lip, trying to hide the grin spreading across his face. He glances at Charles, who’s trying to suppress a laugh.

"Oh, they definitely have," Charles chimes in, his voice teasing.

Lando glares at them, but it’s no use—he can’t help the flush creeping up his neck. "Alright, alright, enough."

"I've had a couple of friends ask me about her, mate." Charles pats Lando’s shoulder before casually walking back to his side of the court. "Come on, one more before we head home."

Lando blinks. "Wha— Which friends?" His grip tightens slightly on his racket, trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

Charles exchanges a knowing look with Max, the kind that screams look at this idiot, so oblivious. Max just smirks.

"Doesn't matter who" Charles shrugs, stretching his arms as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. "Just thought I’d let you know. Do with the information as you will."

Lando opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning slightly. His mind is already racing through the possibilities, but before he can press further, Max serves the ball, forcing him to refocus.

But even as they dive back into the game, the thought lingers.

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

The sound of Lando's keys hitting the table broke Y/N's gaze from the screen in front of her. She glanced over to see him standing by the door, bag still slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from a mix of sweat and rain.

"How was paddle with Max and Charles?" she asked, shifting her focus back to the movie playing in front of her.

"Good. Max lost, of course." Lando smirked, toeing off his shoes before flopping down beside her. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat. "Hey, uhm— you busy tomorrow?"

"Mmm, not really. Kinda wanted to walk around and shop for a bit. Why, what's up?"

Lando ran a hand through his damp curls. "Charles is inviting us on his yacht tomorrow with Alex and a couple of their friends. Carlos and Rebecca are coming too, I heard."

Y/N hummed in thought, eyes still on the screen, but Lando barely noticed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he forced himself to sound casual. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous—he was just inviting his best friend to hang out with their other friends. They all knew each other already.

So why did it feel like something more?

"Sure, yeah, that actually sounds fun. Haven’t seen them in a while," Y/N said, shooting Lando a soft smile.

Relieved, Lando let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He barely had time to react before Y/N’s fingers slid through his damp curls, her touch light and familiar.

"You should shower," she murmured. "You’re gonna get sick."

Lando smirked, tilting his head just enough to press a featherlight kiss to her wrist. "Join me?"

Y/N laughed, gently but firmly pushing his head away. "Dork. We both said no more, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah… I tried," he chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. As he passed, he reached down to poke her cheek, grinning when she swatted at his hand.

It was true—what Charles and Max suspected. They’d kissed. And, yeah, they’d definitely slept together. More than once. But somewhere along the way, between shared hotel rooms, late-night confessions, and stolen moments, they both agreed that this—whatever this was—couldn’t be more. Not now. Not when Lando was constantly on the move, when their friendship was the one thing they both swore they’d never risk.

So they stayed just that—friends.

At least, that’s what they kept telling themselves.

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

"Cabrón! It's been too long! Have you grown taller?" Carlos' voice rang out, loud enough to make nearly everyone aboard the yacht turn their heads.

Lando laughed, shaking his head as he walked over. "You muppet, I saw you last week." He pulled Carlos into a quick hug before stepping back and motioning toward Y/N, who stood just behind him. "Look who I brought."

Carlos' face lit up. "Ahh… mi novia’s novia. Good to see you, Y/N." Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her slightly for dramatic effect.

Before she could fully recover, Charles appeared beside them, grinning as he leaned in to greet her with a cheek kiss. "She's also my girlfriend’s girlfriend," he added, giving Lando a teasing look.

"Y/N is the nation's girlfriend," Carlos announced, laughing as he patted her shoulder. Then, with a wicked smirk, he leaned toward Lando, lowering his voice just enough.

"Except yours."

Lando rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. Carlos just smirked wider.

"Too much testosterone. Where are my ladies?" Y/N teased, glancing around the deck in search of her friends.

"Oh, they're inside getting changed," Charles said, nodding toward the doors leading into the yacht.

"Perfect. I’ll see you boys later then." She gave them a small wave before heading off, disappearing through the doors with an easy grace.

Lando’s eyes lingered on her retreating figure, something he wasn’t even aware of until he heard the soft chuckles beside him. He turned to find Carlos and Charles exchanging a knowing look before shaking their heads in amusement.

"What now?" Lando sighed, already bracing himself.

"I just don’t get it," Charles said, crossing his arms. "I really don’t."

"Get what?"

Carlos exhaled dramatically, giving Lando a pointed look. "Why you like punishing yourself like this. Like a fucking sadist."

Charles nodded in agreement. "You clearly like each other."

Lando shook his head, sliding his sunglasses on as if they could shield him from the conversation. "Not that simple."

"Oh, but it is," Carlos countered, arms crossed. "It’s not like you haven’t been in a relationship before, so I know for a fact it’s not commitment issues on your end."

Charles tilted his head. "She doesn’t want to?"

"It’s not that." Lando exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It just… doesn’t work. We've tried"

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "Tried what, exactly?"

Lando hesitated, jaw tightening slightly. "Just the whole distance thing. Me being away all the time. And then there’s the hate she’s gonna get when people find out. I can’t do that to her." His voice was quieter now, but firm. "She’s already getting shit just for being friends with me."

Charles and Carlos exchanged a look, their teasing fading into something more serious. For all the jokes, they knew Lando wasn’t just making excuses. But still, Carlos shook his head with a sigh.

"You know, if you ever stop being an idiot, I think she’d be worth it."

Lando huffed a small, almost bitter laugh. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

"If not, I mean, I got friends that are interested," Charles shrugged, all casual, but the glint in his eye said otherwise.

Lando chuckled, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness in his voice. "See, you keep saying that, but I think you're just doing it to provoke me."

Charles smirked but stayed silent.

Carlos, however, turned to him with a knowing look. "Who? Luca?"

Charles' brows lifted in surprise before he gave Carlos an approving nod. "Yeah."

Lando’s expression shifted in an instant. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck is Luca?"

"Like I said… a friend," Charles smirked, enjoying this way too much.

"Don’t fuck with me right now, Leclerc." Lando’s head snapped around as he scanned the yacht, shoulders growing visibly tense. "He’s here?"

Carlos chuckled, clapping a hand on Lando’s back. "Calm down, cabrón. Y/N is available, no?"

Lando shot him a glare before rolling his eyes. "You two are dicks."

Charles and Carlos only laughed, sharing a look before Carlos added, "Just saying, if you don’t want her to be, maybe do something about it."

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

The yacht had sailed further into the open ocean, the hours melting away in a blur of sun, salt, and laughter. Everyone had split into their own little group, swimming, chatting, drinking. But as lunchtime rolled around, they all gathered around the spread of food laid out on deck.

Y/N sat at a smaller table in the corner with Rebecca and Alex, the three of them deep in conversation. Lando strolled over, wordlessly setting a small pouch in front of her along with a glass of water.

"Medicine’s in there. Take one, okay?" He gave her head a light pat before turning on his heel and walking off to grab some food for himself, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rebecca and Alex exchanged confused looks, both raising an eyebrow as they glanced between Y/N and the small pouch Lando had left behind. Neither of them knew what he meant by "medicine," and the whole exchange seemed a bit mysterious.

Y/N noticed their concerned gazes and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She pulled out a row of antihistamine pills from the pouch, holding them up. "Sometimes shellfish makes my allergies act up. It’s really nothing too serious, but it’s better not to risk it."

Alex’s expression softened in understanding, though she still looked a little taken aback. "Ah, makes sense," she nodded, her voice light "And of course... Lando is on top of it"

Rebecca let's out a soft laugh as she shakes her head "You're just as oblivious as he is you know, it's cute and funny at the same time"

"Guys... come on. We agreed to not talk about this"

Rebecca nods and holds her hands up in surrender "Mhmm alright, we'll let you figure it out on your own"

"What are you girls gossiping about this time huh?" Carlos walks over with Lando and Charles, plates of food and drinks in hand as their took their respective seats around the table

"Nothing you boys need to worry about," Alex smiles.

"Ah, donc rien à voir avec le fait que quelqu'un nie ses vrais sentiments pour quelqu'un, hein ?" Charles tilts his head, looking over at Y/N as he takes a bite of his food (Ah, so it has nothing to do with anyone denying their true feelings for someone, huh?)

"Espèce de bâtard sournois, Alex t'en a parlé ?" Y/N’s mouth dropped open, her eyes flicking between the two of them. (You sneaky bastard, did Alex tell you?)

"Non ! Je jure que je n'ai rien dit !" Alex quickly defended herself. (No! I swear I didn't say anything!)

"S'il vous plaît, c'est tellement évident. Je pense que tout le monde peut le dire rien qu'en vous regardant tous les deux," Charles smirked, making Alex chuckle beside him as she nodded her head in agreement, while the rest of the table fell into conversations of their own. (Please, it's so obvious. I think everyone can tell just by looking at the two of you)

"Il a pété un câble quand je lui ai dit qu’un pote était intéressé par toi. Tu sais que les potes normaux réagissent pas comme ça, hein ?" Charles goes on, raising an eyebrow as he watches Y/N’s reaction. (He freaked out when I told him a friend was interested in you. You know normal friends don't react like that, right?)

Y/N simply shakes her head and continues to eat, it wasn't until Charles continues to egg on his theory

"Il ne comprend pas un mot de ce que je dis, mais regarde ça." Charles straightens up, a mischievous glint in his eyes as if preparing to prove a point. "Tout ce que j’ai à faire, c’est dire le nom de Luca, et ça attire son attention." (He doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, but look at this.) (All I have to do is say Luca's name, and it gets his attention)

Right on cue, Lando’s head whips around, his conversation forgotten as his ears latch onto the familiar name. Confusion flickers across his face, caught completely off guard by the sudden mention.

"Dickhead" Y/N mutters with a laugh, shaking her head as she stands up, plate in hand, and makes her way toward the buffet table for more food.

Lando is on his feet almost instantly, trailing after her without a second thought. Whatever she and Charles were talking about, he needs to know.

"So, he told you about Luca, huh?" Lando leans against the table, arms crossed as he watches her pick through the food. His voice is casual—too casual.

Y/N sighs, shaking her head. Charles really wasn’t exaggerating. Of course Lando took the bait. "Lan, he was just fucking with you."

His eyes narrow slightly. "So you're not at all interested in this Luca guy?"

She pauses, glancing at him with a teasing smirk. "What if I was?"

Lando blinks at her, completely dumbfounded. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out as he tries to process what he just heard. "What do you mean?"

Y/N shrugs, casually placing a piece of food on her plate. "What if I was interested? What’s it to you?" She glances at him, eyes challenging. "Like you said, we’re just friends, remember?"

His stomach twists uncomfortably. That is what he said. But suddenly, he’s not so sure he meant it.

Y/N simply tuts, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she brushes past him. As she does, her fingers trail lightly along his arm, the touch barely there but enough to send a spark straight through him.

"Just something to think about," she murmurs before walking away, leaving Lando standing there—plate forgotten, mind racing, and heart pounding just a little too fast.

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

Lando lounged on a sunbed, sunglasses on, deep in conversation with Carlos when Rebecca’s voice cut through the chatter.

“Looking good, Y/N! That set is gorgeous on you!”

Mid-sentence, Lando sat up slightly, resting on his elbows as his gaze searched for her.

And then he saw her.

Not just in any bikini—no, a papaya one. His colour. He almost swore she wore it just for him.

Lando barely had time to recover from the way Y/N’s laugh sent a shiver down his spine before she sat beside him, all sweet smiles and knowing eyes. He saw right through her. She was playing with him, enjoying the way she had him wrapped around her finger.

And damn, was it working.

Before he could say anything, Charles strolled by, some guy trailing behind him.

“Y/N, this is my friend Luca. He’s been asking non-stop about you. Thought it was time I introduce the two of you.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, fingers twitching against the sunbed. You have got to be kidding me.

Y/N stood to greet Luca, and the guy wasted no time leaning in for a cheek kiss. Normally, Lando wouldn’t care—his friends did it all the time. But this? Some random guy he didn’t know? Absolutely not.

“Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard such great things,” Luca said with a grin. “I see you around a lot, just… not with the right team.”

Lando’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.

Y/N laughed. “Ah, yeah! I’ve seen you with Charles and Alex a few times.”

“So how long are you in Monaco this time? For good, I hope?”

“I wish. This place is amazing, but I have to go back to England next week—work calls. I’ll be back by the end of the month, though.”

Luca smiled. “Then we have some time to go out before you leave?”

Lando sat up fully, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. Was this some kind of sick joke? Asking her out—right in front of him? His blood boiled.

No. Absolutely not.

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “Actually, no, we’re busy. Got plans this week.”

Carlos, instantly catching on, barely held in his laughter—though his girlfriend didn’t bother hiding her amusement, giving him a light slap on the arm.

Y/N turned to Lando, eyebrows raised. “We do?”

“Yep,” he answered smoothly, leaning back like he hadn’t just pulled that excuse out of thin air. “Max and P are coming over to stay with us, remember? Got some activities lined up. Sorry, mate.”

The only problem? Now he actually had to find things to do and start booking these non-existent activities.

Luca frowned slightly. “Oh—well… when you come back from England, then?”

“Sounds good,” Y/N started, “I’ll ask Charles for your—”

“Naaah,” Lando cut in again, shaking his head. “Doesn’t work either, mate. We’re heading to Italy when she gets back.”

Y/N blinked. “We are?”

“Yes. Was supposed to be a surprise. Surprise!” Lando shot her a grin, ignoring the way Carlos was now openly laughing beside him.

Just off to the side, Charles leaned toward Alex, voice low. "S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi le sortir de sa misère." (Please let me put him out of his misery.)

Luca could only laugh, shaking his head as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, got it, mate. All yours.”

Lando didn’t bother hiding his smirk, satisfied with the outcome.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, dragging Lando toward a quieter part of the yacht, away from prying eyes. His smug smirk only made her more irritated.

“What the fuck was that, Norris?” she snapped, arms crossed.

Lando barely flinched, still grinning. “What, you don’t wanna go to Italy? Greece more your style? Oh! How about Ibiza—”

She didn’t let him finish, landing a solid punch to his arm.

“Ow!” Lando winced, clutching his arm. “Forgot how strong you are.”

“Stop playing with me. I know there’s no Italy trip.”

“There is!”

“Bullshit.”

He exhaled, dropping the act. “Fine! I just… You can’t go out with him, Y/N.”

Her expression softened for a moment before tilting her head, arms still crossed. “And why’s that?”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, avoiding her gaze for a second before finally meeting her eyes.

“That’s so unfair, Lando, and you know it,” Y/N shot back, arms tightening over her chest. “You’ve gone out with other girls, and you didn’t hear shit from me.”

“No—that’s different,” Lando argued, shaking his head.

“Oh, it is different,” she scoffed. “Because I haven’t been sleeping around with other people since what happened between us.”

His eyes widened. “But I haven’t!”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit—do you want me to drop names?”

Lando opened his mouth, then shut it just as fast. He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Alright, fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I have feelings for them,” he added quickly, voice softer this time.

Y/N let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Awe, how fucking romantic.”

Lando felt his stomach drop. The teasing, the back-and-forth—it all came to a screeching halt the second Y/N let her emotions slip through.

She sank onto the sofa, fingers threading through her hair, exhaling like she was tired—tired of him, tired of this.

“We can’t keep doing this, Lan,” she murmured, voice quieter now. “This whole ordeal is fucking exhausting. If you really want this, you can have me. But you can’t just want some of it. Take all of it. The good and the bad.”

She finally looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “I can’t stand having just some of you. I need all of you.”

Lando swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Because the truth was, she already had all of him. Always had. He just needed to say it.

Lando dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands gently finding hers, squeezing them with a tenderness that spoke louder than words ever could.

“Hey… pretty girl, look at me, please?” he whispered, his voice soft but full of sincerity.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but despite herself, her gaze met his. The rawness in his eyes caught her off guard. For the first time in a long while, she saw him again—the guy she fell so deeply in love with, the man she’d been willing to risk everything for.

“You have all of me,” Lando said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This time, I promise… we’ll make it work. I’ll make this work. You deserve the world, Y/N. I’ll make it up to you... if you’d give me another chance.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but a quiet part of her still hesitated. It felt too good to be true. But his words… his honesty? It was enough to break through.

Y/N took a slow breath, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt. There was none.

Slowly, she squeezed his hands back. “You better not make me regret this, Lando.”

Lando nodded almost immediately, his eyes lighting up with a joy so pure it made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. “I promise,” he said, voice full of conviction. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll do things right this time.”

Y/N let out a soft sigh, her emotions swirling as she processed his words. After a beat, she gave him a small, hesitant nod.

Without another word, Lando pulled her into his arms, locking her in a tight embrace. The way he held her felt urgent, like he was afraid of losing her again. They clung to each other as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if nothing mattered but this moment.

“I know we said to take things slow… but I’m dying to kiss you right now,” Lando murmured against her neck, his breath warm and shaky.

The words made Y/N laugh softly, her fingers tracing the side of his jaw as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs gently grazing his skin, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. It was slow, a kiss that held all the passion, all the longing they’d kept buried. The world outside disappeared as they lost themselves in each other, the kiss a promise of what was to come.

Lando was the first to pull away, chuckling softly as he did. “We can’t… I don’t think I can control myself if we keep going.”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her cheeks, her heart racing from the kiss. She placed one last soft kiss on his cheek before pulling him back into another hug, as if holding him was the only thing that could steady her.

"Greece sounds good..." she muttered quietly, her words almost lost in the moment.

Lando pulled away slightly, brows furrowed as he looked at her, not quite catching what she said. “What was that, baby?”

“Greece,” Y/N repeated with a smile tugging at her lips. “I said Greece sounds good.”

Lando’s face lit up with a grin, the tension in his chest easing as he nodded. “Greece it is. Anything for my girl.”

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - viii - epilogue

selkie!soap x reader. strangers to "lovers." rebirth. mommy issues. semi-public sex. breeding season. smut. pregnancy reference. the end. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

Your pelt is not the same as Johnny’s.

Its greys are subtler than his paint-splash riot; nearly a solid dove, sparsely freckled with dots of charcoal. It’s lighter in your hands than you think a second skin should be—sometimes it feels so gauzy, so filmy, that you fear to tear it simply by wrapping it around your waist.

(Where it belongs.)

You can’t bear to part with it. You must be touching it at all times, fingers idly rolling a few soft strands of fur, palms smoothing out the wrinkles over your lap. Sometimes you find yourself staring at it, never knowing how long you have been until you come out of the trance with a jolt, neck aching and stomach growling.

You have no idea how Johnny went without his for even a day—the thought of ever putting yours down feels like abandoning a days-old infant.

Truly, though, the real infant is you.

The world touches your senses as if they are brand-new. Every sound is sharper. Every color is brighter. The world has come into focus in such a way that you are surprised you ever thought you could see it clearly before—nothing blurs in the periphery anymore.

It’s as if you have been completely reset. Every nerve ending tuned toward decadence. Everywhere you look, you find something that captivates you.

It makes you dizzy with rapture.

