#“you hold a knife like this cuts through an onion. hold a knife like this-” “eliot! she's eleven!” “and? she needs to know these things!”

[eddies-ashtray]

white hot forever

Pairing: Logan “Wolverine” Howlett x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Most days exhaustion plagues him. But tonight, with his last dregs of energy, Logan cooks for you. Though he’s hungry for something far more enticing.

WC: 5.6k

Category: Smut (18+ ONLY, minors dni)

Content: Implied (non-specified) age gap, kissing, Logan throws reader over his shoulder/carries her, cunnilingus, unprotected pnv, reverse cowgirl, dirty talk, petnames (baby, old man, etc), beard burn, 1 single spank, some light nipple play, spitting, kinda dom logan/sub reader, light teasing/mocking, a dash of humiliation kink, lots of manhandling, an inordinate amount of animal metaphor/simile, mentions of logan’s exhaustion/aging due to the adamantium poisoning.

His biceps strain against the thin cotton of his white button-down–the sleeves rolled up–as he finely chops a red pepper. His heavy hand lends to the particularly booming sound of the knife landing on the wood cutting board. But you don’t mind, content to observe from your ideal spot on the countertop of the island. 

A half empty wine glass sits in your palm as your gaze lingers on the smattering of dark hair beneath the low-cut tank he wears under the button-down. 

The kitchen smells of the sweetness of the cooking oil he used and the warmth of nostalgia. Faint memories from childhood of your mother bustling around the kitchen as she prepared dinner linger at the edges of your mind, brought on by familiar scents. When you breathe it in, you also catch lingering traces of Logan’s shampoo and, faintly, sweat. 

“You ever…Ya know,” you pause, swirling the white liquid around. “Use the claws to chop an onion or something?”

Doing your best to suppress a smirk when Logan looks up at you from beneath his brows and pins you with a stern gaze, you hold his eyes. 

You quirk a brow, waiting for his response as a snort threatens to bubble up. 

A smirk cracks through his intense facade, crows feet deepening slightly. With an endearing shake of his head, he huffs a laugh through his nose. Logan’s a bit of a grump—even more so now that his hair has greyed and he’s let his beard grow somewhat unruly—but he’s not without a sense of humour. 

“No,” his voice, though signed with a note of playfulness, is as gruff as always when he rests the knife on the cutting board. “But as you know, they’ve been useful for…other things.” 

The word ‘other’ is loaded with intensity as the hand that previously gripped the knife handle lands deceptively gently on your right knee. It skates roughly up your thigh to thumb at the edge of your skirt. 

You only hum in response. Despite the warmth of the kitchen, a chill runs up your spine and you shiver involuntarily. You’re not sure how he does that. Dial things up to 100 before you can even blink. It keeps you on your toes, even a few years in.  

Now it’s his turn to quirk a brow–ever expressive–when his heavy gaze finally lifts from your legs.

Warmth begins to seep into your chest and stoke a small fire in your belly.

But the growing tension vanishes the moment a timer dings, shrill and intrusive. 

Pulling himself away from your skin to tend to the sound, Logan bends at the knees to pull a steaming dish from the oven. 

The crack of his joints is a quiet popping sound compared to the low grunt he releases when he stands back up to his full height to place the dish on the stovetop. 

He tosses a worn out dish towel over his shoulder–the same one he’d used to pull the food from the oven. 

Watching him carefully as he spins around in search of his whiskey glass, you remark, “You look handsome like this.” 

You pass him the liquor, his large hand wrapping around the glass. 

“Handsome like what?” he asks, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. 

It’s not often Logan has the energy for this. Long days drain him now. Like sweet syrup from a tapped tree, a slow drip that takes and takes.

“Just–in the kitchen with me. Cooking…Taking care of me,” you say. 

Another soft smile graces his lips and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, a hand at your hip, and your face warms. 

Gulping down a healthy sip of his drink, his throat bobs as he swallows the auburn liquid. When the glass clinks against the marble as he puts it down, you notice droplets linger in his beard. Once you’ve placed your own glass down you reach to thumb away the beaded liquid.

“Hm?” he hums, though it’s more of a growl when he does it, the sound rumbling up from deep in his broad chest. 

“Just got some…” you trail off, expecting him to come to the natural conclusion himself when you lean in and cup his jaw. Feel the roughness of his beard against your palm as you swipe away the small droplet. “There.” 

Logan leans briefly into your touch to kiss the soft skin of your palm in thanks. The gesture makes your heart ache. 

You’re about to pull away, but Logan grasps your wrist in one strong hand, savouring your touch. He’s looking at you with an unexpected hunger behind his eyes as he feels the skin of your wrist beneath his rough palm. You can’t deny the way it revives the searing heat in the pit of your stomach. 

“What?” The word comes out more breathy than you’d intended. 

“Nothin’.” Logan shakes his head, holding your gaze. He releases your hand gently. 

The word lingers in the air between you. 

The way he says it–like it’s not really nothing–wires you right up again. You know he knows it too–his overly keen senses able to pick up the rhythm of your heart hammering against your ribcage. 

You need to expel the energy or let the tension snap but can only think of the intoxicating scent of whiskey on his breath. “You know, I’ve never tried whiskey.”

He’s quick to respond. “No? You want to?” 

“Okay.” It comes out in a whisper. The atmosphere feels too fragile for any other tone.

Logan grabs the crystal glass, just another sip or two remaining. He steals another as he steps in front of you, his left palm falling to your knee to push your legs apart so he has room to stand between them. 

He lingers above you and you lick your lips in anticipation, catching the way hazel eyes darken beneath furrowed brows. 

Then, Logan looks away and you watch as he places the glass down on the counter and his palms flat beside your thighs, effectively caging you in so you’re trapped in his space. Logan is all you can breathe, all you can see, all you can smell as your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. 

Eyes finally returning to yours, his head tilts to the side–cocky, challenging. “Then give your old man a kiss.” 