He is terribly amused by it, Johnny. He’s amused by all of it. As you settle into your new self, he watches you quiver and shake on new, coltish legs, and grins amiably at your frustration, quick to smooth over your frustration with his mouth on yours.

He’s been through it, after all. More than once, even—he has two resurrections, to your one.

And you’re quick to accept the appeasement he offers. Your appetites now yawn wide for anything you can fit inside of them, and you are voracious. You bite at him when he kisses you, which only makes him laugh more, and then he drags you down to the floor to rut like he knows you need to.

“I’m going to kill you someday,” you snarl at him, more than once, held against him back to front. “You did this to me, you fucking asshole.”

He grinds his cock deeper into you every time, touching some hidden nerve that has you clenching desperately around him, writhing with every limb as he laughs into your ear. “I could always pull out, bonnie, y’want me to do that?”

You claw at his naked hips behind you with the sharp tips of your nails, digging trails into the sheen of sweat coating his skin. “I’ll fucking kill you if you do.”

You’ve hissed and spat for too long to remember how to speak gently to him, but Johnny takes it in stride. He fits his teeth around your neck and cups the soft parts of your body with hands that can’t seem to get enough of the way your flesh spills between his fingers; when you spasm around him, howling your climax, he wrenches you against him with an iron grip and finishes deep inside of you moments later with a torn moan, thighs and hips hot and flush along your backside.

You threaten to castrate him if he pulls out anytime soon after. He kisses the indentations of his teeth and smooths his spread hand over your belly.

You end up with him, like this, more often than not. He always chuckles at your antics, your clenched teeth, the red lines and half-moons you leave on his back and thighs. Less with amusement than satisfaction—because these days, you don’t walk around without the bruises of his grasp painting your flanks, or the arch of his bite etched into your neck.

He’s been alone, too. He was alone from the start. All of a sudden awake to the world, unsteady with awareness, and so hungry all the time it must have felt like he could never be full—

And he hadn’t had anyone, not like you have him, to hold him in the throes of it.

You catch a look in his eyes, every now and again, and see the echoes of that time. It glints like a shard of sea glass catching rare sun beneath a wave. Dulled edges—he can think of it without hurting anymore. He can remember the craving without succumbing to its dissatisfaction, without falling into the gall welling in his stomach at the injustice of it. This was not always the case, but watching you, now, balms the ache in a way nothing before ever had.

You know this without his needing to explain, and you know it like scenting petrichor in the air. All you have to do is meet his gaze, and you know.

And he knows, too. Everything. You cannot see him without him seeing you, and he’s been looking at you with the kind of eyes you now possess for much, much longer. There is no depth within yourself that you can hide from him in.

He can look at you and know you’re hungry. He can watch the way you wave one hand and know you’re antsy. You can begin a sentence, and he knows the end of it without you having to finish.

It can only flay you to the bone. You are known. From the best to the worst parts of you, Johnny knows them like he knows the creases in the palms of his own hands. He knows the yawning chasm in you that near-overflows with your want, and he does not hesitate once at the precipice on his way to diving into it.

It pulls your jaw tight. You can only shudder with fever at the exposure, and reach for him. Again and again. Swallowing his laughter down like medicine.

John Price, when he finds out, heaves an enormous sigh of relief even your newly-heightened senses couldn’t see coming.

Your new vision peels back the gruffness. The gaze he has fixed on you, this whole time, has not been the apprehensive criticism of a lover’s apathetic friend. Instead, it is the concerned look of a stranger, one who gives a damn about what happens to a woman all alone on a side of the world to which she, until very recently, did not belong.

It had been invisible to you before; a wavelength of color your old eyes were unable to perceive. Now, you see so much of him that you wonder how you could have possibly missed it.

You see his exhaustion. His own loneliness, in self-imposed exile, one eye always on a man he fears will find a convenient cliff to jump off of in a fit of despair. You see sleepless nights, and notice for the first time a gold band on his ring finger, scuffed, in need of a good polish—if only he would take it off long enough to clean it.

“I’m sorry,” you say to him, out of nowhere, meeting the cool blue of his gaze. He doesn’t seem surprised at your understanding. He only nods.

“Ain’t been easy,” he allows.

But now you’re here. He’s not the only one Johnny has anymore. You can see the weight lift from him the moment you tell him you’re staying.

He goes to his office at the back of the pub with a lightened stride and returns, a little while later, with a stack of papers in his hand that he drops on the bar in front of you.

“Take care of the place,” he tells you with a heavy pat to your shoulder. “And don’t let Soap off easy. I’m going home.”

Price leaves you there with the deed to the pub and a casual wave over his shoulder. You do not see him again—though he’s left his phone number in one of the margins.

“Oh, aye?” Johnny says when you tell him, later that night as he’s boiling lobsters for dinner.

He doesn’t respond for a laden moment. You watch your report pass over him like a gentle wave; you see where it could build, where it could swirl up into something bigger, harder, angrier—but it doesn’t.

His back tightens, and then loosens, and he turns to grin at you over his shoulder.

“Barry, there’s a wall in there I’ve been dyin’ to knock down, and he wouldnae let me. Place is too claustrophobic, ask me.”

You arrange the silverware, letting his placidity wash over you.

About a week later, you drive Johnny’s truck somewhere with cell service, and call your mother.

The landscape of her emotions changes as rapidly as an ocean storm; elation and relief, to finally hear your voice. Hope when she asks you when you’re coming home. Confusion—when you tell her you aren’t.

Johnny explained it.

“We canna go far from the ocean, hen. Not for long. It won’t feel…right. I’ve tried. You get an itch, ken? You can ignore it at the start. But it willna go away, and it willna be denied, either. It’ll drive you mad if you don’t go back. So you canna stay away.”

And you’d known immediately what he’d meant—

You can feel it on the edge of the periphery. A lodestone in your belly points in its direction, always. You could close your eyes, start walking, and find yourself on the shore, pelt already in your hands. Sometimes, you find yourself waking in the middle of the night with the sound in your ears, legs twitching restlessly. You feel too hot and too cold at the same time, and thirsty, all over your body rather than just in your throat.

Any thought of moving further inland inspires an existential panic you can’t explain. The notion of a fifteen-hour flight, and landing somewhere that hasn’t seen an ocean for at least a million years, makes your skin feel so tight around your bones that you have to run to the nearest shoreline just to make sure the sea is still there.

You’re on a jetty right now, in fact, watching the water lap against the stones. It was the only thing you could think of that would give you the strength to make the call.

You cannot go home. You know now that somehow, you’d always expected to, deep down. You’d return to the house you grew up in, pet the old family dog. Meet for brunch at the same hole in the wall you’ve gone to for years.

Sometimes the price you pay to become something more does not reveal itself until it’s too late.

So you cry with your mother over the phone, when you explain that it’s best if you stay. You tell her that coming back would only hurt you if you tried, and this time, you aren’t even lying to her.

You don’t know if she’s actually comforted by the conciliatory offer you make of your new job tending bar—she doesn’t need to know you own the place yet—but she sniffles, and puts a brave face on it.

“You always did want to live somewhere else,” she offers, watery—but glad, you hear, that you’re alive.

You bite your lip.

From her, there will be no begging for you to come home. No entreaties of love or need.

When you say goodbye to her, you cry some more—but it isn’t the storm that used to claim you. You wrap your arms around yourself and squeeze, pinch the soft fur of your pelt and roll it between your fingers as you allow yourself to shake and weep, and when you catch your breath, you dry your face and drive back to the cottage, where Johnny is making lunch.

That night in bed, he holds you gently in his arms, rocking his hips into you as you cling to him with your fingernails.

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper in his ear.

He kisses the corners of your eyes before new tears can fall, and tightens his arms around you.

Each day you go to the sea.

It tugs at you, like a child tugging the hem of your shirt. Like a current pulling you outward. You wake every morning thinking not of breakfast, or the day ahead, but of that swaying world, slow and vast, hugging the edges of the land to coax it, eternally, back into the depths.

There is no serenity, now, like the serenity of the water. To enter the ocean is also to let it inside you; the barriers between yourself and the rest of the world thin out. You give some of yourself away, and receive something new to settle in the empty spaces left behind.

You think you understand now why Johnny is always smiling.

The cold no longer stings when you bare your skin to it, down in the cove. The salt-wind of the incoming tide is soft against you as you fold your clothes, beckoning as you tuck them beneath a large rock.

Johnny strips beside you, less careful, balling everything up in an untidy mass, until you glare at him. The intended admonishment falls flat as your glare turns into something sweeter, as the dark hairs on his chest lift with goosebumps.

He grins at you, seeing the shift. “Here, hen?” he teases as he obediently tidies his shirt and kilt. “Out in the open?”

Out in the open.

You draw him to you, dragging him down into the sand; the joining is quick and hard, spurred by the burgeoning need to go under. You cage his ribs with your knees as you ride him, breasts against his chest as you take his mouth without art or finesse. Johnny digs his fingers into the meat of your ass and helps you along with quick, forceful thrusts, and your orgasm prompts his own, inner muscles pulling him deeper as you pant and moan.

Primal. Without artifice. You exchange hot breaths through open mouths as you speak with your eyes, the ocean-blue of his gaze pulling you in. You grind together even after finishing, prolonging it, displacing a little longer the moment that your bodies must separate.

You have him every day, too. Often more than once. He is as essential a need as the sea, and he gives as freely and as frequently as you ask.

After, you both rise, and help to dust the sand away from each other’s bare skin.

Suddenly, you wonder aloud, “If I get pregnant—what’s it going to be?”

Johnny goes still, the hand on your shin stopping mid-sweep. Then, eyes crinkling, he barks a laugh. He kisses your knee and, as he rises, kisses your mons, then your navel, your sternum—

Then the reluctantly smiling curve of your mouth.

“Wouldnae mind findin’ out,” he says, stepping away from you, and walking backward toward the ocean.

His gaze does not leave you once it rises to meet him. It crests around him, embracing him, vibrant and alive and rushing toward you.

You draw your pelt over your head, and follow Johnny into the waves.

a/n: I'm going to put my final thoughts in a separate post. This is the end. Thank you so much for reading!!

[moonstruckme]

Who's That Girl AU

cw: modern au, sexual harassment mention

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

It’s not unusual for Remus to hear Sirius’ voice before Sirius even enters the flat. Now, yours has only joined it. 

“I was only trying to be nice,” you say as the door opens. 

Sirius ushers you through first, each of you carrying paper bags in both hands. “We can’t have every bloke in London showing up at our flat because you want to be nice.” 

“It’s not that I want to, I just feel like it’s normal!” 

James throws Remus a look, pausing the film they’ve only just begun in favor of live entertainment. “Bickering already?” he asks. “I know it’s bound to happen between flatmates, but Sirius, mate, she’s only been here two days.” 

“It’s not my fault.” Sirius discards your bags by the end of the couch, flopping down. “This home can only harbor one whore at a time. It’s flat policy!” 

“When did we make that policy?” James asks Remus. 

Remus shrugs. 

“Well, that’s sexist,” you say. 

“How?” Sirius challenges. 

“I…I’m not sure.” You set down your bags next to where Sirius did. “But it is, somehow. I’ll figure it out.”

Finally, Remus’ curiosity wins out over his determination not to encourage Sirius. With great reluctance, he asks, “What happened?”  

Sirius waves to you. “This one tried bringing two different men home. Two!” 

James looks to you with wide eyes, Remus to Sirius with narrowed ones. 

“That’s not fair,” you say, arms crossing as you sit at the end of the couch. “All I wanted was to get shampoo.” 

“Then please.” Sirius gestures with a flourish. “Demonstrate for us all how it played out.” 

You roll your eyes. “Seriously?” 

At this, Sirius cracks a smile. Remus groans. 

“That’s me, babe,” Sirius says smugly. 

Your brow furrows for a second before you realize what you’ve done. Your eyes roll again. “Whatever, fine. So, we were leaving Boots—” 

“No. Start from the tube.” 

Your mouth twists as though you’ve tasted something bad. “That one’s embarrassing.” 

“Then maybe you’ll learn from it.” 

“Oi.” Remus gives Sirius a firm nudge. He says to you, “You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.” 

You really do look embarrassed, but you soften some at Remus’ tone. Take a breath. “No, it’s fine. So we were on the train—” 

“The tube,” Sirius cuts in. 

“Do you want to tell it?” you nearly snap. 

James snickers into his palm. Sirius holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender, nodding for you to continue. 

“We were on the tube, and I look up to see this guy staring at me. He smiled and said he liked my hair.” 

“And you smiled back at him,” Sirius supplies. “That’s important.” 

“Fine, sure.” You pull your legs in, folding your arms over them. “I smiled back at him, and I said thank you, right? Because he gave me a compliment.” 

James hisses through his teeth. “Nothing,” he says when you look at him. “Keep going.” 

You’re beginning to look wary. “Anyway, then the guy started talking to me, asking where I was from and how I liked London and stuff, and somehow it escalated into him telling me…basically saying what he’d like to do to me.” Your mouth gets that distasteful twist again. “It was pretty vulgar.” 

“Aw, babe.” James’ expression is pained. “I’m sorry.” 

“Wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t encourage him,” Sirius tsks. 

Remus thwacks him on the arm. “Let her talk.” 

“Yeah,” James chimes in, “and where were you during all this? A gentleman would have stepped in.” 

“I did step in!” Sirius defends himself. “I got us the hell off the tube before that wanker could start publicly assaulting her.” 

“I do appreciate that,” you say weakly. 

“Thank you. If it weren’t for me, she—oi!” James crawls over Remus to begin wrestling Sirius, both of them laughing while trying to appear angry. 

You press your lips together, clearly trying to suppress a smile. Remus wants to warn you not to encourage them, but by the glitter of mirth in your eyes it might be a wasted effort. 

“Alright,” James says once he has Sirius trapped with James’ hand covering his mouth, “go on, lovely. You said there were two incidents. You can tell the second one without interruptions.” 

“Thanks,” you say, grinning. “So the second thing was that as we were leaving Boots, after getting all my stuff, this guy held the door open for us. I said thank you and we left, but then when we were about to get back on the tube the same guy came up to us. He asked for my number and seemed confused when I said no, because I guess he thought we had a connection or something?” 

Sirius is struggling against James, who’s fighting to keep a straight face as he keeps the other boy pinned down. Remus feels earnestly bad for you. It’s clear you’re confused about where these interactions went wrong. 

“Did you smile at him, also?” Remus asks. 

You think for a moment. “I guess I probably did.” 

“Oh.” James sounds pitying. “Why would you—eugh!” He lets go of Sirius quickly. “Did you just lick my hand?” 

Sirius shoves him off, fixing his hair. “Don’t fucking muzzle me, you brute.” 

“Nasty prat.” James wipes his palm on his shirtfront.

“Love, why do you keep smiling at people?” Remus asks.

“Exactly!” Sirius throws up his hands. “That is the question of the day.” 

“I don’t know.” You frown, defensive. “Because I’m pleasant?” 

“Awe.” James slings an arm around your shoulders, using the other to pat your cheek. You look as though you’d rather not be touched with the hand recently infected by Sirius’ spit, but you’re too nice to say so. “You’re just an innocent little country mouse, aren’t you? You can’t smile at people here like that, babe.” 

Your frown softens confusedly. “Why not?” 

“Because when you do, people think you’re trying to be extra friendly with them. Like you’re singling them out or something.” 

“Seriously?” 

Remus pins Sirius with a glare just as he opens his mouth. 

“So, no smiling at anyone?” you go on.

“No chatting either,” Sirius tells you sternly. 

“There are exceptions,” says Remus, “but generally people tend to prefer going about their own business. Starting conversations with strangers on the tube or at Boots isn’t really…done.” 

You look perturbed by this news. James laughs, giving your cheek another fond pat. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll be alright,” he assures you. “You’ll figure it out in time. For now, just don’t give anyone the flat number, okay? Don’t need any unexpected visitors.” 

“That’s right.” Sirius nods firmly. “There’s already one whore in this flat. Those are the rules.” 

“Not a whore,” you remind him. 

“Where are these rules?” James wants to know. “I need to make sure there are no others I need to know about.”

[digitald0rk]

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* NERD ALERT ! [ 1 ]

pairing : mark grayson x gn!reader.

synopsis : in which mark falls for the new comic book store employee who matches his nerd [ and he hopes his freak too :3 ] and realizes he wants that effing cookie SO BADD.

warnings : super duper self indulgent! mark being mark, mention of blood like once. sappiness overload RAHHHH. not proofread.

w.c : 2.1 k.

a/n : this is part 1 btw, the second part's gonna be focused y'all's relationship. this is SO SO SLEF INDULGENT LMAO. i am that annoying little fly that keeps buzzing when it comes to my interests, my ass keeps going, "holy shit is that xyz reference???" :0 like GIRL STOP PULLING THESE REFERENCES OUT YO ASS 🤓 if you're like this too just know i think you're super based and awesomesauce gang :D BE ANNOYING ABOUT YOUR INTERESTS!! it's honestly so refreshing, anyways :p lemme know what you think of this! also yeah the banner 😈 because why tf is he so cheeked up in every frame good lord bro has a whole ass bakery back there.

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ lemme know if you wanna be added too ]

it was another normal ordinary day, he was just binging the new volumes of seance dog in his favorite little comic book store because being a superhero leaves no time for that, thank god he has some time off.

it was another normal ordinary day, that is until you walked in.

well more like look insanely good behind that cash register.

he asks himself, mind racing a mile a minute, how has he never noticed you before? are you a new employee? why the hell is his heart beating so fast? are you single?

the moment he sees you smile at some customer, he's doomed.

he has to talk to you. he has to-

oh god wait. he's been staring, hasn't he? no no no! what if you think he's some loser or worse a creep. [a weirdo what the hell am i doing hereeeee sorry had to lol]

and when your gazes meet for a split second, he whips his head away way too fast, if he wasn't a viltrumite he definitely would've gotten whiplash, his eyes immediately zeroing on the comic in his hand, which is actually upside down. not that he realizes because he's too busy thinking about how he'd love to get lost in your pretty eyes, he needs to get a grip, what is he fourteen?

it's just some dumb fleeting infatuation and-

then he hears a laugh. peeking up from the still upside down seance dog volume, hoping to god it's not your laugh because if it is, he longs to hear it again.

it was your laugh. oh he's in deep.

and he swears he's never heard a more beautiful thing. sap.

he needs to be the reason to make you laugh.

oh shit he's holding it upside down, hopefully you didn't notice (*_*;)

it takes him a whole ass week to muster up the courage to talk to you, he'd only check out with his new additions and issues when it wasn't your shift.

he's checked himself in the mirror a gazillion times, his hair looks okay, maybe he should've worn the blue shirt, it makes his eyes pop out-

he's mark grayson, he's invincible for fuck's sake.

still his palms grow sweaty as he approaches you to check out, little do you know he already has these volumes, he's just desperate to talk to you okay.

"hi." and great, his voice cracks.

but your sweet smile makes him forget about it. he watches you as you scan his items, typing away as you do so.

he kind of wants to hold your hand. is that bad?