A whimper nearly escapes you before you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and hungrily pressing your lips to his like it’s an order. It may as well have been, gruff as he is. 

Logan grunts in response to your quick action, pulling your leg around his waist so your heel digs into the small of his back. 

The roughness of his beard rubs your chin and cheeks, a pleasant sting against sensitive skin. Though you’re soon distracted when his hand leaves your calf in favour of greedily running up your thigh. They leave heat and tingling skin in their wake, and you gasp into the kiss when he gives the meat of your thigh a generous squeeze. 

His desperation for you is matched only by yours for him as you wind your other leg around his hips to tug him closer. Grunting at your forcefulness, Logan finally slips his tongue into your warm mouth.  

The whiskey on his tongue is overpowering as he kisses you like he’s starving for it–the meal he was making long forgotten. Warm hands brush up the length of your spine, eliciting a subtle shiver, before one of his large palms cradles your skull like you’ll shatter without the support. 

His nose bumps yours as he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth with fervour now. When his spare hand coasts over your chest to grab at your tits over your top, you arch into his touch with a moan like he demands it. 

When you bite his bottom lip he growls, long and deep. A renewed sense of desperation claws at your skin as your kisses become increasingly wanton and sloppy. Tangling tongues generate sounds bordering on obscenity. 

His claws may as well be dragging down your body, leaving bloody marks in their wake with the way his touch makes your skin sing. You hope he leaves bruises when he grasps at the flesh of your hips, pulling your lower-half flush against his pelvis. 

You can feel him, hard and straining against his black slacks. It’s impossible not to moan, lips leaving his as your mouth falls open to release the breathy sound. 

For a moment, you grind against his cock with your forehead pressed to his, using your hands wrapped around his neck as leverage. Feeling back muscles flex under your warm palms. The delicious slide of your soaked panties against his hardness is enough to drive you wild. 

A gasp is pulled out of you when your clit catches briefly on his tip beneath clean slacks. Logan growls through clenched teeth, pressing you into him harder, fervently rolling his hips. The sound makes your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Logan,” you whimper, aching for him as you pant into each other’s mouths. “Please.” 

“Fuck,” he rasps before he’s scooping you up off the counter, hoisting you up over his shoulder. Squealing at the surprise demonstration of his great strength, Logan strides through the kitchen and towards the living room. 

Desire burns deep in your belly as he carries you across the house like it’s nothing. He’s all broad chest, bulging biceps, and thick thighs. It makes you dizzy. You can’t help but reach out and pinch the meat of his thigh. 

“Hey!” He barks. 

Unsurprisingly quickly, Logan delivers a sharp smack to your ass and you yelp in shock, jolting against him. “So fuckin’ naughty.” 

The lingering sting coupled with his gruff tone has you squirming in his hold, whining low in your throat. 

In a single sudden motion, Logan manoeuvers you off his shoulder, dropping you onto the couch. And suddenly you feel deliciously small pinned beneath his hooded gaze. He towers over you. His staggering height emphasized from your perspective where you lay against the cushions. 

He’s assumed that authoritative stance that has every atom in your body buzzing–his arms crossed over his chest. This paired with his hard gaze is a lethal combination. He’s got that look in his eyes, like what am I gonna do with you? 

“Sorry.” Insincerity bleeds through your tone. You like to get him like this. To rile him up until he is more animal than man. 

Hazel eyes narrow as he grunts, disbelieving your weak apology. 

“You wanna be sorry?” He asks with a quick flick of his chin in your direction.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod. His chest rumbles with a deep sigh.

Unable to avert your gaze from his face, you bear witness to the glorious sight of Logan shedding his button-down. Your hips wiggle subtly in anticipation–though Logan would call it impatience. The cotton article is tossed carelessly over the chair by the couch.

He crouches down with a soft grunt, nods. “Okay.” 

Swiftly, you are tugged to the edge of the couch by Logan’s hands on your hips. Your skirt gets rucked up your waist, exposing you to the warm air of the house. Though it feels far more jarringly cool between your legs where you’re hot and wanting, pussy weeping for the older man before you.

“So fuckin’ soaked already,” He mutters, more to himself than to you. The comment has pleasure boiling low in your belly. 

“Logan.” He glances up at you briefly then returns his eyes to your cunt.  

You watch with rapture as his nostrils flare, no doubt overwhelmed by your scent this close to your centre. A predator ready to devour its prey. 

For the briefest of moments, Logan admires the wetness seeping through your panties, presses his thumb against the clothed, leaking well just to see your hips jump. Biting back a pathetic whine is far more difficult when his lips twitch into a faint smirk. 

There’s a change in his eyes in a split second where brows lower and pupils dilate. It’s then that he rips your panties down your legs and you swear you hear the distinct sound of fabric tearing. Gasping, you toss your head back between your shoulders, panting and warm all over. 

His chest rumbles with a guttural sound, savouring the sight of you spread open wide and dripping for him. 

Logan’s rough hands rub up and down your thighs, hungry. When they pause you swear you can feel his gaze burning a hole into the column of your throat. 

“Eyes,” He demands.

You obey, catching a glimpse of him stuffing your panties into his back pocket from where he kneels on the floor between your legs. 

The anticipation eats you alive, hips flexing, unable to remain still. Logan pins them down in an instant. 

Everything quiets. Tunnel vision casts out any and all sound or sight besides him. 

“Don’t move,” Is all he says before he’s diving in and devouring you, tongue hot on your sensitive skin. 

“Fuck!” you cry, hands plunging into his hair. 

He’s groaning the second his tongue licks up your cunt, dining on your taste. He gorges on you like he’s been deprived of your taste for far too long and he’s hollow without it. 

You’re drunk and dizzy on the way his beard scratches against your skin. The way the thick hair rubs against your cunt and sensitive inner thighs. A carnal craving satisfied. He’ll pull away after and be covered in you, unable to kiss you without smearing your desire across your own chin. 