"so, seance dog huh?" oh shit you're making conversation with him? oh my god calm down calm down calm down-

"yeah, it's uh one of my favs." he flashes a small smile, a nervous one.

"no way! same!" you beam at him, sheepishly showing him the small seance dog hair clip holding your hair in place like it's some sort of national treasure.

you're telling him that you, the cute comic book store employee he's been crushing on for weeks now, likes seance dog?

he's dreaming.

he has to be.

right?

then you say something, something only a huge seance dog fan would know.

and he swears he hears wedding bells, he can already see walking down the aisle.

it takes him a ridiculously long time to recover, eyes widening comically as he processes that this is infact not a dream.

"you okay there?", you ask slightly amused.

your voice breaks him out of that little trance you just unknowingly put him in, his eyes flitting to the name tag on your shirt-

he can't help himself from muttering your name, soft and reverent like a prayer.

a little flustered giggle leaves your mouth.

oh.

oh.

he made you laugh? he feels like he's on top of the world, he introduces himself, his smile widening when he shakes your offered hand.

william's gonna have a field day with this one.

after that one conversation, he's grown comfortable around you over the past few weeks.

and he's fallen even deeper in love.

he's less tense and awkward around you, rambling about everything and anything, conversation flows easily between you two now.

you'd call him the second you'd read the new volumes of your shared favorite comics to talk to him about it, he does the same.

he puts you on his favorite comics, you put him on yours along with whatever you're big into. it's a win-win really.

he's never been happier.

you make him feel so seen.

he doesn't feel the need to hide parts of himself from you. he loves when you buy him matching merch or just little trinkets of his interests.

rex made fun of mark's little italian charm bracelet once, because what do you mean the strongest man on the planet has a matching charm bracelet with all the things he loves on it that he always wears?

it actually broke the first time he wore it to a fight because obviously, what was he thinking? gets very sad when he can't find all the pieces to put it back together, asks cecil to remake it with some metal that won't break from the impact of alien attacks or whatever decides to mess with the peace of earth the next time. he gets all pissy when he gets blood on it :(

"aw that's adorable!" rex would tease him, but mark would just get all excited because he gets to talk about you <3

cue him rambling about all the things you made for him or got for him that align with his favorite pieces of media and interests, rex does NOT understand half of those words but hey as long as invinciboy's happy.

rex is not making that mistake again lol, also he thought you were dating mark because of the way his eyes turn into literal hearts whenever you're mentioned, so imagine the look on his face when mark's all bashful like, "nah i wish :(" rex goes, "man you two are so fucking oblivious" and he's right.

even outside of your little nerdy conversations and hang outs, when he comes to you for comfort, he feels safe.

and that — feeling safe, not being on edge 24/7 isn't easy for him, but you make it easier than breathing.

he feels loved when you hold him, rub his back and make some dumb joke when he's having a bad day.

he lives for the references you make out of nowhere.

"holy shit is that-" you start excitedly.

"i was just gonna say that!" he laughs.

pointing out things that he thinks are references to his favorite media and you joining him, this has to be love.

"why does that cloud lowkey look lik-" he starts and you finish his sentence for him, he laughs at how you two are almost always on the same wavelength.

once the secret is out that he's invincible, he'll literally just fly to some foreign country to get you what you want, oh what's that? a new figurine of your favorite anime just dropped? it's only available in japan? it's already yours <3 anything for you, he's whipped. [ god bless his bank account i imagine it's in negative LMAOOOO because his ass is definitely not letting u pay :( ]

and when you oh so sheepishly hand him the seance dog plushie you crocheted for him as his birthday present, muttering something along the lines of how "it's not good enough" or "it looks a little funny", i mean yeah seance dog has seen better days for sure where his eyes are the same size, he has to physically stop himself from kissing you senseless, because how dare you be this thoughtful and sweet.

yeah he's in love alright.

after a lot of restless nights and convincing from william, he finally decides to ask you out after six months of longing and yearning.

you two are currently in your room, hanging out. you had invited him over to watch the new reboot of your favorite sci fi series, although the internet seems to have a different plan as the video keeps buffering and loading.

you groan in annoyance, refreshing the page, still nothing.

so when you give up and let it do it's thing, aka the good ol "pretending not to care so it'll load faster", mark takes this as a sign.

"hey uh-" he opens his mouth, he's going to piss himself, he can't do this.

"yeah?", you reply. he sounds awfully nervous.

he stares at you, holding your gaze, lips slightly parted before taking a deep breath.

he ends up immediately blurting out the words he'd practiced a thousand times, "iloveyousomuch", his words are hurried as if he's scared you'll leave him if he's not quick enough.

he pauses, realizing this isn't exactly going to plan. he has just confessed his feelings, it's done now. there's no going back from this and that scares him.

he's also considering just making a run for it, or well fly for it, your window's open afterall.

he avoids your gaze like the plague, the ground suddenly very interesting.

he hesitantly adds, "i have for awhile now actually", might as well serve his heart on a silver platter to you it's all yours anyways, it beats for you, he thinks.

his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. he can't stop his mouth, it moves on it's own, "im sorry if- if this ruins our friendship i just-"

"i love you too mark", you can't help yourself from confessing back, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"i just can't do this, i can't be friends when everytime i look at you i want to ki-" wait.

it's actually adorable the way he looks at you all wide eyed when his brain finally processes what you said.

did you just say you love him back?

nope, that's just his terrible hearing that comes with being a superhero, all wishful thinking.

but the way you're looking at him tells him otherwise and your words only confirm that his hearing is perfectly fine.

"you were saying?", you tease him, daring him to finish that sentence.

thank god the teasing is back, this is familiar territory. his nerves calm down a bit.

a minute of silence passes before he speaks.

"so that just happened", he chuckles, he wants to be all suave and cool and say something that'll make you blush, but he can't.

he doesn't need to.

because that's not him, he's mark grayson, he's awkward, a sweetheart and a big nerd. he just needs to be himself to make you swoon.

you know this, he knows this.

he knows you accept him for who he is, so he doesn't think twice about leaning in when you reach out to cup his face, leaning in as well.

your acceptance, your love, you. that's all he needs.

and the moment your lips meet his he realizes those six months were worth it.

he gently pulls you closer by your waist, his touch hesitant, it takes all his power to not just pull you flush against him and show you just how much he adores you.

when you pull him closer by the neck, his toned chest brushing against yours, he has to stop from letting out a small pleased groan.

you're just as desperate as he is.

kissing you like this is dizzying, he can even taste the sweetness and slight tang of the strawberry dessert you two had shared earlier on your lips and it only serves to drive him crazier.

his body practically aches when you pull away, chasing your lips. he can't get enough.

"easy alien boy", you chuckle, trying to catch your breath — resting your forehead against his, nose scrunching a little when he kisses the tip of it, nuzzling his own nose against yours afterwards.

his smile is sickeningly sweet and contagious. "i love you", he whispers.

and when you whisper it back he giggles happily, pressing a kiss to your head - he pulls you in his warm embrace. relishing in the feel of your body against his, fitting like a missing puzzle piece.

it's like you were made for him.

a scream from the tv ruins the intimate atmosphere, ah so now it decides to load. you two stare at each other, a collective look of "are you seeing this shit" is exchanged before you two burst into laughter.

both of you could care less about the show playing on the tv, too busy indulging in long passionate sweet kisses.

"the new issue of batm-" you jokingly start against his now swollen lips.

"baby! we're kinda having a moment here", he scoffs playfully, the dumb lovesick smile on his face only widening.

"no but seriously the new issue sucked ass. they mischaracterized him sooo bad and-", he complains, not moving a centimeter away from your lips.

"and you're a nerd" you cut him off, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt for another kiss.

"hey that's friendly fire!" he hopes you'll always shut him up with a kiss <3

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal any of my works :[ thank you for reading, interactions are always appreciated and welcome! want more? click here ★

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: again, a request :)

summary: delivery driver!nat, artist!reader (not part of the request, but i decided to add it anyway), g!p nat

warnings: brief smut (handjob), implied sex, forgetting to eat (not sure if this needs to be a warning but i’m adding it anyway), mildly creepy behavior but only if you squint

word count: 7k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Hands splattered with yellow paint. A white overall. Messy hair and the smell of turpentine mixing with some expensive perfume.

Mundane things, but she won't be able to get them out of her head.

Natasha never knows what kind of people she's going to run into while doing late-night deliveries and, frankly, she usually doesn't care. All she wants is the money and maybe a solid tip — that's it. She does it for the extra cash, not because she's desperate for even more social interactions.

She's been doing this for a while now. Being a car mechanic at a small shop, her salary is far from sufficient. The $20 an hour don't stretch far, barely manage to fully cover her rent, so she decided to pick up a few extra shifts at night. Bless DoorDash for making those quite flexible as well, otherwise she'd probably be living in the streets now.

Again, she doesn't care who her customers are. She meets all kinds of people like this, and she's seen everything from teenage boys ordering Chick-fil-A for their 2am-gaming sessions to lesser known celebrities who can't be bothered to cook. Alcoholics and single dads, college students and people who just got home from partying. In the end, their faces will all be a blur, anyway.

Your name doesn't stand out when she accepts the delivery. All Natasha notices is that she's never delivered to this address before — a somewhat remote area, up on a hill, no neighbors and nothing to do. She doesn't question what kind of person would live in a place like that, even though she maybe should. What she also should do (but doesn't) is worry about driving up there by herself. It's the middle of the night, nobody else lives up there, and the cabin looks as run-down as it does abandoned.

When the motorcycle's headlights die down, so does the last source of light she has. All the house's windows are closed and dark. Judging by the looks of it, she's delivering food to ghosts.

Natasha swings her leg off the motorcycle and grabs the paper bag from the little top-box. She notices the residual grease on her hands a second too late, but decides it isn't important. The paper bag is full of stains either way.

Once she steps on the porch, a tiny light turns on. It flickers pathetically, barely holding on at this point, but provides enough light for Natasha to see your face when you open the door.

Doe eyes and paint on your cheeks, hair pulled back carelessly. Hands that look like they have enough color on them to make even the grayest days a little more colorful. Suddenly, she regrets not taking a closer look at your name. She would've remembered.

"DoorDash", she says, holding out the paper bag.

"Right!", you say, face lighting up and eyes turning more lively. Natasha feels her thoughts falter. "Totally forgot. Lemme just-"

You turn and, just like that, disappear in the darkness of the house. Natasha pauses, still holding onto your order, before snapping out of it. She glances into the hallway and tries to locate a single source of light, but finds nothing.

That is, until you seem to appear out of thin air again. She flinches slightly.

"Thanks", you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "Had trouble finding your way up here? I know one guy who got lost in the forest. Somehow managed to take the wrong exit. Never saw that pizza."

"No, no issues", she mumbles, handing you the food and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "It's dark in there."

"Oh, yeah." You nod and grab her hand. She stares at you, stunned, and then you smear the rag on the back of her hand. The streak of paint that's left behind glows faintly. "Glow-in-the-dark paint!"

"Seriously?"

"Looks great, doesn't it? I wanted to paint my bathroom with that, but decided against it."

Natasha hums, looking at the paint again. Her eyes meet yours. You give her an expectant look, as if you're waiting for something she can't place. All she's doing is deliver your food, after all. But you keep staring, so she shakes her head.

Enough. She has at least half a dozen more deliveries to get through before she can call it a night.

"Okay", she says, slowly, and steps back. "Well, uhm, enjoy your food."

You nod, already tearing open the bag of fast food and grabbing a fry. "Don't get lost on your way back."

She glances at you, seeming a little distracted. Then she nods and waves absently, already on her way to her motorcycle. The door closes behind her, a soft thud that cuts through the quiet of the night, and she tracks the vehicle where she left it.

It's an old, beat-up thing, but it's reliable. It gets her where she needs to be, it allows her to earn some extra money. She's thankful for her Harley, she really is. But in that moment, when she's hopping on her old Sportster and grabbing the handlebars, she wishes it wasn't the reason she's able to leave again.

. . .

Can doing what you love make you starve?

Maybe. Possibly. Actually? Pretty damn likely. That's your conclusion after working on a few new projects made you forget about eating for almost an entire day.

Aside from a bowl of Cheerios in the morning, topped with a bunch of sugar, you haven't eaten anything all day. Instead, you've been mixing colors and washing paintbrushes and filling your sketchbook. Doodles on walls and paper scraps on the floor, paint in your hair and a pencil between your teeth. One foot resting on the edge of your seat, you tug at the straps of your overall. The color on your fingernails isn't nail polish — it's paint.

You lean forward and inspect the little sketch again. At this point, you're not even sure what this is going to be. Another scrap? A comic strip? No way to know until you're at least halfway there. Maybe you won't know even then.

Music is making the floors vibrate. In front of you are a couple of cups. Some contain tea, others water you've been cleaning your paintbrushes with. You glance at them and resist the urge to take another leap of faith. You've had one too many sips of murky, paint-infused regret.

You turn toward the sketch again, but your stomach rumbling distracts you from the thick lines of charcoal and graphite. You sigh and shift, trying to ignore it and get back into that creative, pulsating headspace again, but it's no use. Your body is hungry.

As usual, you're not in the mood to cook. You're working, and you're scared of getting into another creative block, so you open the DoorDash app and order one of your favorites.

When Natasha looks at her phone, it's not just your name that stands out. It's the address. It brings back images of vines on the sides and tangling around porch railings, winding dirt paths, paint on the back of her hand and a heart that won't stop thrumming.

There's been a lot of this over the past few weeks. At first, it was just a coincidence — due to you ordering food at the most ungodly hours, not many drivers are available. Natasha is one of the few who are desperate enough to work past midnight. Just bad timing, in the end. Or good, depending on how you look at it.

Then, it started to feel like more. She's not sure why, or how, but it did.

It was the same for you. After a few nights of being too distracted and sleep-deprived to notice anything, you finally caught onto the fact that, hey, you'd been getting the same driver over and over again. And hey, you like that driver, and it's not just some case of classical conditioning due to the yummy food, but actually more than just that.

Natasha noticed as well. And now, seeing your name and address on the screen, your order up for grabs, she taps on 'accept delivery'.

The route to your house is familiar by now. The lack of light doesn't disrupt her ability to find her way to your porch anymore. The paper bag in her hands has ceased to merely be a way to earn more money.

You open the door and, as basically always, give her that slightly absent smile you tend to sport. Eyes just a little distant, like you're constantly chasing some cloud of thought in your head, and hands and cheeks smudged with some kind of art medium — charcoal, paint, ink. Natasha can't help but stare, her own forearms oil-smudged but concealed by her jacket.

"Hey", she eventually says, holding out the paper bag. "Your food."

"You were quick this time", you say, grabbing the bag and putting it aside. "No traffic? Or were you just that eager to get here?"

"A bit of both", she says. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You do tip quite generously."

You hum, eyes subtly tracing along her arms. They're hidden by her leather jacket, but you can tell she gets some sort of physical exercise. Workouts or something. Maybe manual labor. Whatever it is — it's working.

"Driving into the middle of bumfuck nowhere should have its perks."

"Oh, I can think of a few."

You shoot her a quick smile. "Hm", you say, briefly glancing into the hallway. Natasha follows your gaze and spots a half-finished painting. She decides not to comment on it, but the colors distract her for a moment. "So...any more deliveries tonight?"

"Huh? Oh, yes." Natasha nods, spinning her keys around her pointer finger. "Still got to get through a couple."

Tilting your head, you let your eyes linger. She tilts her head right back at you, but much more subtly. The air between you heats up, despite the chilly October air seeping into the hallway. Sparks fly and bodies subconsciously move closer. Just a tiny, harmless step. Nothing to worry about.

"Pity. I was going to offer you a fry", you say, peeling some dried paint off your thumb. "But I can't keep you from your adoring customers, can I?"

"Probably not", Natasha agrees, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step back again. It's getting late, and she needs to get her ass back on her motorcycle. Flirting with a customer probably isn't the smartest move, either. "Though 'adoring' isn't exactly a word I'd use for them."

"Why not?", you say, watching her walk back to her motorcycle. A black, rugged thing that makes perfect sense for her. "You're always on time."

"Maybe that's only your experience", she counters. "Like you said — eager to get here."

You lift your eyebrows. Natasha sits on the old Harley and lets the engine roar, a sound that cuts through the quiet night sharply. You can barely see her, that's how dark it is outside. But then the motorcycle's headlights come on and you feel your heartbeat quicken.

"Drive safe", you call out once you've pulled yourself together.

"Always do", she calls back.

As she drives off, you can't help but wonder whether it's still just a coincidence at this point.

. . .

There's a thin line between being romantic and being a creep.

You may or may not have been toeing that very line.

Ever since noticing Natasha works the night shifts, you started ordering food later and later. It went from 11pm to midnight, then to half past midnight. 1am followed, then quarter past.

Why? To allow her to linger.

What you don't know is that Natasha's been doing the same. Maybe even worse. She scans the orders, looking for yours. She doesn't even think about it anymore — it's just instinct.

With each delivery, she stays longer. Stalls. She lingers in the doorway, her voice hushed and raspy, silently trying to figure out what colors you used based on the stains on your hands and face.

And with each delivery, you become more used to seeing her. It turns into a routine, something normal. Like waking up to the movie posters taped to your bedroom ceiling and listening to the owls at night, you start to expect it. That shows a few weeks later, when Natasha pops up to deliver your birria tacos.

"Where were you yesterday?", you ask, sleepy and groggy, and grab the greasy paper bag. She lifts her eyebrows.

"You didn't order anything yesterday."

You pause and look up, blinking slowly. It's nearly 2am, and you really need to sleep. But you've been up, waiting to order something and have Natasha deliver it.

"You sure?"

She smiles faintly. "Didn't see your name anywhere. I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Oh." Your face falls and you scratch your cheek. The dried watercolor on it is irritating your skin. "I think I forgot about dinner, then."

"That's concerning."

You wave your hand dismissively. "Happens all the time", you say. "Maybe I need someone to remind me."

Natasha stops in her tracks when you give her an expectant look. There's no way you're serious, right?

But you are. You grab your phone and hand it to her. She looks at the screen, smudged and cracked, before glancing at you again.

"You deliver my food all the time, anyway", you argue, ignoring her soft sigh. "Why not cut out the middleman? Much more practical."

"And the reminding you-thing?", she asks, already typing in her number.

"That was a joke."

"It didn't sound like one. Here." She hands you your phone back and crosses her arms. You tuck the device into the pocket of your overall. "For emergencies, right?"

"Of course", you say, smiling. The exhaustion seems to have disappeared from your face.

It's a lie, and you both know it, but Natasha can't find it in herself to care.

. . .

"Seriously?"

"I ran out of charcoal."

"I had to drive all the way across town", she points out. "Plus, my number was supposed to be for emergencies only."

You lift your chin, silently challenging her. She doesn't seem too impressed, though, but the look in her eyes tells you she doesn't mind this as much as she pretends to.