The rough tug you give his hair causes him to grunt into you. He eats you out with zeal, an energy that so often eludes him these days. 

“Feels so good…Shit…So-” you babble on, only half aware of the praise spilling from your mouth.

For now, you are not sorry about his overzealous approach. But you will be. After, when the burn becomes a sting. When you are unable to walk for a week straight without feeling the roughness of his beard between your thighs. When he’ll reach over while he’s driving and squeeze your thigh meanly as a reminder. 

For now, you moan unabashedly as he nips at your clit harshly. Free roaming hands find warm skin, grabbing fistfulls of you. Rubbing your thighs, grabbing at your hips, spreading possessively over your stomach. Soon, his hand snakes under your top to squeeze at your tits, and you gasp sharply when he pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger. 

The fire in your belly rages on, burning bright, spitting ash. 

“Logan,” You whine, long and drawn out, when he shakes his head back and forth animalistically, coating more of his beard in your wetness, your scent. He grunts against your pussy at the sound of his name hot on your tongue, the vibrations it causes driving you mad. 

His roughness makes your cunt throb. You derive as much pleasure from the sensation of his tongue licking up your slit and circling your clit as you do from simply watching him like this. His eyes shut in concentration, locked in as he laps up your juices like it sustains him. Like he is taking his fill of you before he hibernates for the winter. 

Just the obscene sounds of his hunger, the slurping and the groans emanating from deep within his chest are enough to prompt your hips to grind up into the pleasure his mouth provides. And he accepts all of it enthusiastically. 

You get lost in it, his wet muscle prodding at your entrance, licking up your slit to spread the wetness he’d collected over your clit. He sucks it between his lips, causing you to groan. 

Briefly, Logan pulls away, and you whine in protest. But his pause allows you to glimpse the parts of his beard that are now matted down with wetness. The sight causes warmth to spread across your chest, equal parts humiliation and pleasure. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he pants against your thigh, warm breath fanning over your puffy cunt. “Look at you,” he slurs, thumb rubbing over your pussy, spreading the wetness all over. 

Your hips jump and you whine again. Logan growls a quiet, desperate sound before diving back in, practically making out with your pussy and inserting two of his thick fingers into your heat. 

“Shit! Lo-” his name gets cut off with a girlish moan, a high sound only he could pull out of you, body completely overwhelmed by the excess of pleasure. 

“There she is,” he drawls, voice muffled and thick with lust before enveloping your clit in the warmth of his mouth and sucking. Your grip in his hair tightens as your hips grind into his mouth and down onto his fingers. Fingers which curl up into the gummy walls of your cunt, languidly brushing that sensitive spot inside over and over. 

Soon, slow movements evolve into quicker, but still consistent and deliberate, pumps into your weeping hole. It is precisely then that the ever-growing fire in your belly begins to consume you entirely. The moment Logan’s jaw goes slack and he begins to desperately lap at your cunt with a near entire loss of coordination, your vision goes white. 

Your orgasm crashes over you, an all-consuming force as Logan continues to fuck you with his fingers. It’s like you are bursting at the seams, coming apart in his hands. Every cell in your body catches fire as you roll your hips into his hand, riding out the waves of your climax. 

You’re panting as you come down, hips slowing to a stop as your body becomes over-sensitive to his touch. You twitch as Logan slowly pulls his fingers from you, his head falling to rest on your trembling thigh. 

“You know…For an old man, that was-” 

You suck in a sharp breath, hips jumping at the harsh sensation of Logan intentionally rubbing his beard over your already burning inner thighs. He chuckles lowly at your reaction, but is quick to soothe you, laying tender kisses across heated skin. 

Your hands trail down from his hair, and stroke a thumb softly over his cheek. He allows the sweet touches to continue for several moments before he pushes off his knees with a grunt. Logan falls onto the couch next to you, legs spread wide. Eyeing him in your periphery, you can tell he’s just as exhausted as you; his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.  

You’re still panting softly as you watch him, your limbs like Jell-O, skirt hastily pushed up past your waist, and top askew. The sight of him licking his fingers clean of you makes your clit twitch despite its sensitivity. 

Finally, he finds your eyes. 

“C’mere,” Logan rasps, patting his thigh. 

It takes great effort for you to crawl into his lap, and you don’t do it without some assistance. Logan’s hands grip your waist, pull you so you’re seated sideways over his thighs so as not to further irritate the burn. 

You wind an arm around his neck, tenderly stroking the hair at his nape. 

Logan rubs over the dough of your thighs, thumbs caressing between the split of them. Later, he’ll help you gently rub soothing lotion into them, but for now he’s all desire as he gazes down at where his hands press lightly into your legs. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks quietly. 

You can’t help but squirm in his lap a little, feeling him hot and hard beneath your thighs.

“Mmh,” you muse, staring down at his hands on you, legs raw and tingling. “Good.” 

You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, the warmth of his body beneath yours. “Yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes before cupping his jaw and scratching softly at his beard, feeling the lingering wetness there. Briefly, his eyes drift shut and he groans quietly. 

“How’s that feel?” you repeat his question back at him, teasing. 

Logan growls, grabs the back of your head, and desperately presses his lips to yours in answer. 

You moan softly into the kiss, holding his face in your hands as you lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue more than the whiskey now. 

Then you’re trailing your hands down his chest and pulling away only briefly to tug his white tank off before your fingers deftly begin to undo his belt. The metallic clink it makes, the sound of leather sliding against cotton as it comes off, only makes your pussy clench around nothing as you whine into his mouth. 

Your ardour makes Logan chuckle, breaking away from your lips in favour of kissing roughly down your neck. His hands now cup your jaw, allowing him to tilt your head back as his lips leave a trail of wet kisses across heated skin. You sigh as his beard tickles your neck. 

“So needy,” he mumbles into your skin. 