"Food emergencies", she adds. "Not art emergencies."

"You still went and brought it."

Natasha only partially succeeds at biting back a half-frustrated, half-fond noise, and shoves the plastic bag into your arms.

The words do it yourself next time are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't utter them. God forbid she has to quit stopping by your house.

You peek into the bag and hum approvingly. Natasha watches you, first unmoving, then reaches out to touch the blue paint on your cheek. She swipes her thumb across it and smudges it further.

You look up, staring. She shrugs.

"Missed a spot."

"Very considerate", you say, lifting your hand to let your fingertips ghost across your cheek. Red and blue create purple.

Natasha shifts, but doesn't step away. Her eyes trace your face. You want her to stay, and she doesn't want to leave.

"No more bullshit", she adds. "Otherwise, I'll start expecting much bigger tips."

"You drive a hard bargain", you reply, cocking your head. "Can't promise anything, though."

She sighs, but the tiny smile betrays her. She can think of worse things than getting more excuses to see you.

"You're spoiled", she states. "How come you're always up this late, anyway? It's, like, 2am."

You shrug, turning on the spot and sauntering into the living room. Natasha, to your frustration, stays glued to her spot in the hallway.

"Can't sleep", you say, crouching in front of the large sheet of paper and tearing open the new charcoal. "Working on something."

She hums, trying to catch a glimpse of you and what you're doing. She can see the corner of a paper, covered in a bunch of comic strips. Then, you crawl forward on your knees and your head comes into view.

"I'm surprised I see no coffins in here."

"Huh?"

"You know. Always up at night, afraid of the sun."

You lift your head, momentarily puzzled — you're spacing out already, and you're sleep deprived, and this late, nothing seems to make sense. Then, the meaning behind her words registers.

"You're asking if I'm a vampire?", you say, sitting on your knees and wiping your face with the back of your hand. Natasha's lips twitch as she sees you smudge the charcoal there further.

"It'd make sense", she replies. "Now you're refusing to answer, too. Guess there must be something to it."

"Well", you say, wiping your hands on your overall, "let me bite you and find out."

Natasha malfunctions for a solid three seconds. Once she's gotten her bearings, she rolls her eyes and knocks on the wooden door. You look up from your project and tilt your head.

"Deliveries?"

"Yeah", she says. "Two more, then I'm done for tonight."

You nod, disappointed but not ready to argue. You get up and pad back into the hallway. You're not even sure why — she can find her way back outside by herself, obviously.

Natasha keeps her eyes on you. Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans, red strands of hair framing her face. She sees the charcoal on your bottom lip and wonders what kissing you would taste like.

"I'll text you", you say, rubbing your lip to get rid of the charcoal.

Emergencies only, she wants to say. She decides against it.

She steps back, adjusting her jacket. She should leave. She needs to leave. Somehow, she can't bring herself to. She just stands there, watching as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the light from inside catching on the paint smudges along your collarbone.

"See you", she says, voice lower.

"Yeah", you mumble, eyes on her.

She finally forces herself to turn around and step outside. The cold night air cuts through her jacket, but she barely registers it. She swings one leg over the motorcycle and puts on her helmet, then waits.

You're still in the door, the golden light spilling out from inside framing your silhouette.

Natasha shakes her head and kicks the bike to life.

The roar of the engine fades into the night, and you close the door.

. . .

Having your motorcycle break down in the rain is less than ideal.

Natasha swings her leg off the bike, frustration etched into her features, and crouches down beside it. She filled up on gas right before leaving, so that can't be the issue. She checks the cables and wiring, inspects the spark plugs, takes a look at the battery. Once she's done that, she curses and kicks the tire.

The battery's dead. She's screwed.

Running her hand through her wet hair — of course she had to forget her helmet today —, she looks at your house in the distance. It's almost two more miles, and it's pouring rain, but she's got your In-N-Out order in the top-box and, truthfully, she‘s itching to see you.

She tries starting the bike one more time, even if it's hopeless. The battery's dead, which means the motorcycle isn't getting anywhere. Accepting her fate, she grabs the handlebars and starts pushing.

Wet hands slip on metal, rain drips down her face. Her jacket is soaked, as is her hoodie. Her boot briefly gets stuck in mud. Raindrops feel like dozens of tiny whips against her cheeks.

By the time she's gotten up the hill and to your house, half an hour has passed. She's soaked to the bone, dripping wet, out of breath, her arms hurting — and somehow, she doesn't care about any of that. She grabs the paper bag from the top-box and makes her way to your porch. Cold, reddened knuckles meet old wood.

You open the door and stare at her.

Drenched, out of breath, her once light gray hoodie now the shade of cracked pepper. Water drips from the red strands of hair that are framing her face. Clutching the takeout bag like it's life or death, her green eyes staring right back into yours.

For a moment, neither of you move.

When she lowers her gaze to the floor, a puddle forming on the wooden porch beneath her, you jump forward and cup her face.

Kissing her feels like second nature. Her lips are cold and wet when they press against yours. Her cheeks are cold, and she smells like a mixture of perfume and rain-soaked clothes.

You tug her inside, only pulling away slightly. She's still out of breath, but for a different reason now.

She sneezes, turning her head to try and hide it, but you notice anyway. You help her out of her jacket and steer her to the couch. She sits down and off comes her dripping wet hoodie. Her shirt is soaked as well, so off it goes as well. Fingertips brushing against skin, you notice how cold she is.

"You're insane", you say, returning with a towel. Natasha glances at it and subtly raises her eyebrows when she spots the paint stains on it, but you've already started toweling her hair dry. "You'll get pneumonia!"

"I'll be fine", she says dismissively. "Just a little rain. My bike broke down."

"You could've called", you mutter, rubbing her hair with the towel. "Or texted. I would've called a taxi or something."

Natasha goes silent. She didn't even consider that option. Maybe part of her wanted to prove something. Hopefully, she succeeded. If not, this may have all been for nothing.

You go upstairs to grab some clothes from your room. Natasha stays on the couch, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She expected art supplies, many of them, and she also expected some messiness. But she didn't think it'd be so...comfortable. Lived-in. Warm, despite the chaos.

Paint splatters on wooden floorboards and half-finished paintings leaning against the walls. Charcoal sketches and pastel doodles, postcards on the walls. Mismatched furniture — most of it thrifted — and glass paint on the massive window. A teddy, with a knitted dress on it.

She smells tea and turpentine, with a hint of something floral woven into the unique smell. A glance at the dining table tells her it's coming from a vase full of lilies.

You return, bare feet padding against stair steps, and walk back to Natasha's side. You hold out a sweater for her to put on, nodding in encouragement, but she grabs your waist and pulls you into her lap instead.

It's unexpected, but not unwelcome. She tugs the sweater out of your hand and tosses it aside, then kisses you again.

Fingerprints of paint stain her face.

. . .

You don't stop ordering things. In fact, you only start to order more.

You know you're being an annoying little shit. It's clear as day, and your chats prove it.

You: bring me more

washi tape pls? — 1.04am

Natasha: you're fucking

kidding — 1.04am

You: the clear one with

the stars :) — 1.05am

Natasha: this isn't a

convenience store. — 1.05am

You: it is if you bring

me what i want — 1.06am

And, half an hour later, she was in front of your door. There was a striped bag in her hands.

Once she saw your smile, she'd forgotten all about her complaints.

"This is the last time", she said, letting you lead her into the house. You tilted your head up to kiss her jaw. "Don't even try to butter me up. No more running errands for you."

You know she doesn't mind, though. One night, as you're kneeling on the floor and gluing magazine cutouts to a painting, someone knocks. You get up and open the door and, oh surprise, it's Natasha.

The first thing you notice is that she looks exhausted. Circles under her eyes, her face even paler than usual. The poor excuse of a paper bag she's clutching is crumpled and grease-stained.

"You order anything?", she asks.

Of course not. You never order on Tuesdays. Not anymore, at least — it's the only night Natasha has off.

You tilt your head in silent response. Her jaw clenches, she shifts on her feet and drums her fingers against her thigh, and you finally decide to stop torturing her.

"Come in", you say, grabbing her hand.

"Figured you'd want something", she mumbles, padding into the living room.

"Uh-huh. Here, sit down."

She sinks onto the couch's cushions, sighing quietly. You straddle her lap and take your sweet time with her for a moment. Just look at her, run your fingers through her hair, gently push the jacket off her shoulders.

Her eyes meet yours. You smile softly and grasp her chin between your fingers.

"You must really like me."

She bites the insides of her cheeks, eyes staring up at you. No response — she doesn't know what to say, because denying the truth would be as uncomfortable as standing by it.

You trail your fingers along her jaw, then slide them up into her hair. You lean in close, so close you can taste her breath and feel her lips brush against yours, but not close enough to kiss her. Finally, Natasha grips your thighs in unspoken frustration.

You laugh quietly and lean in, deciding to go easy on her. You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and guide her to lay down.

"Cat got your tongue?", you murmur, placing lingering kisses on her jaw.

"Just tired."

"And you decided to show up here."

"Nothing else makes sense this late."

The admission makes you pause, if ever so briefly. You kiss her, hands cupping her face, and feel her hands slip under your shirt.

Fingertips inch higher up and tug at your bra. The clasp comes undone, making the pressure around your chest disappear.

It's slow. Clothes come off, lips meet time after time. Straddling one of her thighs, you litter kisses and little bites on her neck.

"You should sleep", you whisper against her skin. Your fingers are fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.

"I will", she rasps, eyes closed. "After."

"You seem tired", you point out. You tug the waistband of her jeans lower and expose Calvin Klein boxers. An involuntary noise leaves you at the sight.

Natasha puts her hand on the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. Her other hand grips yours, slowly guiding it into her boxers.

You feel the heavy weight of her length in your hand and nearly moan. A few slow strokes are enough to get her to harden in your palm. You feel every vein, every soft throb, her quickening breathing like music in your ears.

There's something vulnerable about being in this position. Natasha is used to being on top, but with you, she doesn't seem to mind letting you take control.

Her head drops back against the armrest. With her neck exposed to you, your lips linger on her pulse point as you start moving your hand up and down her shaft. The pad of your thumb circles her tip, gathering precum and lubricating her hard-on.

She squirms underneath you, frustrated and restless, a silent request for you to pick up the pace. But you keep your movements slow and steady, drawing out the pleasure and letting it build gradually. Natasha's hips buck into your hand, her hand clasped over her own mouth to stifle moans.

She twitches and throbs hotly in your hand. You kiss her collarbone, your hand applying pressure to her cock. You're drawing her to the edge so gently she feels like she might lose her mind.

Your thumb traces veins and rubs the underside of her length. Another soft whine comes from her mouth. You lift your head to kiss her and swallow the pathetic little sounds she's making. When she comes, her body tenses through the slow, shuddering unraveling. Cum spills on your hand and you pull away.

Dazed, spent, out of breath. Natasha clears her throat, her cheeks flushed.

. . .

You only need to take one look at the bag she's holding to be able to tell.

"You forgot something", you say, paint-smudged hands on her waist as you steer her inside. Much to her dismay, you absently wipe your fingers on her hoodie. She shoots an exasperated look at the blue stains.

"You haven't even opened the bag."

"I can tell. You forgot the snail shells."

Natasha glances at you as she plops onto the couch. You put the bag on the coffee table and rummage through it. You were right — no snail shells. But you do find the requested Oreos and vanilla milk.

"You only eat trash, you know", she says, one arm tucked under her head.

You roll your eyes. "Don't even start with that."

"I mean it. Oreos and sugar-milk aren't exactly the most nutritious dinner."

"Oh, hush", you mumble, swatting at her. Natasha just grins and reaches out, grasping your wrist. "Hey, what-"

She ignores you. With one swift tug, you topple over and she's got you on the couch next to her. You grunt and adjust your position.

"You hush", she retorts, arm wrapping around you and snuggling you closer. "Always complaining. Would it kill you to be grateful for once?"

You huff, smiling. Natasha pinches your side and you let out a gasp.

"Hey!"

"Come on, say it."

"Forget it."

Her fingertips dance over your ribs. You shift and squirm, trying to get away from her grasp, but it's a halfhearted attempt.

"Come on", she repeats. "Say thank you."

Her fingers brush against the underside of your breast. Your laughter turns into a barely contained sound of pleasure.

Natasha laughs and slips her fingertips under the fabric of your bra.

"Say thank you", she whispers, "and maybe I'll be nice."

"So unfair", you retort. "Fine. Thank you."

"Mhm." She hums and kisses your cheek. "Better."

"You know, if you weren't the one delivering me stuff..."

"What?" She scoffs, smiling, and tickles your ribs. She knows better than to get offended by what you said. If it weren't for her delivering your orders, this never would've happened. Neither of you really know what 'this' is, but you both know you like it.

You squirm in her arms and bat at her hand. "You heard me!"

"Is that all I am to you?", she mocks, lightly cupping your breast. "I'm wounded. Truly."

"No", you say, not thinking. "You don't know how much you mean to me, I think."

Natasha goes quiet for a long moment. She feels your heartbeat speed up, rapid like a prey's, when you realize what you just said. But then she shifts and sits up, and she guides you to roll over, and you feel her lips on yours.

She never stays the night. She doesn't let herself get too close to anyone. She's seen you naked, touched every inch of your body with her tongue, yet staying the night always felt like it'd be too much.

This time, she stays. Fully clothed and keeping her space, she lays down. She makes sure not to breathe in the scent of your bedsheets. At some point that night, though, she wakes up. She reaches for you blindly, fingers feeling the air until they graze your arm.

She hesitates. Something has shifted, and she can feel it deep in her bones.

Finally, she pulls you closer. Tucks you against her chest, brushes her fingers along your spine.

. . .

Before she's even managed to open her eyes, you're up and about.

Digging through your closet, brushing your hair, making tea and toast and opening windows. Wind makes the curtains billow out and her hair flutter, so she rolls over and buries her face in your pillow. The sun isn't even up yet.

"Why are you up at this ungodly hour?"

"Watch the sunrise", you say, slipping into a tank top. "Paint a little."

"You're insane."

"Up, up", you say. You throw aside the blanket she's covered with and pat her butt. She doesn't move an inch. "Come on! I need your help with something."

That manages to briefly get her attention, but it doesn't last long. She slumps back into the sheets, her face hidden.

"Forget it", she murmurs.

"Nat", you drawl. "Please. It'll be worth it."

"Define 'worth it'."

You tug at her boxers, just enough to expose a sliver of her butt. She swats at your hand. It's obvious she's tired, so you decide to let it go for a while. As soon as she's out of bed, though, you're dragging her out of the house and toward a shed to the side.

You feel grass under your feet, tickling your ankles. Natasha trails after you, hand in yours, her red hair in a braid. The top she's wearing is one of yours, and it's covered in charcoal and watercolor stains. She's not complaining anymore — too distracting is the sight of you in nothing but an oversized shirt and her boxers.

But then, you open the shed. You reveal a red Fiat.

First, she just stares. The car looks relatively new. Maybe not brand new, no, but no older than about five years. Natasha's a car mechanic, so she can figure that out pretty easily.

"You have a car."

You nod and lead her into the shed. "Yeah. This is DaVinci."

She shoots you a brief, disbelieving look, then stares at the vehicle again. "You've had a car. This whole time."

"Mhm."

"...I've been driving around in the crack of dawn for nothing."

You wave your hand and lean against the wall, ankles crossing. "Not for nothing. It, I dunno...won't start. It cranks, but doesn't really do anything."

Natasha rolls her eyes. She lifts the hood and secures it with the rod, then takes a look at the engine bay. You stay where you are, subtly checking her out. A black tank top and cargos, her braid resting over her shoulder. Hands that are slowly but surely getting covered in grease.

You'd jump her bones, but you already made her roll out of bed for this, so she probably wouldn't appreciate you trying to make a move on her right now.

"Didn't take it to a shop?"

"Wasn't in the mood."

You earn an exasperated look for that. You shrug, and Natasha turns toward the car again. You have no idea what she's doing, truthfully, but that's fine. The view's nice.

"Coolant's good", she says, checking it for leaks. "Battery terminals are a little corroded."

"No idea what that means."

"Of course", she mutters. She frowns and tugs at a belt-like thing. Loose, which isn't a great sign. She unscrews the fuel filter and a nasty liquid drips out. "Jesus. When's the last time you changed this?"

"Change what?"

Natasha purses her lips and puts the filter aside. "I see. Neglect."

"You're being dramatic."

"You should've taken this thing to the shop ages ago", she complains, voice muffled as she leans deeper into the car. Tank top riding up slightly, you catch a glimpse of her toned stomach. Her biceps flex and you almost miss her next question. "Got a toolbox?"

You tilt your head and pretend to have no idea what she's talking about just to mess with her a little. She stares back at you, eyebrows raised. Once she leans onto the car, one hand on the side of the hood and the other covering her forehead, you saunter to the shelves in the back of the shed.

"Oh, thank god", she mutters. "You got a replacement filter?"

"Aw, honey. You believe in me too much, I think."

Another shake of her head. She steps out of the shed, walks to her bike, grabs something, and then returns. You eye the cylinder-like thing with the two tubes sticking out of it.

"That it?"

Natasha doesn't even respond. You do see her lips twitch, though.

She grabs the creeper you for some reason have and lays down on it. Again, abs. Muscles, covered in small grease stains, flex. You stare at them unabashedly.

She slides under the car and unhooks the filter. You crouch down to get a better view of her.

"Now what?"

"Changing the filter", she replies. Fuel dribbles down her forearms and she wipes it off with a rag. "You can thank me later, by the way."

"Will totally do."

She replaces the filter, tightens the clamp, then gives the undercarriage an encouraging tap before rolling back out. You're sitting on the floor cross-legged, shooting her a teasing smile when she reappears.

"What?", she asks, wiping the fuel off her arms.

"You're so good with your hands."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but kisses your cheek anyway. She changes the serpentine belt as well, then closes the hood and pats it. She nods at the car.

"Go on", she says. "Give her a try."

"'Her'?", you say, sitting down behind the steering wheel.

"Cars are always female."

"You learn something new every day." You put the key in the ignition and turn it.

The car seems to hesitate for a moment. It rumbles, cranks, and you're already about to give up — but then it comes to life, smoother than ever before, and you clap your hands.

Before she can register what's happening, you're out of the car again. You throw your arms around her and jump into her embrace, squeezing a little too hard. You hear a soft grunt from her.

"Hey", she laughs, "I'm covered in grease."

"Don't care." You pull away just enough to reach her lips. They're plush and warm against yours. "You're a genius!"

"I do what I can", she mumbles, a little too rosy cheeked and happy, and kisses you again. Walks you backwards until you're sitting on the hood of the car, slowly leaning forward so your back is flush with the cold, hard material. "What now? No more deliveries? I'm officially useless?"

"No", you whisper, tugging her closer by her pants' belt loops. "I'll find a way to keep you entertained."

Metal creaks beneath you. Sunlight seeps into the space. The shed's doors are still open. The air smells like grass, fuel and Natasha's cologne.