You groan and feel his smirk against the skin of your chest before he’s pulling your skirt and top off over your head and tossing them aside. 

Wanting hands find their way into his hair again when he pulls away from your skin momentarily. He enjoys having you completely naked in his lap while he’s still mostly clothed. You can tell from the way his nostrils flare when he drags in a deep breath, the way his tongue wets his mouth before he pulls you close and latches onto your nipple. 

He greedily licks and sucks and bites at one while palming the other in one large hand. 

“Logan,” you breathe his name like a prayer, pulling him closer with hands locked in his hair. 

His teeth graze your nipple, tugging it gently. Gasping in shock, your face twists up at the intense mix of pleasure-pain that swirls around in your gut. He releases your breast, breathing harshly over your now damp skin. 

Impatient and needy, you can’t help but squirm in his lap, rubbing yourself over his hardness. Surely, you’ll leave a damp patch on his clean slacks. The thought only spurs you on, movements becoming desperate. 

His cock twitches beneath you, tip probably an angry red and leaking sticky precum you selfishly wish to lick up. “Fuck, need to feel you, sweetheart.” 

The whine his proclamation elicits borders on pathetic, and in a rush you’re helping him tug his slacks down just enough that his cock can spring free. 

“So pretty,” you whisper, dragging your middle finger across prominent veins that run down his length, prompting him to twitch and hiss through his teeth.

Saliva begins to pool in your mouth, but you’re tugged back to Earth when Logan grabs your waist, ordering you to ‘turn around’. 

Body buzzing in anticipation, you allow him to manhandle you into the right position, savouring the feel of his hands manipulating your movements. 

“There ya go,” He praises, pulling your back flush against his chest. His hand sneaks up your chest. When it reaches your neck, he presses gently so your head falls against his shoulder. 

Your eyes meet as your chest heaves. 

“Open.” 

Eyes remaining on his, you part your lips. 

“Don’t swallow,” Logan instructs gruffly, brow quirked. He may as well have pointed a finger in your face, stern as he is. 

You nod quickly, and he leans forward slightly to spit thickly onto your tongue. It’s so obscene a tremor wracks through your body as heat spills into your gut. 

Hand below your chin, Logan closes your jaw for you, allowing his saliva to mix with your own before putting his hand in front of you, saying, “Spit.” 

You obey a little messily, some ending up dribbling down your chin. 

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he says, smearing the sticky mess over your already messy cunt. You whine, all high and breathy. Still slightly sensitive. 

Finally, he adjusts you, shoving you forward in his lap so he’s at the right angle to thrust into your wet heat. 

Tandem groans are released into the air the moment he fills you. A millisecond to adjust. To savour how deeply he fills you before his hands are at your waist to help guide your movements.

Using your own hands on his legs as leverage allows for slow, deep thrusts that make your body quake. Those first sweet drags of his cock against your slick walls are enough to make you shudder. 

Reaching a steady rhythm, you begin to pant, the exertion it takes to ride him like this tiring you out quickly. Though Logan is quick to help, supporting you with strong hands as he guides you up and down. Still, you’ve yet to lose your vigour. Entranced by the slow roll of your hips, the way his cock reaches the deepest parts of you in this position. His strong thighs bracketing your body. 

“That’s it…That’s it.” Logan grunts lowly, nearly delirious and wholly mesmerized by how your body takes all of him. How you stretch around him to accommodate his size. Hypnotized briefly as he hungrily watches the place where you connect. 

A gasp evolves into a moan as one of his hands leaves your waist in favour of seeking out the sensitive button at the top of your cunt. Clumsy fingers toy with your clit, slipping around messily. Flames lick at your nerve endings. On occasion he loses his place, unable to maintain a perfect rhythm from behind you, but just as quickly returns to circle the bud.  

Another hand moves to your belly, pulling your body backwards, his sweat-slick chest now pressed up against your back. You wish you could drag your nails down his broad chest, watch as he loses himself in the feeling. But the closeness this position allows is worth the sacrifice. 

Being nearly immobilized pressed up against him like this, giving him full control of your body, it feeds some deep desire. It’s the reason your head has gone a little fuzzy. He knows it too. He knows it when you let a whine slip past your lips. When you begin to grind back against him needily. 

“Feel good, baby?” he rasps. At the same time, he rubs his middle finger over your clit in time with a deliciously deep thrust. All you can do is throw your head back against his shoulder, another wanton moan clawing its way up your throat, directly into his ear. That’s all the answer he needs. 

Logan grunts in response. Pistoning hips setting a rhythm that is both intimate and punishing, making you dizzy. His closeness makes you dizzy. Those low grunts in your ear are enough to drop pearls of pleasure into the pit of your stomach. All of it contributing to the growing fog in your mind. 

You writhe against him, an arm wrapping around the back of his head, keeping him close with a hand buried in his hair. Your other hand remains locked onto his forearm as it flexes with each rub of your sensitive clit. 

Logan begins to grunt animalistically into your ear, unabashed about his desire for you. You feel it in the way his strong arms grip your body, ensuring your security. In the way he lets moans and grunts and groans rumble up from his chest, unafraid to let you hear what you do to him. 

His hands all over your body, the deep strokes of his cock that reach the deepest parts of you, his soft grunts in your ear–it all feeds the flames in your belly. 

“Fuck. S-so full,” you mewl, overwhelmed tears springing to your eyes. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he placates, tone edging on mockery. His voice sends shockwaves through your body. The sweet humiliation it brings presses into your skin like a brand, leaving it white-hot. 

More. You need more of him. 

Desperately, clumsily, you grind back into him enthusiastically, writhing in his grasp. The rhythm turns staccato and messy as a result. But it doesn’t matter. You just need more.

You whine, turning your head towards him and he gets the hint, meets you halfway and licks hotly into your mouth the moment your lips meet. Your hands twist in his hair. 

It’s messy and uncoordinated and your neck hurts twisted to kiss him like this. But then there’s the fiery taste of whiskey. And you. And him, his cigars. And the pain–it’s worth it. It’s necessary. 

When you break away, only a thin line of saliva connecting your mouths now, it’s to gasp. Your brows furrow, pleasure twisting your insides. 

You go cross-eyed trying to hold his gaze, and he grins. It’s a wolfish thing. A flash of his teeth, lips kissed red and puffy. The sight makes your pussy clench around him. 

A smile tugs at your own mouth, probably fucked out and hazy with pupils blown wide. It only grows when the hand gripping your waist skims over your hot skin. On its journey, he grabs at your tits, pinches your nipple. Every sensation now blends together, overwhelming you with pleasure.

His hand pauses at the base of your neck where it grazes over the stretched expanse of skin. 

A teasing squeeze. Once. Your brows knitting together. Twice. Your mouth dropping open. His grip not quite tight enough to cut off airflow and elicit that floaty feeling. But enough to make you whine low in your throat. You are at his mercy.

Eyes drifting shut, you cry out, feeling your climax building at the pit of your stomach. Breathy moans escape you with each rub of his finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves, edging on overstimulating. Each sharp thrust drives you closer to that edge, setting your body alight. 

“Y’gonna come, honey?” Logan pants, voice hoarse. 

These escapades exhaust him now. You’ve witnessed the way it sinks into his bones after. But there’s also the hint of a grin in his voice. Along with desperation. Desperation to feel you fall apart. An indication that the pleasure he provides, the pleasure he receives, is worth the exhaustion. It’s rewarding for him. 

Your answer is the most pathetic whine, high and wanton as overwhelmed tears blur your vision, threatening to spill over. “Uhuh.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and you swear his fingers were made to make you come apart at the seams when he rubs over your clit like that. Like it gives him pleasure too.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless, barely moving over his cock as he pounds into you from below, his strong legs beginning to tremble. 

“Yeah,” Logan repeats. Mockery is thick on his tongue, a faux pout playing at his mouth. You lose it. 

Everything else falls away. Tingling heat spreads beneath your skin as you finally let go. Your body thrums with your release, the feel of his damp skin at your back, his hands on your body, how full of him you are. 

 Logan has little room to be cocky. Because the moment you begin to clench around him–cunt pulsing with each wave of your orgasm washing over you–he’s grunting curses into your shoulder, leaving bite marks on the tender flesh as his warm seed spurts into you. 

He shudders with his release. 

“Fuck,” he growls, grinding up into you, his grasp on your body tightening. 

In a flash, he removes his hand from your throat. And, distantly, past your post-coital fog, you hear the sound of metal unsheathing rapidly. You glance to your right.

Retracting claws reveal three deep holes pierced into the faux leather, showcasing thick wire springs and white stuffing. 

Blearily, you drag your hand down his arm, running over hair and slowly aging skin. Reaching his wrist, you bring his hand up to your mouth, cup it in both of yours. You smooth your thumb gently over the edges of his knuckles, watch for moments as the holes very slowly begin to close. 

You kiss his knuckles thrice. Once over each slowly healing wound. 

Eventually, the skin will mend. The wounds will be nonexistent. They will heal in time. But his body is exhausted. And every time the claws come out, the cracks in his skin take longer and longer to repair themselves. 

He collapses beneath you, rugged breaths pulled from tired lungs. 

Carefully, he slides out of you and you help him tuck himself back into his boxers. Press a kiss to his forehead. 

A whisper of, “Be right back.” against heated skin before leaving on unsteady legs to clean yourself up. His desire is a slow leak down your thighs now. 

If he were a younger man, still full of strength and agility, he’d have done this part for you. You know he wishes he could. Part of you wishes he could too. But you like to take care of him too. 

When you return, he’s still sunken into the couch, chest bare and sweaty. He accepts the glass of water you bring him, gulps it down thirstily. 

Cuddling up next to him now, you brush the sweat-damp hair back from his face. You’ll allow him to pull you close. You’ll hold each other, stroke the skin beneath his eyes tenderly. The fresh dark circles there. And he’ll press soft kisses against the lingering bite marks on your shoulder, whisper praise into your ear. 

When his honeyed eyes catch yours, you know he longs to spoil you. To scoop you up in his arms and take you to bed. 

But this takes a lot out of him now. It will be days–maybe more–before you’ll be able to do something like that again. 

So, you’ll take care of him. He’ll insist on having you underneath him. Begrudge the fact that the exhaustion will have yet to be leached from his bones. But acquiesce the moment your hands reach beneath his belt. 

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[moonstruckme]

hello!

Could you maybe do poly!marauders x reader and the boys discovering she has a major praise kink!

It doesn’t have to be smutty or it can be whatever you think!!

(ps: you are such an amazing author and the way you write the marauders together and their personalities is impeccable 💋)

This was fun and funny, thanks for requesting!

cw: praise kink, suggestive ending (no smut)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Remus makes a soft hissing sound. “Is that how you always chop onions?” 

You look at him sideways. “With a knife? Yes.” 

“Don’t be cheeky,” he says, smiling. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

You look down at your cutting board, still chopping but now bemused. “I don’t plan on it.” 

James, who’s appeared over your shoulder, makes a similar sound, hissing through his teeth. “No, sweetheart.” He places his hand over yours on the handle of the knife, silently prompting you to stop. “Rem’s right, you’re going to lose the tips of your fingers.” 

You feel a tad defensive of your chopping skills. “I’ve managed to keep them all ‘til now. What am I doing wrong?” 

“Here, let me.” James eases the knife from your grip, squishing in alongside you in front of the cutting board and taking your onion. “See, you want to curl your fingers in a tiny bit so the knife skims off them. Like a claw.” 

You lean over, peering at his hand. “It looks hard to keep a grip like that.” 

“It takes a bit of practice,” he allows. James slices through the onion a few times with smooth, easy motions, then passes the knife back to you. “Give it a try.” 