Her hands palm your sides, push the shirt you're wearing a little higher. Fingertips trail over smooth, soft skin. Her nose nuzzles your jaw, then you feel wet, hot kisses along your neck.

You wrap your legs around her waist.

"Think DaVinci can handle this?", she murmurs, one hand sliding around to the small of your back.

You pretend to think about it — and then pull her back in.

. . .

You're both on the rug in the living room, a paint-stained blanket draped over her lower half. She's on her stomach, arms crossed underneath her head and her eyes staring at nothing in particular. You're straddling her butt, a paintbrush in your hand.

You've had all kinds of canvases so far. Linen, cotton, in rolls or on panels. Small ones and bigger ones, raw or primed. Yet, none of them come close to the one you're sitting on right now.

Neither of you really talked about this. After sleeping together on the floor, though, surrounded by art supplies and sketches, Natasha’d rolled onto her stomach. You’d seen the smudges of paint on her shoulder. You’d brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.

"You ticklish?", you’d whispered.

She'd shaken her head 'no'.

It may have been a lie. You can see her twitch ever so slightly whenever the bristles brush against the more sensitive areas of her skin. You put your hand on her shoulder and push her back down when she tries to shift.

"Not yet", you insist, trying to finish the painting of the two little bats.

"Whatever", she mutters. You smile and add tiny teeth to the creatures' mouths.

"It's cute."

"I look ridiculous."

"What?" You huff, getting off her and scooting away on your knees. You grab a different color and return. "Bullshit. You look adorable. Such a shame I'm not a tattoo artist."

She turns her head enough to look at you. Red strands fall in front of her eyes and you reach out to tuck them behind her ear. Your fingertips, stained in black and red, leave specks of paint behind.

"I truly hope you aren't being serious."

"Maybe, maybe not." You grin and wave your hand at her. "Come on, put your head back down. I'm not done with you."

"Oh, for fuck's sake", she mutters, but does as told.

Index finger dipped into black paint, you write the word mine on her lower back.

Natasha tenses, but only briefly. Her fingers curl into the rug underneath her. She exhales, her face buried against her arms again. She's enjoying this a little too much. Not just the feeling of your weight on her body, of cold paint on skin, but everything else as well.

It's been months. You still haven't given up your little routine of ordering stuff and then making her stay the night.

"I felt that", she mumbles, voice muffled.

"What?", you ask innocently. You decide to add a few hearts.

"What you wrote." She hesitates. "You mean it?"

You add another heart. You smile at your own creation, then peek at her face. You can't see her, so you tickle the back of her neck. All it leads to is a small huff, though.

"Is it important?"

"It's not not important."

"So it is."

"Y/N."

"I mean it."

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes search your face.

You haven't defined your relationship. You're staking your claim on her, anyway.

"I mean it", you repeat, seeing the incredulous look on her face. "I wouldn't have spent hundreds of dollars on deliveries if it didn't mean getting to see you."

"Yeah", she murmurs.

"I don't need the deliveries." You let out a slow breath. "I just need you."

The tips of her ears burn red. She shifts, swallows, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. You nudge her side with your knee.

"Too much, too soon?"

"No." She laughs, dropping her face back onto her arms. "Keep going."

[totallynotashieldagent]

what if

what if lazarus heals jason way too quickly. that's why he's able to bounce back up after every injury so fast-

what if you hate how you can't mark him up like he marks you.

hickeys, bite marks, bruises like handprints. your body is always littered with his love and you- you're unable to leave anything at all.

the hickeys never stay and the nail marks are gone within the minute.

so the answer to this? writing on him.

"Be still, Jay-" You bite your lip, the marker gliding over his scarred skin

"Kinda hard when you're sitting pretty on me." He groans softly, his cock throbbing inside you

"Just a few more seconds." You clench your pussy just to tease him more.

Immediately he arches up a little and you feel him deeper than possible. Your hand moves across his face with a crack to chastise him for moving. He laughs and moans, its all mixed together.

"You can do better than that." He smirks, but you know its just the act of it that turns him on.

The fact that you're never to back down. That you show him who's boss. That you're always the one calling the shots and god how he loves to follow them.

Jason looks down his chest, amongst the glowy scars, there's black ink and small words and phrases everywhere.

Well trained. Good boy. Property of-

Then there's the fun ones. A circle around his nipple with the inscription bite here or the arrow that points to his dick with the words joy ride.

"Jesus-" He whimpers, his hands resting at your thighs, trying his best to not thrust up.

"And you're keeping these until I wash them off myself." You tell him, holding his jaw to meet his eyes

"Yes, ma'am." He smiles, "Can I move now?" He asks, trying to be nonchalant but you know he's desperate.

You've been teasing him for a while now and you know if you twisted your hips in a certain way, he'd cum in a few minutes.

"Please?" He begs, his fingers digging into your skin.

The moment you nod, it's all a blur. You're still on top but he's holding your weight completely and fucking up into you in such a merciless way, all the while blabbering jesus, god, thank you, thank you- fuck you feel so good- can i cum? please please, i need- fuck- let me cum- please? can - oh god-

Your nails dig into his pecs, you need nodding and moaning praises for him.

When he cums and stops- ruining his orgasm just to keep going. He cums and stops, cums and stops- again and again and again- You feel the warmth inside. The strings of ropes that cum again and again-

There's only a lewd sound in the room. Sticky skin slapping against sticky skin, mixed with moans of pleases, thank yous and good boy, yes just like that- so good for me-

.

.

.

Drabble Masterlist

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Trying aphrodisiacs with Hyunjin

Warnings: smut, that's all

Word count : 2.5k

As usual: Alexa, plays Chain by Lolo Zouaï

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, but neither of you were really paying attention anymore. Hyunjin was sprawled across the couch, socked feet tangled with yours, a half empty wine glass between his fingers. His hair was a little messy, cheeks warm and red from the alcohol, and he looked too effortlessly pretty for a lazy night in.

"You really bought it", you said, holding up the black box in your hands. The label was sleek, with golden details, and completely ridiculous: 

‘Tabs

Break, bite and bang’

"I had to”, Hyunjin laughed, sitting up straighter. "The guy at the shop swore it’s a ‘sensual awakening experience’. Whatever that means”. You raised an eyebrow. “You know it’s just going to be a placebo, right?” "Maybe”, he said, smirking, "Or maybe we’ll be crawling all over each other in twenty minutes". You rolled your eyes, but your face was already heating at the implication, “You say that like it's not already a bad idea risking it to happen”. He shrugged, grinning, “Exactly why it’s fun”.

The box opened with a soft snap— inside, a handful of glossy chocolates, each wrapped individually, “So we’re really doing this?” you asked, giggling nervously, “For scientific purposes”, Hyunjin said, already unwrapping his. You mirrored him, popping the piece in your mouth. Rich, dark, slightly bitter— like it had some herbal undertone you couldn’t quite place, “Not bad”, you said, licking a bit of melted chocolate off your thumb. 

You didn’t miss the way Hyunjin’s eyes briefly dropped to your mouth before he quickly looked away, “You feel anything yet?”, he teased, “Nope. You?” “Is it normal that I already want to kiss you?”, he said casually, and then grinned when you turned toward him with mock offense, “Kidding. That’s probably just the wine”. 

You just nodded but you were starting to notice the heat building under your skin. A low, humming warmth curling in your stomach. You shifted slightly on the couch— and when your thigh brushed his, it felt… sharper. Like a tiny spark.

You both froze.

“Did you feel that?”, you asked. Hyunjin blinked. “Yeah”. The air grew thick with something unspoken. His eyes were darker now, a little too focused on you. He licked his lips without thinking, and your heartbeat made a mess in your chest, “Okay”,  you said, sitting up straighter, pretending nothing was happening. “This is fine. Totally fine” “Totally”, Hyunjin echoed. But he was already leaning just a little closer.

Well, the aphrodisiac was definitely working.

“It’s getting hot in here?!”, he said, voice too high pitched. “Maybe it's just in our heads”, you replied, voice a little too breathy, "Maybe”, Hyunjin echoed again, but his gaze had shifted to your collarbone, where your pajama had slipped slightly off one shoulder. His fingers twitched on the cushion between you, like he was trying not to reach out.

The movie still played, but neither of you had any idea what was happening on the screen anymore. You shifted again, crossing your legs, trying to get some relief— and his eyes definitely followed the motion. You swallowed, “Okay. I’m warm. Like, unnecessarily warm” "Same”,  he muttered, "Is the heater on?". You both glanced at the thermostat— off. Sure.

“Okay, maybe it’s not just in our heads”. You reached for your wine glass to distract yourself, but your fingers brushed his instead. Just a light touch, accidental, harmless— except it wasn’t harmless. Not this time.

Your whole arm tingled, awareness shooting up your skin like a live wire. You glanced at Hyunjin, and he was already staring at you like you'd just set the room on fire, “Are you also feeling…” “Yeah”. You both sat there in stunned silence for a second. Then, he burst out laughing, “Oh my god. We’re idiots”. You laughed too, “This was a terrible idea” “Or a brilliant one”,  he said, voice low now, a little rougher. He leaned in just slightly, and you hated how good it smelled— his cologne, his skin, the faint chocolate still on his breath.

Your stomach tightened. Your heartbeats skipped, “I swear to god, Hyunjin, if you look at me like that again…” “Like what?”, he asked innocently, but his eyes were anything but innocent. “Like you’re about to climb on top of me”. He grinned, “I’m trying really hard not to”.

That shouldn’t have been hot. It shouldn’t have sent a throb of heat between your legs. But your body was humming, needing him deeply. You tried to stand up, desperate to cool off, maybe splash some water on your face, but the moment you got to your feet, you felt dizzy, flushed, your skin hypersensitive and aching, “Okay, no. This is stupid. I need water. I need cold air. I need…”

Hyunjin stood too, standing right behind you. Suddenly, his hand landed on your waist and everything in you lit up at once. You gasped, “Oh god! Don’t touch me”. He froze in place, “I barely touched you!” “Exactly”. You looked at each other, eyes wide, panting, hearts racing like you’d just run a marathon.

Then you both broke into laughter again. Nervous, breathless, almost desperate, "This was supposed to be a joke", you said weakly. Hyunjin leaned in closer, hands still hovering your waist, “So what if it isn’t anymore?”. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not when his lips were inches away, and the tension was thick at the point to be palpable. 

But then, in an impulsive act, his mouth crashed into yours. Hot, frantic, greedy. Exactly the opposite of his personality, the kiss is needy, messy, starved. Your hands tangled in his hair, his body pressing against yours like he couldn’t get close enough, and every single nerve of yours screamed for more.

His mouth was warm and insistent against yours, and for a second, your brain short circuited. This was Hyunjin— your best friend. The same idiot who steals your fries, sleeps on your couch way too often, and knows every embarrassing story about you. But right now, all of that blurred beneath the heat of his hands and the desperate way his lips moved with yours.

You should’ve stopped it. You meant to stop it. But then his fingers found your waist again, dragging you closer, and everything rational inside you shattered. You whimpered into the kiss, your body pressing to his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hands slid under your shirt, not even trying to be subtle now, and you gasped at the contact. Your hypersensitive skin burned under his touch.

 “Fuck”,  he breathed against your mouth, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, “This is… fuck, I didn’t think it’d hit this hard”. You nodded, equally breathless,  “I can’t think straight. I just… Hyunjin…”. His name on your lips did something to him. He kissed you again, harder this time, hungry, messy, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. His hands roamed like he didn’t know where to start. Waist, hips, up your back, tugging you flush against him.

Your head fell back with a shaky moan as he pressed open mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, the edge of your collarbone, “You’re my best friend”,  you said suddenly, breath hitching. His hands stilled for half a second, his lips hovering just above your skin, “I know”, he murmured, “But right now, I don’t think I can pretend I don’t want you”.

You let out a shaky laugh, part nervous, part delirious with desire, “This is gonna ruin everything” “Maybe”,  he said, voice low, almost trembling, “But I’d rather ruin everything than stop touching you right now”.

It was enough for you to surrender. You pulled him back to you with a groan, your fingers threading into his hair as his mouth crashed against yours again, his hands finding every inch of exposed skin he could reach. You were both losing control fast. Clothes slipping, kisses deepening, breaths turning into ragged moans. He pressed you down on the fluffy carpet, hovering over you, eyes dark and wild with desire. “Tell me to stop”, he whispered, lips brushing yours. But you didn’t. Instead, you pulled him in closer and kissed him like you’d been waiting years.

And maybe you had.

Your clothes disappeared in a blur of kisses, breathless laughs, and trembling hands. Neither of you spoke much now, there wasn’t room for words, only the frantic pace of touch and the fire crawling under your skin. His shirt came off first, then yours. The moment his skin touched yours, you both gasped— heat meeting heat, every nerve lit up and begging for more.

Hyunjin’s lips trailed down your neck, tongue teasing against sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch, “God, you’re driving me insane”, he murmured, voice deep and wrecked, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You think I’m not losing my mind too?”, you whispered, clutching at his back, nails digging into his skin as he pressed his hips down against yours.

The friction— hot, perfect, too much and not enough all at once— made your body jolt. He groaned low in your ear at the contact, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding between them to spread you wider beneath him. Your breath caught when his fingers found you, stroking slowly and deliberately. You were soaked, already aching from just kisses and heat and him. His touch was expert, sensual, gentle but with just enough pressure to make your legs tremble.

“Fuck”, he whispered, watching you melting into pleasure under him, “You’re so wet already. Is this all because of me or the aphrodisiac?” “It’s you”, you gasped, hips rolling into his hand, “It’s always been you, Hyunie”.

Something shifted in his eyes. something softer beneath the hunger, like he’d been waiting to hear that for far too long. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, tongue tracing yours in a rhythm that matched the movement of his fingers between your legs. You were so close already, body shaking, moaning into his mouth with every pulse of pleasure he gave you, “I wanna taste you,” he said against your lips, his voice low like a prayer. 

You didn’t even get to answer before he slid down your body, eyes never leaving yours, lips trailing kisses across your stomach before settling between your thighs. The first flick of his tongue made you cry out. Your hips lifted, thighs tightened around his head as he licked you exactly like he’d dreamed of it. Like he needed it. Slow circles, teasing swipes, sucking just right until you were a panting mess, fingers tangled in his hair, begging without shame.

When you finally came, it hit hard— sharp, overwhelming, stars hit your eyelids as your whole body shook with release. He didn’t stop until you were twitching under him, your chest heaving, legs weak. And then he was back above you again, kissing you through the aftershocks, hands cradling your face like you were something precious, “I need you”, he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You reached for him, pulling him closer, “Then take me”. Without thinking twice, his body settled between your legs, skin against skin, warm and trembling with need. You could feel him hard and heavy, pressed right where you needed him most. But even now, as wild with desire as he was, Hyunjin paused. His forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, “This changes everything”, he whispered, “I know”, you breathed, reaching up to cup his cheek, “But I don’t care. I want you”.

That was all he needed to hear.

You felt the slow press of him entering you, inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly it was almost unbearable. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, and his low groan echoed yours as he sank all the way in, hips flush against yours. “Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezed shut, “You feel so good, princess, so damn good”.

You clung to him, overwhelmed by how deep he was, how right it felt. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him even closer as he began to move— slow at first, gentle, like he was trying to savor every second of this moment. Each thrust dragged a moan from your lips, your body arching into his, nails raking down his back. He kissed you hard between each breath, each movement, a fevered rhythm of lips and hips, skin and sighs, “You’ve no idea for how long I’ve wanted this”,  he said against your neck, his voice shaking.

You matched every movement with your own, matching his rhythm, anchoring him with your hands as pleasure grew tighter inside you. The friction, the heat, the way he kept whispering your name— it was everything. “I should’ve told you”, he panted, moving faster now, “Should’ve said it a long time ago” “Said what?”, you gasped, eyes fluttering, overwhelming tears rolling down your face.

“That I’m in love with you”

The words did something to you. You pulled him into a kiss so deep it stole your breath. Your response was not spoken, but felt in the way your whole body wrapped around him, the way you gave him all of you. Every thrust grew messier, more desperate until you were both on the edge.

You came again, clenching around him, moaning his name as waves of pleasure tore through you. He followed moments later, groaning against your shoulder as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering through his release, breath ragged and body trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you moved— just tangled limbs, racing hearts, sweaty skin, and the weight of everything you’d never said until now. Hyunjin’s body was warm against yours, his hand resting gently on your hip as he nestled his face into the crook of your neck. You could still feel the warmth between you both, the remnants of your shared breaths, the pulse of everything that had just happened.

He lifted his head slowly, his eyes still dark with the aftermath of what you'd just shared, but now there was something softer, something real. His thumb traced small circles on your skin, “So…”, he began, his voice low, still breathless, “That was... intense”.

You laughed softly “That’s one way to put it” “I’ve wanted this... wanted you for so long”, he said quietly, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. “It wasn’t just the aphrodisiac, YN. I... I’m in love with you. And I always have been. Since the first day of elementary school”.

 Your heart skipped at the confession, the weight of it settling into you like the warmth of his touch, “I know”, you whispered, brushing your fingers through his messy hair, gently tugging him back into another kiss. This one was slower, more tender with no urgency, just the soft acknowledgment of something new, something deeper.

He smiled against your lips, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, “Is this going to be weird now? Like, with everything? With us?”. You shook your head, “It doesn’t have to be weird. We’re still us. Best friends, just... with more now”. He chuckled, a little nervous, but also relieved, “You’re right. But damn, I never expected you to be that good in bed”. You rolled your eyes, hitting his arm, while he laughed “Idiot”. 

He rested his head against yours, his hands gently caressing your back, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. You didn’t need anything else.

Just him.

Just this.

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[777bae]

FIVE CHANCES AND ONE KISS QUINN HUGHES

Summary :: Five times Quinn has the chance to kiss you, and one time he takes that chance.

Warnings :: holding back, kissing

Word count :: 5.8k

1. The First Chance – After a Game Win

The game is over, and the cheers of the crowd are still ringing in Quinn’s ears, but it’s not the roar of the fans that has his heart racing—it’s the thought of you. He knows you’re out there somewhere, in the stands, eyes fixed on him, waiting for him like you always do. His skates leave the ice with the weight of the game finally lifted, but now there’s something else pulling at him, something deeper.

As Quinn skates off the rink, past his teammates who are congratulating him on the win, he’s not paying attention to any of it. All he can focus on is the way the arena feels smaller now, the noise almost fading out completely. His eyes search the crowd, and when they find you, standing by the barrier with that bright, encouraging smile on your face, it feels like the entire world falls away. The lights above, the roar of the crowd, everything just fades into the background, and the only thing that matters in that moment is you.

His heart picks up its pace. You’re here, you’ve been here all along, and somehow, he’s always known that when the game ends, it’s you he wants to see most. Quinn can’t stop the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes lock with yours. The warmth of your gaze wraps around him, and he can’t help but feel grounded in it. It’s like everything else has been a blur, but the second he looks at you, time seems to stand still.