You try to hold the onion the way he had, looking at James for approval. He taps your pinkie finger, getting you to curl that one a bit more, before smiling at you. 

“There you go. That’s good, now try cutting down your knuckles.” 

“This feels scarier than my way,” you admit, though you do as he says, skimming the knife down your knuckles and slicing through the onion slowly. 

“No, you’ve got it,” James praises. “That’s really good, angel. You’re a natural.” 

Your cheeks are starting to warm from all the compliments. “Thanks,” you say in a small voice. 

“Don’t go getting shy,” says Sirius, coming in to steal a dry pasta noodle from Remus. He bites down on it with a crack that makes James grimace. “You were so vocal about how you knew the proper way a minute ago.” 

“I still like my way better,” you say, recovering some. 

“Right, well do it this way for our peace of mind, would you?” James’ hand warms the small of your back as he watches you work. “You have very pretty fingers, and I don’t think I’m being too presumptuous in saying that we all like them too much to risk it. Plus, you’ve picked it up so quickly.” 

The heat from your face spreads lower. It’s all you can do to squeak out a meek “okay.” You’re grateful when James leaves to return to his own task. 

A minute later, Remus comes over to check that you’re doing what you’re supposed to. He hums approvingly. “Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair. All the air in your lungs dries up. “Thank you, darling. That looks great.” 

“She learned from the best,” James quips. 

Remus hums and kisses his hair too before turning back to his work. It’s only a handful of seconds before they realize you’ve not replied. 

“Dove?” Remus looks at you. 

“Hm?” you hum tightly. 

“You alright?”

“Mhm.” 

James and Sirius have turned to look now, too. You keep your face downturned to the cutting board, but you can feel the weight of three curious stares on the back of your head. Sirius prowls over to you like a cat, taking you by the shoulders and turning you slowly. 

“Humor me for a moment?” he asks, smirking. “I want to test a theory.” 

You’re wound too tightly by this point to respond, his smug teasing pushing you to the edges of sanity. You barely have the wherewithal to set your knife down carefully behind you. 

Your boyfriend’s cold hands find your warm face, shit-eating grin only spreading as he takes his time feeling about your cheeks with his knuckles and fingers. Sirius isn’t always the most perceptive of your boyfriends, but unfortunately, humiliatingly, he’s the first to unravel this particular mystery. 

He asks smoothly, “Do you like it when we tell you how good you are, pretty girl?” 

You’re not sure if he can actually feel the flare of heat to your face at the words, but something about your expression must confirm it. Sirius laughs gleefully. 

“Awe, angel.” James comes over to wrap his arms around you from the side, also laughing. “I didn’t know we were winding you up when we talked like that. I was just trying to compliment what a quick learner you are.” 

“She is a quick learner,” Sirius says in a salacious tone. “You always follow instructions well, don’t you, gorgeous?” 

“Stop,” you plead, covering your face with your hands and forcing Sirius to move his. All three of your boyfriends snicker, James pressing a conciliatory kiss to your burning ear. “It’s not like it happens all the time, you’re just being so much right now. You can’t just call someone—call them—” 

“A good girl?” Remus asks you, and you don’t think he’s putting on a tone like Sirius is, you really don’t, but his regular voice is already so nearly pornographic that the heat in your core spreads anyway. 

“Right,” you say weakly. 

Remus chuckles. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sweetheart. Sorry if I put you in an…uncomfortable position.” 

“No, don’t be sorry.” Sirius is giddy, smugness dialed up to eleven. “This is a revelation. Just think what we could do with this. You’ve given us all a gift, babe.” 

“Oh, our poor girl,” James laughs when you try to hide your face in his shoulder. “Sirius is right, this is good! It’s always good for us to know what you like, right?” 

You’re too flustered to reply, but Remus agrees for you, humming contemplatively. 

“You know,” he says, “if I leave this to simmer for a while, we could make it up to you now, dove. I’d feel awful if I wound you up without giving you any payoff.” 

His tone implies he’s at least partly joking, but Sirius doesn’t take it that way. He has you all in the bedroom in thirty seconds flat, your chopping left to wait for your return. 

[snail-day]

I used to think Satoru wouldn’t know how to cook. How could he? He was raised in a compound where even the rice balls were likely made by someone else’s hands, perfectly shaped, seasoned with the finest ingredients, and served like nothing. I imagined meals appeared without effort, crafted by chefs who never missed a beat. There was no reason for him to learn.

His life wasn’t about softness or comfort. It was about power. About being the strongest. Satoru had more important things to do. He had to train. Had to fight. The strongest doesn’t need to know how to make soup from scratch on chilly evenings. The strongest doesn’t need to learn how to hold a knife unless it's for preparing for an attack. The strongest doesn’t need to cry in front of a cutting board blaming the onions, but really it's because times are hard.

But that all stopped mattering the moment he met you.

There’s something about food that speaks when words fail. A comfort dish that holds warmth. Memory. Grief. Love. In a sense the act of a meal binds people together and pulls the past into the present, bite by aching bite. And Satoru, who has never had to hold anything gently, tries to learn that kind of language - for you.

He doesn’t tell you. Never will. Because this isn’t about proving something. It’s about healing something in you he knows he didn’t break but desperately wants to mend.

Maybe your favorite dish belonged to someone who isn’t here anymore. Someone who once placed a bowl in front of you with hands that trembled from age or care, someone who kissed your forehead and called you theirs while the world outside softened for just a little while. Maybe it belonged to someone you can’t call anymore. Or someone you still do - only now their voice crackles through time zones and static. Maybe that dish is the last thing tethering you to a love that once felt like home.

While Satoru knows that person might have meant the world to you. A part of your heart. Made you into the you that you are today. He can never be them, but he can appreciate that they created you for him. And in thanks, he learns to prepare that dish for you. Learning slowly, quietly.

Burning things. Cutting things. His hands - so precise in battle - fumble over the peeling skin from garlic. Calling strangers at inappropriate hours. Asks too many questions, the occasional broken sentences the awkward laughter here and there. Visits the same corner shop every day until the cook raises a brow and just hands him the usual. Satoru takes notes. Studies flavors like he once studied enemies. Not to conquer them but to understand them.

All for this. For you.

You come home, tired and quiet. Setting down your bag, your keys, your day. And when he looks up from the kitchen, his smile is softer than usual. “Welcome home.”

Then you smell it.

Your heart catches before your breath does. You don’t know what he’s done - not fully. You don’t see the failed attempts hidden beneath trash bags he took out hours before. You don’t see the sticky notes taped along the cabinets, the spice stains on his sleeves, the frustration that creased his brow for days.

You just see him. Waiting in front of a bowl of your favorite food, crafted just for you. When you taste it. When that familiar warmth floods your mouth and memory knocks loose in your chest. Your eyes sting before you can stop them.

Satoru doesn’t say anything. He just watches. That familiar smile on his lips. Baby-blue eyes softening as they trace the curve of your expression, as you take another bite - like you’re chasing someone he doesn’t know, but couldn’t be more grateful for.

He holds his breath because while he can’t bring that special person or place back. While he knows you may not be able to see them every day. The least he can do is give you this:

Your favorite meal, made with love.

[moncesita-te4lblu]

🖤🖤🖤

Characters : Art the Clown (Terrifier), afab!reader

Warnings/CW : kinda slowburn, Art almost kills you on purpose, funny stuff, rough smut, wall sex, spanking, hair pulling, overstimulation, choking, pussy slapping, oral (f! Receiving), multiple orgasms, you pass out mid sex, Art is stumped and confused, you're ok tho, talks about blowjobs, bit of fluff at the end, tell me if I missed anything

A/N : I have nowhere to go this Halloween ☹️ just stay home, write and take photos of myself

Its around midnight, you're in your kitchen cooking dinner. Usually you don't cook at midnight but you were busy all day and it just got pushed back. Plus, your boyfriend wasn't home yet. The infamous Mikes County Killer, Art the Clown. He was taking his usual time out there, spilling blood, guts, and pain, while you were home, working or being lazy.

You're surprised your still up with this much energy. You did wake up really late today, since you didn't have work that day. You took that time to organize the house, clean everything up, shower, maybe even trim your hair with a pair of random scissors you prayed didn't belong to Art- knowing what he does with them- and knowing that although he has okay hygiene, he doesn't properly clean his weapons like at all.

You switch between mixing and checking on the red rice, stirring the big pan of cooking chicken, stirring the smaller pan of cooking beef, and finally stirring the pan of cut up bell peppers, broccoli, corn, and onion. The rice finished cooking and so did the vegetables- the chicken and beef still needed some time- when Art busted through your front door, a scowl on his face, his leg and torso cut up a bit from (what you can only guess) a victim fighting back, and blood all over him. He drops his bag of weapons and goes to find you, the scowl not leaving his face.

That expression would've terrified anyone. But really, you were used to it. The more logical side of your brain knew it was only a matter of time before he treats you like any other victim of his; scalping, cutting, drugging, stabbing, torturing. But you decided to just play along with him. Maybe if you act nice and continue to treat him like this, he'll make your death less brutal. Hopefully. But truly you don't know. Nobody but him knows what's going on in his head. He's like a wild animal; sometimes you can get close and they look still- froze- waiting for you to get close and closer, before they pounce on you and attack. Brutally attack.

Art stands by you, not really doing anything but standing with the scowl on his face, staring at you. You smile and wave up at him, giving him a little "Hi baby", before turning your attention back to the food. There was silence, the only thing making noise being the food cooking.

You feel something cold on the back of your neck. You look up at Art and in the corner of your eye, you see his hand outstretched behind your neck. You can't really tell what it is he has but you will admit, it's scarring you. You tried not to show it though. You know Art loves when his victims show fear. If he has thoughts of killing you, fear will only fuel it.

He lowers his hand while you watch. Now you can see what he had pressed against you. A knife- which is probably the least painful object he owns for killing. You again, tried to show now fear. Your eyes didn't widen and your breathing stayed like before. But your heart is beating faster. That's something you can't control. You just showed confusion. Art drops the knife onto the floor- thankfully missing his and yours feet- and turn around, leaving and disappearing into your bedroom.

Once he leaves, you sigh. What the fuck was that? This isn't the first time he's pressed a weapon against you but it still shakes you up everytime. And maybe that's what he wants. You bend down and pick up the knife, throwing it in the sink. You continue cooking, acting like your boyfriend didn't just hold a knife against you.

You taste test everything, ensuring that everything's thoroughly cooked. When the taste is up to your standards, you go to turn off the stove. As your reaching for it, you hear a loud "honk" right in your ear. You jump and turn around, more terrified than when he held a knife to your neck. Art is there, now fully cleaned of blood, and silently laughs. Hard. And buckles over in laughter and pointing at you. He then puts a hand of his heart and mocks your shocked expression and the way you jumped. You bend over the counter, holding your head and laughing too.

Art comes over and grabs a hold of your waist, wrapping both arms around you and lifting you up. He swings you around a bit and kisses your neck. You laugh as he does, now forgetting about the past incident. "Baby-" you laugh. Art perks up and looks at you. "Go sit at the dinner table, I'll bring out your dinner." Art rolls his eyes and gives you once last squeeze before he lets go and slumps over to his spot on the dinner table.

You serve two plates; Art has some chicken, beef, rice and vegetables, which yours has the same but less beef. You bring out his plate first, setting it in front of him and kissing him on the lips. And go back to get your plate and when you come back and set your plate down across Art, you notice his vegetables are gone from his plate and... on the floor, a very thin, useless napkin covering them.