He skates toward the edge of the ice, trying not to get distracted, but when you wave at him, his pulse quickens. There’s no one else around, no teammates or fans in his mind, just you—your excitement, your pride.

“You were amazing!” you shout, your voice rising over the last of the crowd’s cheers, but to Quinn, it sounds like music. You’re looking at him like he’s the most important person in the room, and that look in your eyes makes him feel more alive than any goal or play ever could.

Quinn blushes slightly, his cheeks flushing from the warmth of your words. He wants to say something back, something to express how much hearing that from you means to him, but instead, he just grins, his chest tight with a mix of happiness and something else—something he’s been feeling more and more around you lately.

“I really wanted to make you proud tonight,” he says, his voice carrying a slight rasp from the exertion of the game, but the sincerity is clear. His gaze never leaves yours, as if searching for something in your eyes, something that says you understand just how much that means to him.

You smile softly, your eyes glowing with affection, and your voice drops to a near whisper, just for him to hear. “You always make me proud.”

The simple statement fills him up, and for a moment, everything else—his achievements, the game, the celebrations—fades away. You’re here, and in this moment, it’s all that matters. Your eyes are locked on him, and he sees something in them—a softness, a warmth—that makes his heart skip a beat. He can feel the space between you shrinking, the weight of this moment settling in like it’s the only one that counts.

He takes a step closer to you, his hand moving slightly toward yours as if his body knows what he wants before his mind can process it. The air between you two feels charged now, electric, like the world is holding its breath. He’s so close now, so close he can almost taste the air around you. You both feel it—the gravity pulling you together, the undeniable desire to close the distance.

Quinn’s gaze flickers down to your lips, and it’s like everything else disappears. His heartbeat is so loud in his chest, he’s sure you can hear it. He leans in slightly, his body almost touching yours, and you can feel his breath, warm and steady against your skin. His eyes never leave yours as he inches closer, and for a heartbeat, everything feels suspended in time.

He’s so close, so incredibly close, that you can feel the pull between you two, like a magnet drawing you together. You can’t help but lean in a little, your lips parting slightly, your breath catching in anticipation.

But just as your faces are about to meet, a loud clap on Quinn’s back jolts him out of the moment.

“Hey, good job, Quinn!” one of his teammates calls, breaking the spell. Quinn’s body freezes, and for a split second, he feels the warmth of your closeness slip away, replaced by the sudden rush of noise around him.

He takes a deep breath, blinking a few times, as if trying to reorient himself. Reluctantly, he steps back, the distance between you both suddenly feeling unbearable. His heart is still racing, but it’s not from the game anymore. It’s because he knows he almost kissed you. Almost.

With a small, apologetic smile, Quinn turns toward the team, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” he says softly, his voice just for you. He doesn’t wait for a response, afraid that if he does, he’ll say something he shouldn’t, or maybe do something he’s not ready for.

You watch him leave, your heart heavy with the ‘almost’ of it all. The moment was there—right there, within your grasp—but now it’s slipping away. Still, there’s something more in the air now, something unspoken between you both. That feeling, that undeniable pull, is still there. It’s only a matter of time before the right moment comes again. And when it does, neither of you will let it slip away.

2. The Second Chance – During the Drive Home

The car hums steadily as Quinn drives, the rhythm of the tires on the road a comforting backdrop to the stillness between you. The city lights streak past the windows, their bright glow illuminating the otherwise dark night, but inside the car, the atmosphere feels a little different—a little charged. You’re not sure if it’s the lingering warmth of the evening, the closeness between you both, or something else entirely, but there’s an undeniable tension. It’s the kind of tension that lingers in the air like static electricity, and neither of you has acknowledged it, but you both feel it.

The silence between you is easy, but it’s also heavy, like something unsaid floats between you two, waiting for its moment to break free. It’s a comfortable kind of silence, but with every passing second, it feels more like it’s about to shift into something more.

You glance over at Quinn, watching the way his hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, his fingers flexing as he adjusts his grip. As you let your gaze linger for just a moment too long, your fingers brush against his on the center console—just the faintest flicker of contact, enough to make your heart skip a beat. The touch is light, almost accidental, but it’s enough to send a spark through your chest. You quickly pull your hand back, not sure if Quinn even noticed, but you feel it deep in your chest—the soft warmth of his skin against yours.

Quinn shifts in his seat, his hand slightly turning, and for a second, you wonder if he’s going to reach for yours again. But then, he asks, his voice breaking the silence, “Did you have fun tonight?”

You blink, your mind momentarily distracted by the heat from his touch, and you shift your attention back to the road ahead. “Yeah, I did,” you reply, your voice steady, though there’s a hint of a smile in it. “It was nice to get out.”

You both fall quiet again, and this time, the silence feels like it’s pressing in on you, filling the space between you two. The hum of the tires on the road fills your ears, but it’s barely audible over the pulse in your chest, the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

Quinn shifts in his seat, and his voice, when it comes again, is softer than before, almost tentative, like he’s testing the waters. “I like when we just hang out, you know?” he says, his tone quieter than usual, more vulnerable. “It’s… easy with you.”

His words catch you off guard, settling in your chest like something both simple and significant. The sincerity in his voice warms you, making the tension between you both feel a little lighter, but it also makes your pulse quicken, because you know there’s something deeper in those words than just casual friendship. You feel it too—the way things feel different when it’s just the two of you, when the noise of the world fades away and it’s just him and you in a car, in this moment.

“I know,” you say softly, your voice a little breathier than you intended, but the smile that tugs at your lips is genuine, warm. “Yeah, me too.”

But the moment doesn’t quite break. The quiet hangs in the air like a delicate thread between you two, and you both feel it, the awareness of each other, the distance between you two shortening with every passing second. The words don’t seem necessary anymore. The shared look is enough. You both know what’s there, what’s been there all along.

Quinn’s hand shifts again on the steering wheel, his fingers brushing against yours once more, this time a little more intentionally, like he’s giving you the choice to move closer, to let the contact linger. You feel the warmth of his skin against yours, a gentle, electric pulse that runs straight to your chest. It’s like everything inside of you shifts at that touch—your breath catching in your throat, your heart thudding a little harder.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and for a split second, you catch his gaze. The look in his eyes sends a ripple of heat through your body. He’s looking at you with something there, something unspoken, and it makes the air between you feel impossibly thick. Neither of you says anything. You both just hold that look, the car shrinking around you, and for a heartbeat, it feels like everything else in the world disappears.

For one moment, it’s just the two of you in this small space, the connection between you undeniable. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension between you both—unspoken, but powerful.

But then, just as quickly as it had happened, Quinn pulls his hand away, the warmth of his touch slipping from your skin. It’s a small movement, but it feels heavy, the way he quickly pulls back like he’s second-guessing himself. He clears his throat, his voice a little flustered, as if he’s trying to regain control of the moment that had gotten away from him.

“I—sorry,” he says, his words coming out a little more rushed than usual. You can hear the regret in his voice, though he doesn’t make eye contact.

You feel a slight pang in your chest at the distance that’s suddenly there between you, but you quickly shake your head, trying to brush it off. “No, it’s okay,” you reply, your voice soft, hoping that he knows it’s really fine. That the moment isn’t lost, that it’s still there, lingering in the space between you two.

But the moment is gone, the air between you both heavy with unspoken things, with what-ifs and maybes. Quinn keeps his gaze focused on the road now, but you can sense the shift in him—the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, the way his posture stiffens. The energy in the car has changed, and for the rest of the drive, it lingers between you both like an unfinished thought, something both of you can’t help but feel but don’t know how to address.

The ‘what if’ hangs heavy between you two, unspoken but undeniable. Neither of you can help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this would be the time—if the distance would shrink, if the tension would finally give way to what you both want but haven’t dared to ask for. But for now, the drive continues, and with it, that heavy silence.

3. The Third Chance – After Your First Argument

The fight had been small, but the words still lingered like a bitter taste in your mouth, and the space between you two felt wider than it ever had before. The two of you sat at opposite ends of the couch, a chasm of silence stretching out between you. The TV was on, but neither of you were paying it any attention. It played on in the background, but the noise only served to highlight how quiet everything else had become. The frustration that hung in the air was thick, suffocating, and despite the tension, neither of you seemed willing to break it.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, until finally, Quinn spoke, his voice softer than usual, the weight of something unspoken heavy in the words. “I didn’t mean it, you know? I didn’t mean what I said.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and you turn your head to look at him. There’s something in his eyes—something vulnerable, maybe even guilty, and it tugs at you. You can see it in the way he holds himself, in the way his shoulders are tense, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. His sincerity is there, but the sting from the argument still burns deep inside you.

“I know you didn’t,” you respond, your voice softer now, but there’s still a weight to it, a tremble that betrays the hurt. “But it hurt.”

You see his chest rise and fall with a long breath as he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” Quinn says, his voice low, almost like a confession. He’s leaning forward now, his body language open and raw. There’s no bravado, no walls, just him—vulnerable, real, and apologetic. His gaze locks with yours, and you can feel that ache inside your chest start to ease just a little. The words are enough to chip away at the anger, to start mending the rift that had formed between you two, but the wound is still there, still tender.

Your heart softens, and without thinking, you sit up from your end of the couch, moving a little closer to him. The space between you two feels different now—almost electric, like the distance between you had shrunk to a thin line of tension, and the air around you both crackled with the anticipation of what could come next. The argument, the hurt, it seemed insignificant now, as if it were something that could be pushed aside, just for this moment. It was strange how quickly things could shift, how easily the past few minutes could feel like they no longer mattered.

Quinn shifts slightly as well, the subtle movement of his knee brushing against yours. The contact is fleeting, but it sends a jolt of warmth through both of you, an unspoken connection that doesn’t need words. Your pulse quickens, and for a split second, it feels like everything could be different—like you could erase the tension, the hurt, and just let it be between you two.

He looks at you, his hand twitching slightly on the armrest as if it’s fighting the urge to reach for you. You can see the struggle in his eyes—the want to close that distance between you both, but the hesitation, the uncertainty of whether or not it’s the right time, the right moment. His lips part, and for a brief second, it seems like he might speak again, but then his eyes find yours once more, and that’s when the world feels like it narrows, as if the entire room shrinks, leaving just the two of you in this fragile, suspended moment.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn says again, his voice barely above a whisper. The words fall from his lips like a confession, like he’s offering his apology to you for more than just the fight. It’s the kind of apology that feels like it goes deeper than a simple disagreement—it’s the kind of apology that carries all the weight of emotions neither of you have fully addressed yet. His sincerity hangs in the air, thick and palpable.

You feel the heat in your chest, the knot in your stomach loosening as you look at him. “I know,” you whisper back, your words a soft, understanding murmur. You don’t need to say more—he’s already said everything he needed to say, and the softness in your voice is enough to show him that you’ve heard him, that you’re ready to move past it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels thick with possibility. There’s a quiet kind of tension between you now, but it’s different from before. It’s charged, expectant. You can feel his gaze on you, the heat of his presence, and you know he’s just as aware of the closeness between you as you are. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a second, everything in the room seems to slow. The space between you two feels like it’s shrinking with every heartbeat, with every breath you both take. His lips part slightly, and you feel your own heart rate pick up, your body tensing in anticipation.

He leans forward ever so slightly, just enough to make you wonder if this time, maybe, this time it’ll happen. You can feel the tension in the air, thick and heavy, your chest tightening in anticipation of what feels like the inevitable. And yet, just as you both are on the edge of something, just as it feels like you’re about to cross that line, Quinn pulls back abruptly, the space between you widening again.

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, the motion quick and almost desperate. “We’ll figure this out,” he says, his voice softer, but you can hear the uncertainty in it now. He looks away, his gaze drifting toward the floor, and the weight of the moment slips from the air, leaving the room feeling heavier than before.

You exhale slowly, disappointed but understanding. It wasn’t the right time. It couldn’t be, not yet. But it doesn’t make the longing go away. The “what if” of the moment lingers between you, unanswered, suspended in the air, and you can’t help but feel that pang in your chest—a mix of longing and regret.

Still, you know that things aren’t over. The space between you two isn’t as wide as it had been before. There’s something in the way he looks at you now, something in the way he holds himself that tells you this isn’t the end of it, not by a long shot. But for now, the moment is gone, and neither of you knows quite what to say next. The silence falls once again, but this time, it’s different. It’s quieter, heavier with the weight of what was almost, but wasn’t, but still might be.

4. The Fourth Chance – On a Quiet Night In

The room is calm and peaceful, wrapped in a quiet stillness that seems to hold time itself at bay. You’re both curled up on the couch, close but not quite touching, the soft hum of the world outside barely reaching you. The gentle glow of the lamp casts shadows along the walls, creating a warm, intimate atmosphere that makes everything feel a little slower, a little more connected. There’s no rush, no expectations—just the quiet comfort of being together, of sharing a moment without the pressure of the world outside.

You’ve both settled into this peaceful silence, the kind that only comes when two people are comfortable in each other’s presence. The weight of the day is gone, and there’s a sense of contentment that fills the space between you. It’s rare, these moments of simplicity, but it feels right. It feels like everything else can wait.

After a while, Quinn breaks the silence, his voice low, almost a murmur, as if he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet but feels the need to speak anyway. “You know,” he says, his tone thoughtful, “I really enjoy spending time like this with you. No games. No pressure. Just… this.”

His words settle in the air between you, a soft confession that feels more vulnerable than he probably intended. You glance at him, your heart warming at the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s being so open, so real. There’s a quiet honesty in his words that pulls at something deep inside you, making you realize how much you cherish these moments together, how much you’ve come to rely on them.

You smile, turning slightly toward him, your eyes meeting his. “I like it too,” you reply, your voice softer than usual, your heart already in your throat. “Just… being with you.”

The air between you both feels different now, charged with a quiet understanding, the kind that only comes when two people are on the same wavelength. You’re close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breath. It’s a silent exchange, but it says everything—how comfortable you are, how much you value these moments, how much you’ve come to mean to each other.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. It’s as if the whole world has slowed down, like the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for something. It’s a subtle shift in the air, a subtle change in the way you’re both looking at each other. There’s an unspoken connection that lingers, one that feels deeper than words. Your gaze locks with his, and you feel the weight of it, the intensity of his look. His eyes are soft, but there’s something in them—a depth, a sincerity—that makes your heart skip a beat. The space between you feels smaller now, the silence thick with the unspoken.

Quinn shifts a little closer, his body angling toward you, his hand resting gently on the arm of the couch. His fingers twitch slightly, as if fighting an urge, as if he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he should. The moment hangs there, suspended in time, the air between you both charged with anticipation. Your lips part, your breath catching in your throat as you feel the weight of the moment, as if this is the point where everything could change, where the connection between you could finally be made real in the most intimate way.

But then Quinn shifts again, his hand pulling away from the arm of the couch, creating just enough space between you that the moment slips through your fingers. The tension is still there, still thick, but now there’s a sense of hesitation, an uncertainty that fills the air. He smiles, but it’s a small, wistful smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and for a brief moment, you wonder what’s going on inside his head.

“I… don’t know what’s holding me back,” he admits quietly, his voice almost to himself, like he’s trying to figure it out as he says it. The words carry a weight of vulnerability, and you can see it in the way he looks at you, in the way he’s holding himself back, even though it’s clear that he wants to move closer. You can sense the conflict within him, the push and pull of his feelings. He wants this, you can tell, but something is stopping him—something that neither of you have said, but you both feel.

Your heart aches at the hesitation, the uncertainty in his words, because you can feel it too—the tension, the waiting. You want to tell him that it’s okay, that you understand, but it’s hard to find the right words. Instead, you simply smile, your fingers gently brushing his as you reach out, offering him the comfort of your touch, the reassurance that everything doesn’t need to be perfect right now.

“When it’s the right time,” you say softly, your voice a quiet murmur, “you’ll know.”

You both hold that moment for a breath longer, the space between you still thick with unspoken things. The words hang in the air, lingering like a promise, like an understanding that doesn’t need to be rushed, doesn’t need to be forced. The connection between you is there, clear and undeniable, and in that moment, you both know that it’s only a matter of time. When the right time comes, it’ll be real. But for now, you’re content with the simplicity of this—just being together, sharing this quiet, beautiful moment.

And just like that, the moment slips away, but it doesn’t feel like a loss. You both know it’s not over; it’s just waiting for the right moment, for the time when everything aligns. But for now, you sit in the warmth of each other’s presence, content, connected, and still.

5. The Fifth Chance – After You Tell Him You’re Proud

The evening is a rare kind of stillness, one that settles over everything like a blanket, calming the world around you. The noise of the day has faded, and the only sounds left are the soft hum of the city below, the distant murmur of traffic, and the occasional rustle of the wind moving through the trees. You’re sitting together on the balcony, your legs tucked underneath you, a comfortable distance between you, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of Quinn’s presence beside you. The city lights stretch out before you, a mosaic of golds and blues twinkling in the distance, but it feels as though the entire world is silent except for the two of you.

The conversation between you both flows easily, naturally—nothing forced, no pressure, just the comfort of being together. There’s an effortless rhythm to it, but as the moments pass, it becomes clear that there’s something more in the air, something unspoken that both of you can feel but haven’t fully acknowledged. It’s a quiet understanding, one that lingers beneath the surface, weaving its way through the conversation without either of you saying a word about it.

You shift slightly, taking a breath, and then you speak, your voice soft and sincere, breaking the silence in a way that feels almost intimate. “You know, Quinn,” you start, the words coming slowly but with intention, “I’m really proud of you. For everything. All the hard work you put in. The way you lead, on and off the ice… it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Quinn turns to look at you, his expression shifting as he processes your words. There’s a moment of stillness, and you can see the surprise in his eyes, the vulnerability in the way he regards you. It’s as if he didn’t expect this, and yet, the sincerity in your voice seems to settle into him, like a quiet affirmation that he didn’t know he needed but now feels deeply. His lips curve into a small, genuine smile, the corners of his eyes softening as he takes in your words. “That means everything to me,” he says, his voice low, full of gratitude and a warmth that makes your heart swell. “I don’t know what to say… but thank you.”

You can feel the weight of his words, the truth behind them, and your chest fills with something soft and sincere in return. There’s a deep sense of connection between you both, something unspoken that binds you together, and in this moment, it feels like everything is aligned in a way that’s almost perfect. You smile back at him, your heart full as you reach out, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“I just wanted you to know that,” you continue, your voice steady and sure. “You’re incredible. I see it. And I just… I wanted you to know that I notice.”

Quinn’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, and you can feel the intensity of it now, how his eyes linger on you, searching your face as if he’s looking for something—maybe for reassurance, maybe for confirmation of what he already feels deep inside. The world outside fades, the city lights dimming in comparison to the way his presence fills the space between you. There’s a quiet tension in the air now, a shift that neither of you can ignore. It’s as if the weight of everything you’ve both felt—everything that’s been building over time—has finally caught up with you, and for the first time, it feels like this moment might be the one that changes everything.

Quinn’s eyes flicker to your lips, and then back to your eyes, and in the silence that follows, it’s as though time itself slows down. You can feel the gravity of the moment, the pull between you both, and before you even realize it, Quinn is leaning closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his hand resting lightly on the arm of the couch beside you. The space between you has closed, and you’re so close now that you can feel the heat of his body radiating toward you, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours.

His lips hover just inches from yours, and the anticipation is almost too much to bear. The air between you feels charged, the weight of everything you’ve both been holding back lingering just under the surface. You can hear the steady beat of your heart, feel the thrum of electricity in your veins as you look at him, and for a moment, everything else in the world disappears. It’s just the two of you, suspended in this fragile, perfect space, and you know that this is the moment—the moment you’ve both been waiting for.

And then, without any further hesitation, Quinn closes the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in the softest, gentlest of kisses. It’s a kiss that feels like it’s been building for a lifetime, like every second, every look, every smile has led to this exact moment. There’s no uncertainty now, no second-guessing. It’s simple and pure, the kind of kiss that feels like coming home, like everything has finally fallen into place. His lips are warm and tender against yours, and for those few seconds, it’s as if the world has stopped spinning, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, suspended moment.

When you pull away, it’s slow, a lingering touch that leaves your lips tingling, your heart racing. Your eyes meet, and there’s a shared understanding between you both—relief, joy, and something deeper that words can’t quite capture. You smile at each other, the kind of smile that speaks volumes, full of everything you’ve both wanted and needed to say but hadn’t yet found the courage to.

Quinn’s forehead rests gently against yours, his breath coming just a little faster than usual, and his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks, as though he’s confessing something that’s been on his heart for too long. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, the words soft but filled with such emotion that it sends a wave of warmth through your chest.

“I know,” you reply, your voice quiet but sure. The understanding between you is palpable, and there’s no need for further explanation. You’ve both known, deep down, that this was coming, that this connection was always there, waiting for the right moment. And now, here it is.

Without another word, you kiss him again. This time, it’s different. It’s not just a kiss—it’s the culmination of everything you’ve both held inside for so long, the frustration of the distance between you, the longing that’s grown with each moment of hesitation, the quiet understanding that’s passed between your eyes and your words. It’s the relief of finally letting go, the silent promise that this moment, this kiss, is everything you’ve both been waiting for.

As your lips meet his again, there’s a tenderness to it, like he’s savoring every second, as if he’s afraid this might slip away, that maybe if he doesn’t hold on tight enough, it will be gone before it’s fully real. His hand moves to your face, cupping it gently, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, grounding you both in this moment. The warmth of his touch spreads through you, sparking a fire that matches the intensity of the kiss.

You feel the tension melt away, the knot in your chest unraveling as you lean into him, your body responding instinctively, your heart pounding with a rhythm that matches his own. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, as though neither of you wants to rush it, wants to savor the moment, to make sure it lasts. His lips are soft but insistent against yours, and you can taste the sweetness of everything unspoken—every glance, every shared silence, every secret that’s finally been revealed without words.

Your hand finds its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. It’s real. This is real. You can feel the way his heartbeat speeds up in time with your own, the way the warmth between you both expands, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon, shutting the world out. All that exists right now is him and you—the softness of his lips, the press of his body against yours, the unmistakable feeling of everything falling into place.

There’s a desperate need in the kiss now, a hunger that you didn’t know you’d been holding inside until it spilled over into this moment. It’s not frantic, though. It’s patient, gentle, as if you both understand the weight of what this is, the depth of what’s being shared. You can feel the muscles in his back shift as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you in place, but it’s not controlling—it’s protective. He’s pulling you in not to claim you, but to hold you, as though he never wants to let you go.

The world outside seems to vanish, fading into nothingness, and the only thing left is the warm press of his lips on yours, the taste of him, the rhythm of his breath. Every inch of your skin feels alive, charged, the connection between you two so intense that it’s almost overwhelming. Your pulse quickens, your breath catching in your throat, and you find yourself pulling him even closer, if that’s even possible, your hands threading through his hair, grounding yourself in the softness of him.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like time itself has stopped. There’s no past, no future, only this—this kiss, this moment that you’ll both carry with you for as long as you live. It’s everything you both needed, everything you’ve both wanted, and the knowledge that something has shifted between you. This isn’t just a kiss; it’s the beginning of something new, something real, something that’s been years in the making but finally, finally, feels right.

[ms-demeanor]

One of the problems that came up this week is actually a problem that came up in December.

On December 15th we got a warning about disk health in a server; there is a drive that is at risk of failure.

A ticket was created for me to create a quote to replace the drive.

There was no part number associated with the ticket, and because of the type of server, there was no easy way to access configuration information online and our hardware documentation is a disaster (I have thought it was a disaster since the acquisition; I set up hardware documentation at the old job specifically to avoid issues like this and now all that documentation is gone because we didn't keep any licenses of the old job's CRM). This was not a situation where I could find a part number.

I contacted Tech Alice and asked her to check the part number on the server. Alice reported back that because the drive was part of a RAID array, she couldn't get the part number. She recommended asking Bob, and put her time entry on the ticket.

I contacted Tech Bob and asked him if he could find the part number for the drive on the server; Bob also reported back that he could not find a way to get the part number from the server, he recommended that Charlie collect the part number when he went onsite. Bob added his time to the ticket (still my ticket) and added the status "onsite needed."

Now it is December 23rd. I have messaged Charlie and asked him to check the part number when he is onsite and have added him to the ticket. I'm out of the office today, Charlie is out of the office next week. Charlie does not remember to look at the part number when he is onsite. It is the end of the year.

Now it is January 15th. We lost the first week of the year to assessments, and the second week of the year to the state and our clients being on fire - people were unable to go onsite because of all of that. Charlie is going onsite. I remind him to get the part number when he is at the client site. When he is at the client site he alerts me that actually he is at their other location, not the location with the server.

Now it is January 27th. Charlie is going back onsite, he is on my ticket, the ticket is set to onsite needed. I remind Charlie that we need the part number. Charlie does not remember.

Now it is February 6th. We have created a whole new ticket for Charlie with the *EXPRESS STATED PURPOSE* of going onsite to collect a part number for the failing drive in the server. Charlie marks the ticket as "waiting materials" and makes a note that he can't replace the drive until we order the part.

Now it is February 7th. We have explained, in writing, in Charlie's ticket that we can't order the part until he goes onsite and collects the part number, because we cannot get it because the server won't report the part number if it's in a raid array for reasons that I'll be honest I do not understand.

Now it is February 14th. Charlie closes his ticket and he and Bob pull me into a meeting. The server at the client site is so old they're not sure it's a good idea to replace the drive. Charlie has recommended that the project team quote a migration to sharepoint, which the client has expressed interest in in the past. Bob makes a note of this in my ticket. But I do not close my ticket. I do not close my ticket because I know there must be some fuckery coming. So I put my ticket to "on hold" and set it to reactivate on March 10th so that I can follow up with the project team and see if the migration project is making any progress or if we still need to replace this drive because the server drive is still failing.

It is March 13th. I have a bad week. A very bad week. My manager looks at my open tickets and asks why on earth I still have a server drive failure ticket open from December. I explain that I only have it open to follow up on the migration because the technician suggested server replacement but if there wasn't progress we should still quote a drive, but I still didn't have the part number.

My manager puts me in a chat with me, Charlie, the Project team lead, my manager, and the service team lead and asks what the fuck is going on. I paste Charlie's last update on my ticket and say that I'll be happy to quote a hard drive but I still don't have the part number.

Charlie says "Oh, I put the part number in the ticket" and pastes a photo of a drive (low light, low contrast, and blurry but with a visible part number) in the chat.

"Great!" I say, and immediately assemble a quote and find stock. Then i look back at my ticket. "But I'm actually not seeing the part number on this [my] ticket. Where was that again?"

Charlie has put the part number on his ticket, which I was never on, which he closed.

"Ah, okay. I see."

And here's where the different standards that all of us are used to using work against us.

My old job built RAID servers all the fucking time. It was totally standard, totally easy, totally sensible, and I always knew to double the number of drives we needed for the storage we got because we'd be mirroring. Because we'd be using RAID 10. Because it's robust and can take a lot of failure. A drive failing in a server configured with RAID 10 is not ideal, but it's also not a drop-everything and panic emergency. I *still* wouldn't want to leave it two months in an ideal world but I can't drive up to San Francisco and get a part number, and sometimes the world literally catches on fire.

However, these new folks use RAID 5.

A drive failing in a server configured with RAID 5 *IS* a drop everything emergency, because if one drive goes down the whole system goes down until you can replace the drive and rebuild the array, and because RAID 5 is slower than 10, this can take a very, very long time depending on how much data there is. And if *two* drives fail the data is *gone*

So.

Whose job is it to get the part number, and whose job is it to know that the server is at imminent risk of failure?

Well, now I have properly reconfigured my internal alarms about any failing server drive, but I don't understand why none of the three technicians who worked on this ticket with me didn't at any point say "hey this is an emergency" (Alice is from my old team and used to RAID 10 also, I'm willing to give her a pass) and I'm *really* confused why Bob and Charlie would recommend *not* replacing a drive in a server that is that close to failure.

(And again, I just didn't know. Believe me, I am never, ever going to shut up about drive warning tickets in the future)

And, the thing that scares the shit out of me and my manager and part of the reason why this has been a bad week and I'm having stressful conversations: What if I had just closed that ticket instead of letting it reactivate to follow up on? What if I had just marked it as done when Charlie gave me the update? It wouldn't have been an old-ass ticket in my queue that my manager flagged, it would have been a note in an after-action report when the client's server crashed.

(The client has the quote now with the statement "this failing drive puts your server at risk of failure and we strongly recommend replacing" but they haven't approved it yet because they're really cheap so I'm going to have to send it again and say "this is a mission critical part that you need to replace; your server is at risk as long as the drive is not replaced.")

So. The boss is asking "why is procurement taking so long" and really, now that I'm thinking about it - because he brought it up - how much of this really IS supposed to be my job?

[random-blurbs]

MARK X READER X VARIANT MARK(s)?

a/n- this is something very random - open ending so i can continue with the other variants in other parts hehe

omni-mark variant. sinister mark imagine

You didn’t want to join the fight.

How could you when it was all the versions of the guy you love.

The one you practically abandoned when things got too difficult. Your argument fresh in your mind even as months passed. You abandoned him and he never lets you forget that.

Your mind racing as you see the destruction the variants left in their wake. The death toll rising and the lives forever changed by the passing minute.

Your phone was ringing excessively, you already knew who it was. Glancing over at it your body was already shaking. How can you ever show your face to the public eye again? You don’t deserve to show your face after what you’ve done. The darkness of your home enveloped you, keeping you stuck forever in time. You belong here. To repent what you’ve done. The calling seized as different videos played on your tv of what else they’ve done. They look so similar yet their cruel actions contrast the Mark you know.

Your heart is breaking as you imagine what Mark is thinking. Somehow he’ll blame himself when it’s anything but. Yet you’re too afraid of telling him that. The ringing started again making you mindlessly peek at who it was, your breath got caught in your throat as you read the name.

Mark.

Your hands scrambled over to the phone as you looked at the caller ID. How long has it been since you talked? Pressing the green button you bit your lip nervously putting the phone by your ear.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?! Are you safe?” His panicked voice made tears prick your eyes. “Y-yeah why wouldn’t I be?” You hear him grunting the rushing of air practically being audible, “Wait are you coming here?”

“You need to get out of there!” Sensing that something was wrong you put your phone on speaker as you stood up looking around your living room wildly. “Mark what’s happening?” It was as if he sensed your own worry he gritted his teeth trying to get to you quicker. “I don’t know what they want but you need to g-.” Cutting him off with a shriek part of your roof collapsed making you stumble back in shock. It was muscle memory all your years fighting as you quickly made a cut in your hand letting the blood shoot out to the culprit who broke into your home.

“Y/N! What’s happening!” Your phone clattered onto the floor as both of your hands shot out to the person in-front of you.

Your eyes widened realizing who it was. “Mark?” He was wearing the same black and blue suit as your Mark simply covering his hair but coated with blood. “Y/N?” His voice was tentative, without a second thought he broke out the blood hold you had on him making you wince. Before you can make another cut his hand wrapped around your throat pushing you against the wall making you yelp in pain. The sudden motion scared you but there he was holding you now ever so softly. His thumb was caressing your cheek, a thing your Mark used to love doing. “You’re alive.” His voice was laced with a desperation you never thought you would hear. “You’re alive in this world?” He couldn’t believe it.

Before you can question anything the Mark that wasn’t yours pressed his lips against yours. A kiss filled with anguish, he pulled you closer into his body as if wanting to meld into one. His warm hands placed around your waist confidently, letting himself indulge in the warmth he once lost. He felt you try pull away but that only allowed him to deepened the kiss pulling your hair back slightly to open your mouth as you whined in pain. He wanted every piece of you. Every sound you let out, every slight shudder, he wanted it all. Letting himself feel every part of your body that he still memorized.

“Are you fucking kidding me! You liar you said you were busy torturing some C grade hero!” He pulled away leaving you dazed. That definitely wasn’t your Mark.

Looking up you took a careful step back seeing 2 new versions of Mark. Your eyes widen recognizing the outfit you used to grace this world. You didn’t think you would see Omni-man’s costume again, confused just as much as you see a Mark with a blue drape-like mask. “Just get the hell out I got here first.” The Mark in-front of you warned as he stood protectively around you.

“Man fuck you! I would’ve gotten here first if it was a race!”

“Do you have to curse every time you open your mouth?” Bewildered by the interaction you’re witnessing you try to look for any way out. “Y/N!” Making his presence practically known your Mark came bursting in landing a sickening crack to the variant infront of you. He slid back holding his ground looking up at your Mark with devilish smile.

“You got me good there.” Cracking his neck the other variants all eyed Mark. “Mark you need to get out of here.” You worried knowing he can’t handle all three of them.

“I can’t. You need to get out I’ll buy you some time.” Mark seemed more nervous for your safety as you both finally acknowledged each other after months of not talking. Everyone swears whenever he looked at you it was with those love sick eyes that would do anything for you. Seeing it in 3 other versions of him just finally settled in your mind how much he cared for you. He was going to get himself killed for you.

“I’m not leaving.” You spoke firmly making Mark shake his head immediately holding onto your body making the variants eyes laser onto him, “This isn’t the time Y/N! Just leave! I can’t fight with you ar-.” Shoving him back as you took your own step back seeing a fist coming your guy’s way. A new variant entered the scene not knowing if Mark can genuinely rock the mohawk look. “Aww c’mon! I was so close to getting him!” The variant whined with a crazed look in his eyes.

Not letting this moment go you made another cut on your hand letting the blood shoot out to the unsuspecting variant with the blue mask around his leg, throwing him onto the floor as you heard him groan out. Your Mark jumped at the opportunity flying back to the Mohawk variant. It got tiring quick as you tried dodging away from the variant’s grasp letting cut after cut to try getting them away. “I always hated that power of yours.” You saw a flash of white before being thrown against a wall.

Gritting your teeth as you slid down the pain coursed through your body. “Y/N!” Mark tried flying to you before being punched down to the ground just as quickly. “You don’t realize how lucky you have it here.” The variant who had thrown you spat at the boy you love. The air felt strange as everyone heard his words.

“Surprised she’s not dead yet.” The variant with omni-man’s suit said nonchalantly, glancing over at you with an unrecognizable look.

“And whose fault is it that she’s dead in your universes?” Mark jabbed making you wince immediately seeing how that triggered those around him. Shooting your hand out you made a box around Mark as a variant tried swinging behind him, keeping him safe for only a moment before you got grabbed by another.

Wincing in pain as the variant threw you onto the street you stumbled up steadying your footing. This time it was a variant with Mark’s old suit with no goggles. “You seem weaker in this universe.” He pointed out as he threw a punch to your gut making you stumble back. This variant doesn’t seem so keen on simply kissing you.

“Don’t be so sure of that.” Without him realizing you made a puddle of blood beneath him grabbing onto him piercing his body as best you could. Instead of pained yells you’re used to he let out a maniacal laugh grinning at you gleefully. “This was the Y/N I missed!” Getting out of the piercing blood he flew at you throwing a punch you were barely able to tank as you tried to harden the blood around your body. “You can’t believe how boring it’s been without you!” Even with an excited tone you hear the loneliness laced with it refusing to believe you’re really dead in every universe of theirs.

“Is this how you treated your version of me?” You sneered throwing a jab at his jaw as he massaged it. “Yeah I always enjoyed how you hit me. But I know you can hit harder.” He teased flying towards you throwing you onto the ground once again. You refuse to believe you sparred with this fucker. He’s in another level.

“And I always enjoyed what we did after.” He had your arms pinned over your head as you tried wiggling out, he was practically straddling you. With a teasing smile his hand ghosted your skin under your shirt making you gasp as his hand gripped onto the blooming bruise decorating your body.

“The pleasure mixed with pain was our favorite thing.” His forehead softly touched yours reflecting a love sick smile only fit for a masochist like him. “Do you want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” Not letting you answer he bit into your neck making you buck your hips trying to get away from him feeling your body heat up at his words.

“You had her for enough.” Before you can process what’s happening the Mark ontop of you got flung back as another pair of hands held you. “Dammit!” Your eyes were shut tight as you felt the air rush past you in a way you’ve never experienced. Mark has always made special care to fly you around with a sensitivity to your more normal body than his. But this variant didn’t care as you gripped onto him tighter fearing for your life. You can hear his body let out a rumble similar to a chuckle you can barely acknowledge.

You barely gather your surroundings as you were thrown onto a bed. Scrambling to sit up you back met the bed-frame seeing the variant floating in-front of you. Stalking your movements, enjoying every second he has with you. And he plans on enjoying every future second with you.

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Sorry, wrong number (H.S. One Shot) Part 3 (Last Part)

Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.

Finally Y/N and Harry give in to their feelings.

A/n: I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH SUPPORT THIS SERIES GOT, I HAD SO SO SO SO MUCH FUN WRITING IT AND I CAN'T WAIT TO DO MORE STUFF. Thanks if you liked, shared, left a comment, anything! REALLY THANK YOU SO SO MUCH.

Thanks to the best of the best @eileenrry for hyping me up (It's already saturday over there so i guess it's fair i'm publishing this now) Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: A LOT OF FLUFF AND A LOT OF CHEESY DATES YOU'LL BE THROWING UP BY THE END OF IT. MAINLY CUTESY STUFF FOR YOU TO FANTASIZE ABOUT. Use of y/n, everything happens really fast, time moves QUICK.

You read his text again, your heart racing. It was playful, sure, but there was something else—something unspoken, just under the surface.

"I think it means we’re in trouble," you finally typed, keeping it vague. You didn’t want to assume anything yet.

"Trouble? 🤔" His reply came almost immediately. "Define trouble."

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. How could you define something you didn’t fully understand yourself? How could you put butterflies at full speed into words?

"I don’t know," you typed. "Maybe… when someone sneaks into your head when you’re supposed to be working, and suddenly spreadsheets don’t make sense anymore."

Brave of you. Classy, even. You hit send and stared at the screen, instantly second-guessing yourself. It was honest, sure, but had you said too much?

The three little dots appeared. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again.

Oh, shit. Please say something.

"You know what I think it means?" he finally wrote.

"What?"

"That I’ve somehow managed to ruin spreadsheets for you, and I’m not even sorry."

You giggled out loud, the sound breaking through the quiet of your room.

"Good to know you have no regrets" you replied, a smile spreading across your face that nothing could erase.

"None at all," he shot back. "But for the record, you’ve ruined a few things for me too."

The conversation hung there for a moment, his words settling over you like a soft weight. You wanted to ask what he meant, but you were terrified of the answer.

"Fair enough. I guess we’re even," you typed back.

“Want to ruin things for each other tomorrow?”

“What does that even mean?” you chuckled, staring at your phone.

“It means I’ll think of you tomorrow, and I hope you’ll think of me too. Goodnight, Tulip 🌷.”

It felt completely surreal, like you were trapped in a dream you never wanted to wake up from. You couldn’t help but thank your past self—and your lousy fingers—for mistyping that single, life-changing number. Just one little mistake, and now here you were, heart racing and thoughts spiraling every time his name lit up your screen. It was pure magic.

The next morning, you found yourself humming while making breakfast. Humming! Like you were Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, twirling around your kitchen like the birds were about to join in. You were a walking cliché, and you didn’t even care. Doomed, yes—but in the best way possible. In love, obviously. The knock at the door jolted you out of your fairytale haze. You blinked, momentarily confused, before heading to answer it. Standing there was a delivery man holding the biggest bouquet of tulips you'd ever seen—bright, colorful, and completely over-the-top in the best way.

"I didn’t…" you started, unsure if this was a mistake.

"Delivery for Y/N," the grumpy delivery man interrupted, already turning on his heel. "Have a good day or whatever." And just like that, he was gone, leaving you in the doorway with the bouquet in your hands, completely stunned. Were these even meant for you? He hadn’t checked any ID or anything. But the moment your eyes landed on the card nestled between the tulips, your heart flipped.

For Tulip From H.

It was all you needed. That tiny, scribbled note said everything. You felt the heat rush to your face as a grin spread across it. Of course they were yours. Who else would send tulips to you?

You closed the door behind you, clutching the bouquet like it was the most precious thing in the world, unable to wipe the smile off your face.you stared at the flowers like an idiot for a hot minute and quickly grabbed your phone to text him but he beat you to it, as you were typing the message his came first. “Morning Tulip, hope you were awake.”

“I was indeed, woke up to 25 tulips in my face.”

“Oh really? I thought I said 30. Someone’s getting fired,” he replied, clearly joking.

“I really love them, they’re beautiful. 25 is more than enough. Why the flowers, though?” You played the innocent card, knowing full well the answer.

“Oh, I thought I should make sure to mess with those spreadsheets today.”

The sound that escaped your mouth wasn’t even human—it was a mix between a laugh and a scream. You quickly tried to gather your thoughts to reply.

“Then how can I make sure I mess with your day?” you typed, feeling bolder than usual.

“You already are doing it, Tulip.”

And just like that, your heart was officially ruined for the day. You stared at his last message, rereading it like it held the secrets of the universe. How did he do that? Ruin your entire day—in the best way possible—with just a few words?

“Good to know I’m effective” you replied, smirking to yourself.

“So… how do you feel about letting me ruin your evening too?”

It’s happening! Everybody calm down! it’s happening!. Your stomach flipped. You typed and deleted your reply about five times before settling on something casual. 

“Depends. What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner? Unless you’re busy with those spreadsheets.” There it was again, the perfect balance of teasing and genuine interest.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your firing spree, but… dinner sounds good.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at 7.”

As you stared at the screen, excitement mixed with nerves. Was this real? Was he actually asking you out? Tulips were one thing, but a whole dinner? That felt… bigger. And 7. It was barely 9:30 am, and you had to wait until 7? That’s torture. What were you supposed to do for the next few hours? Sit around and obsess over every possible scenario? Yeah, you did.

You groaned and tossed your phone on the couch, pacing the room like it might somehow speed up time. Maybe you’d clean the apartment—again. Or work on those spreadsheets he seemed so intent on ruining. Or maybe… you’d just spend the day imagining what this dinner would actually be like. Would it be casual, or was he planning something elaborate? What would he wear? Oh god, what should you wear? The spiral of overthinking had officially begun, and 7 PM felt like a lifetime away.

By the time 7 PM FINALLY rolled around, you were a bundle of nerves. After hours of trying on clothes and second-guessing your choices, you’d settled on something simple but flattering. You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, but let’s face it—you were. A buzz on your phone snapped you out of your last-minute mirror check.

 “Outside. No pressure, but I’m hungry.”

You laughed, grabbed your bag, and took one last deep breath before stepping outside. There he was, leaning casually against his car, looking effortlessly perfect. How was it possible for someone to make standing look so good? Only Harry Styles.

“Nice ride,” you teased, trying to hide your nerves.

“Nice dress,” he shot back, smirking as he opened the passenger door for you. LOST, you are more than lost for this man.

The drive was filled with the kind of banter that felt like second nature by now. He wouldn’t tell you where you were going, just that it was “low-key, but worth it.” That’s what you expected actually, he was really recognizable, and you? could be mistaken for a waitress if some took the correct picture. Harry Styles and who is she? But then you ended up at a cozy little Italian place tucked away in a quiet corner of the city.

“Looks amazing” you asked as he held the door open for you.

“Wait till you taste it” he said, leading you inside. Wait…was that….about the restaurant? or….

The atmosphere was warm and intimate, with dim lighting and soft music playing in the background. You sat across from him at a small corner table, feeling like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way,” he said, leaning forward with a grin. “Tell me all the embarrassing stories about yourself before the breadsticks get here.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Absolutely not. But I’ll trade one for one if you’re brave enough.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s on.”

The night unfolded with laughter, stolen glances, and stories that made both of you feel like you’d known each other forever. At some point, you realized you hadn’t checked your phone once—a miracle in itself. You were used to distract yourself whenever the guy you were out with started to talk about bitcoin or some pyramid scheme. When the check came, he waved you off before you could even reach for your wallet.

“Don’t start,” he warned, smirking. “Consider it a payment for ruining your spreadsheets.”

I don’t even think we can still say butterflies. let’s evolve to a full on zoo. As he walked you back to your door later that night, the air between you felt charged but comfortable. You paused, turning to face him.

 “Thank you. For tonight. It was…”

 “Perfect,” he finished for you, his voice soft.

You didn’t even mind that he left you with just that. No kiss, no dramatic goodbye.

But.

His gaze flicked to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, and your breath caught.

‘Can I…’ he started, voice barely above a whisper, ‘...do one more thing to completely ruin your night?’

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You tilted your face up slightly, and he took the hint, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. It was soft at first, tentative, like he was testing the waters. But when you didn’t pull away, his hand came up to gently cup your jaw, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you dizzy. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, both of you breathing slightly harder.

‘I think you just ruined my whole life,’ you said. It was pathetic, but it was a completely, utterly, undeniable truth.

‘Alright, Tulip. I’ll take full responsibility. But if I’ve ruined your life, I guess I’m going to have to stick around and fix it.’

You could feel your knees WEAK.

----

By now Gwen knew about your lovelife, who didn’t when you were dating Harry Styles, it was really difficult to hide the blushing moments, the giggles, the fancy car that picked you up every now and then, Your days were magical. MORE than magical.

May 12

Harry had sent you a song that morning with a simple text

“This one it’s just pure truth. Song link Specially 2:32”

Listening to it on repeat throughout the day, you couldn’t help but smile. It was one of those songs that felt like a confession, like it was saying all the things he hadn’t quite said yet.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Styles?" you texted.

"YOU tell me 😉"

May 14

You snapped a picture of your desk—papers, coffee cups, and a very tired-looking plant all vying for space.

"Welcome to chaos" you captioned it and sent it to him.

Seconds later, a photo of a perfectly neat studio table arrived, complete with his notebook, a few pens, and an untouched cup of tea.

"Show-off" you texted.

"Organized chaos" he corrected. “Coming to make me company later?”

“Obviously”

May 18

“🌷”

Every morning now started with a single tulip emoji from Harry. No text, no explanation—just the flower. It made you laugh every time, this simple, silent ritual he’d created just for you. There was something about it—something understated and intimate.

It didn’t matter if the rest of the world felt chaotic or overwhelming; that one tiny emoji always managed to anchor you. Some days, you’d wake up to find it already waiting for you, like a quiet reminder that someone out there was thinking of you. Other days, it would pop up mid-morning, just as you were starting to feel the weight of your to-do list. But he NEVER failed to send it.

You weren’t even sure how he’d decided to start—but you knew it was the first thing you’d look for every day. It wasn’t grand or overly sentimental, but that’s what made it so special. It was Harry in the simplest, purest form—thoughtful, playful, and somehow always knowing exactly what you needed without you ever having to say a word. Sometimes, you’d reply with nothing more than a matching tulip. Other times, you’d tease him with a string of emojis—🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷—followed by a cheeky, “Did one not feel sufficient today, love?” Yes. “Love” had made its way into the conversation. Tulip was still his favorite, but love was now in the game.

He never explained it, never justified it. But in those simple tulips, he said so much more: I’m here for you. I see you. I want you.

May 30

When you told Harry you’d finally gotten the project approved at work, his response came in the form of three celebratory emojis: 🎉🥂🌷.

"I’m so proud of you, my tulip" he wrote.

It wasn’t over-the-top or overly formal, but it hit you right where it mattered. The simplicity, the care—it was so very him.

"You were the one pushing me to keep doing it at midnight that day in your apartment. So it’s all because of you 💖"

The rest of the day passed in a blur of emails, calls, and the lingering glow of Harry’s words. By the time evening rolled around, you were ready to collapse on the couch with a mindless TV show and a celebratory glass of wine. That was the plan as Harry told you he was stuck with some family stuff, at least, until the doorbell rang. You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone. Pulling your sweater tighter around you, you padded to the door and peered through the peephole. And there he was.

Harry. Standing on your doorstep, wearing that damn smile, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and—of course—a single tulip in the other.

You flung the door open, heart racing. "Harry, what—"

"Celebrating you, obviously," he said, stepping inside like he’d always belonged there. He handed you the tulip first, letting his fingers brush yours, then held up the champagne. "I figured we could upgrade from emojis."

You laughed, caught somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. "You didn’t have to do this."

"Didn’t I?" he countered, his tone soft but teasing. "You work so hard, Tulip. You deserve to be celebrated properly. And most importantly by your boyfriend"

It was more than 1 month since he made it completely official, and called himself your boyfriend, and you obviously didn’t argue about it, but still, it all felt like a dream. YOUR BOYFRIEND wanted to celebrate you and that’s exactly what he did. You spent the evening sitting on the living room floor, sharing stories, clinking glasses, and laughing until your cheeks hurt. At one point, he grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and simply said, "I’m proud of you."

It wasn’t loud or flashy, but it was everything. The kind of moment that imprinted itself on your heart, quietly becoming one of your favorites.

June 8

"Busy next Friday?"

"Depends. What’s the occasion?"

"Thought you might like to see what all the fuss is about. Backstage pass included 😉. A kiss from the performer too. Maybe multiple ones."

“I ACCEPT”

Your heart raced. You weren't sure what terrified you more: being in his world or the fact that he wanted you to be. But in reality you were already in his world, of course there were many MANY articles of “Harry Styles spotted with mystery girl” but you were just too busy actually being so in love with him to even care.

July 16 It was Harry’s idea.

“I’m a decent cook,” he said, grinning as he rolled up his sleeves. “You’ll be impressed. Trust me.”

You weren’t entirely sure if you trusted him, but the idea of spending the evening in his kitchen, cooking together, sounded perfect. He handed you an apron, and you got to work. The plan was ambitious: homemade pasta and sauce, garlic bread, and a simple dessert. But things went off course almost immediately.

“Is this what dough is supposed to look like?” you asked, holding up a sticky mess that refused to cooperate.

Harry peered over your shoulder, frowning. “Uh… probably not. But it’s okay! It’s rustic.”

“Rustic,” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your explanation for this disaster?”

“It’s charming,” he said, taking the dough from you and attempting to salvage it.

“Do you happen to have Gordon Ramsay on your contacts?” You said looking at the unfinished (a bit uneatable) dinner. “I do, but i don’t think he would want to see this”

By the time the pasta was in the pot, you were both covered in flour, and the kitchen looked like a tornado had swept through it. The sauce was a little too salty, the garlic bread had burned edges, and somehow, the dessert had completely fallen apart.But when you sat down at the tiny kitchen table, your mismatched plates in front of you, it didn’t matter.

“To our first—and possibly last—cooking adventure,” Harry said, raising his glass of wine.

“Here’s to hoping we survive the food poisoning,” you joked, clinking your glass against his.

But the truth was, the meal was delicious in its imperfection. And as you sat there, laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates, you realized it wasn’t about the food at all. It was about this—about him.

----

It had been two days. Harry was on a quick trip to L.A., and the time zones, paired with his whirlwind schedule, made communication sporadic. You told yourself he was busy—his life was far more chaotic than yours—but the silence still felt deafening.

You’d held back from texting or calling him, trying not to seem clingy, but the doubts crept in anyway. Maybe this was too much. Maybe you were too much.

Finally, you broke. Your fingers hovered over your phone, hesitating over his contact like he wasn’t your boyfriend, like he was once again just a stranger. Before you could overthink it, you sent a simple message: “Am I ruining your days over there?👀🌷”

The minutes stretched into hours with no reply. You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping your phone until the screen dimmed, reflecting your worried expression.

Then came the knock.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, rushing to the door.

Harry stood there, out of breath, hair disheveled, his eyes searching yours like he’d been running for miles.

“You’re in L.A.,” you blurted, confused.

“Was,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I—I couldn’t do this over text.”

“Do what?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He held up his phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light. Your text stared back at you.

“This. You. I literally cannot think straight when I’m away from you.” His voice cracked slightly, and your heart clenched. “I don’t care if we’re moving too fast. I think about you all the time, and I’m—”

You stepped forward, cutting him off as your arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Harry, stop,” you murmured against his chest, your voice soft but sure. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands firm but gentle on your arms. “No, you don’t understand,” he said, his gaze steady. “I love you. Completely. Hopelessly. And I couldn’t let another second go by without telling you.”

The world seemed to tilt, his words hanging in the air.

“You idiot,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes as a smile broke through. “I love you too.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t a question or a test. It was an answer—a culmination of every tulip emoji, late-night text, and unspoken promise.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you laughing softly, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a single tulip, slightly crumpled but no less beautiful.

“I couldn’t come empty-handed,” he said with a lopsided grin.

You took the flower, your smile uncontainable. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

That night, curled up on the couch with his arm around your shoulders and the tulip resting in a vase on the coffee table, you realized something profound.

It wasn’t the tulips, the texts, or the grand gestures that made this real. It was the quiet moments—the shared smiles, the silent understanding, the unwavering presence.

No matter what, you had each other.

Forever. --- A/n: If you made it til the end, i just want to say thanks again 🥹🫶 If you have any suggestions or comments or complaints! , please feel free to reach out! --- Taglist:

@jackiehollanderr @proudravenclawbird @hopeyoustaythenight @maryjahps @obsessiveenthusiast @liiit44 @loveheart-123 @harrystyleshotwife @harryscherries28 

@addiemb8332 @cumuluscranium @gguksfilter @alemunson42069 @sarah22194 @summertime-pills @hescrush @cosmomento @harrys-wifeyy @isinpfortvdmen

@familyshow-orisit @notsosweetcreature @cevans-winchester @camillegillians @donutsandpalmtrees @amateurduck @hermionelove @misty-heartbreak

[shaisuki]

sleepless nights ft. rafayel

There's one thing about toddlers Rafayel dislikes is when they get restless and he's talking about his child.

In the middle of the night, where the tide ebbs and flows into a gentle rhythm comes the tiny hands patting the surroundings like crabs in the sea bed waiting for the catch.

He ignores the little one tugging at his pants and crawling to his chest. Pulling the sleeves of his shirt to use it as makeshift rope for the toddler to climb up. Miffed at the movements of his toddler, Rafayel wakes up and see the tiny version of him staring right back at his own. The reddish and purplish tint dancing along the darker bluer parts of his eyes.

“Why are you awake?” The painter asks the toddler on his chest. A mix of glowering and staring at the child in front of him. The toddler blubbers incoherently at him. Drool dripping at the corners of his mouth. “Eww.” Rafayel's brow scrunched up. His face morphed into something of disbelief.

It escalates into something more sinister when the thin sheen of saliva drips in his shirt. “Oh no, you didn't! You little fishie...” The painter groans. The baby sees his expression as nothing but amusing began to giggle. Relishing on the terror he put on his father. His chubby arms flailing and he looks like a seal on the land.

Rafayel was little distracted when he feels you stir in your sleep. His wife in a deep peaceful sleep. The toddler followed his father's gaze before breaking out in a coo. Chubby fingers closing and opening trying to grasp you from their reach.

A smug grin quirked in Rafayel's lips. “Oh, you want your mama? Too bad you're here with me.” He taunts the toddler. It only took a few seconds before their chubby face scrunched up. A fit coming through. His eyes beading with tears. Toddlers and their sudden speed nowhere, Rafayel watches as his son scrambled towards you, climbing in his chest and kicking him straight in the jaw in the process.

“Ouch!” Rafayel winces and that woke you up.

The toddler immediately cuddled into you. “Hmm, someone's wide awake, eh?” You sleepily mutter before looking at your husband. “What happened, Raf?”

“He kicked me, eugh.”

“Shall we get your jaw checked at the hospital?”

You teased. Rafayel pouts at you while shooting the toddler a glare who was happily bouncing on your lap now he's at her mother.

“Da-da's upset, little fishie.” Cooing at the toddler.

“That little fishie is mean.” Rafayel grumbled.

“I wondered where he did get that from.” Feigning curiosity and poking more of Rafayel's attitude towards his son.

“Why the attitude to this little fishie, Rafayel? If my memory serves me right, someone's adamant to get me pregnant so we can repopulate Lemuria and we have this little fishie now.” Lifting the toddler who's wiggling on your hold. His giggles bubbling in the air as you blew raspberries on his chubby cheeks.

“Hmph. I did but I didn't know it was a mean little fishie, cutie.” Rafayel scoots closer to you. Him behind you as traces his son's chubby cheek with his finger. The toddler happily bites into it. Saliva covering his slender digits.

Truth be told, he loves his son more than anything else and you. His child with his blood and yours running on his veins. Your creation made from his. It was the playful teasings when the night gets quiet that made him love his life with you.

“You know what else I didn't know, Rafayel?”

“What is it, cutie?”

“That this little fishie nine months in my womb and he looks like his stupid dad.”

“Hey!”

Once again the quiet night gets livelier with your laugh and his child. Rafayel wouldn't trade anything in this world for this moment and for the sleepless nights.