"Babe." Now it's your turn to scowl at him. Art was some of the beef in his mouth. He looks up at you, dumbfounded. "Why the shit is your food on the floor?" Art shrugs and looks around at the floor around him and looks puzzled, like he's pretending the food on the floor doesn't exist. "Art." You glare at him and he just looks like he doesn't know what you're talking about, doing hand movements to tell you you're crazy.

You opened your mouth to speak but Art held up a finger, shushing you. He points to the beef and then his arm, his eyes questioning. "What?" He does the same again. You shrug, looking confused. Art rolls his eyes like you're the dumb one and points to the beef and then to you and him. "I dont-" Art rolls his eyes harder, throwing his body back in dramaticness too. He points to the beef again, and shrugs, looking at you like it's so obvious to know what he's trying to ask you.

"What is it??" You ask, trying to guess what he's trying to say. Art nods, happily and relieved that you finally got it. "It's beef. It's cow." You say and start eating, taking a bite of the chicken. Arts grin is quickly wiped off his face and he slumps. "What?" You ask and eat. Art does a handmovement to say "oh nevermind" and he starts eating. "I'm not cooking human, Art. Don't even think about it." You scold and Art mocks you in response. You just roll your eyes and eat, forgetting the vegetables on the floor.

🖤🖤🖤

After dinner, you two clean up the kitchen. Art washes the dishes while you put the dishes in the sink and wiping down the counters and sweeping the floor. You have music on, singing along as Art bops his head dances a little to the music.

After cleaning, you two go to your shared bedroom. As soon as your door closes, you pounce on Art. You wrap your arms around his neck and smash your lips against his. Almost like he was expecting it, Art instantly grabbed onto you and kissed you back, using tongue and gripping onto your pajamas.

Art pushes you against the wall, his hands still gripping your hips. Your hands reach behind his back and zipped down the zipper on his clown suit. Art starts peeling off your clothes until you're completely naked. You pull off arts clown fit until he's naked too, just his facepaint and mini tophat on.

Art flips you over so you're pressed against the wall. You open your legs a bit and Art grabs your asscheeks, opening them apart and angling his dick with your pussy. He spits on his dick and slowly slips into you, his hands moving to your hips. You let out a soft moan and press your cheek against the wall, looking back at him. Your full body is against the wall, your ass poking out a little.

Art starts slamming his hips against you, his pace getting rougher and rougher. Your body jolts and you moan louder. With every thrust, your thighs slap against the wall. Art reaches around your neck. He wraps his bare hand around the front of your neck and he flips you two over. His back lays against the wall, one hand on your hips as he continues to thrust into you. He pulls your head back by your neck, squeezing a little. Your hands reach back and grab onto his legs as his pace becomes almost unhuman.

Art slaps your ass hard as he does, grinning at your yelp in response. He trails is hand down, roughly grabbing your tits, then trailing fully down to your hip. He pushes down on your back to make you bend over and his other hand grabs a fistful off your hair and pulls your head back. Art grabs your thighs with the hands that was once on your back and opens your legs more. He then grabs your hand and places it on your pussy, and you start mastutbating yourself. All the while his pace stays harsh and rough like usual.

After a while you warn Art of your upcoming orgasm, to which he replies by slapping your ass harshly a couple more times until you cum on his dick; your fingers still circling your clit and Arts pace not faltering. Art abruptly stops his movements, planting himself balls deep into you. He lets go of your hair, his hands just resting on your hips. You slowly stand up straight again. Art grabs the hand you used to pleasure yourself with, pressing it against his lips and into his mouth, licking your juices off your fingers. His other hand pulls your hair back. He slowly turns to look at you, a grin on his face, and he dives in to kiss your lips.

He lets go of you and peels you off his dick, walking you to the bed and pushing you on your back, onto the bed. Art opens your legs, kneeling between them. He uses his fingers to massage your clit for a while before he raises his hand up and slaps your pussy. Not too hard but enough to sting. When he hears you moan and watches your legs jolt, he does it again. And again. And again. And again, till your pussy was wetter and red.

Art stops slapping you, then leans down and starts roughly eating your pussy. You moan loudly and wiggle a little as he does. He forces your legs open and keeps them there as he makes out with your pussy. You grab his head and push it closer to you, his large nose pressing against your clit.

You grind against his face until you cum on his face and he keeps eating you out. Your body spasms. He finally pulls away and licks his lips, standing up again. He lines his dick up with your pussy, instantly pludging himself into you and his expression contorts at the feeling. He starts moving his hips again, fast.

You cry out in overstimulation, your nails digging into his arms as his hands grip your hips tightly. A single tear runs down your face. Art sees this a grins, enjoying the pleasure- and pain- he's giving you. He licks the tear, biting your cheek a little before he comes back up. Your legs shake and tremble and your face looks disheveled. But Art loves when your helpless like this with him. Because of him.

Art winks down and at you and blows you a kiss. He then slams into you, hard, and stays there for a second, balls deep inside you. Then he does it again. And again. And again. He grins wider and wider with every moan you scream out.

He then wraps his hand around your neck, tightly, and starts up his fast, rough pace into you. Your hands claw at his arm as he chokes you, but not too hard. Well... not at first at least. After a couple more minutes, and a couple more orgasms pulled from you, he grips your neck tighter. Your face is now redder than it's ever been.

Art slams into you, cumming inside you, his grin not leaving his face, his eyes shifting from your eyes to your pussy. Even after he came, he kept going, moving fast like before. Like he had all the energy in the world. He squeezed a little tighter at your neck for a second, cutting your airways for only a second before he let you breath again as he fucked you.

Your body slowly became more and more limp, your eyes getting loopy and your heart racing. Your moans start getting fainter and quieter, which makes Art falter a bit but he doesn't stop. Seconds later your body goes limp and your eyes close. You passed out. Whether that be from the choking or from the overstimulation, you don't know. You just know you knocked out.

🖤🖤🖤

You woke up minutes later, now laying against a pillow on the bed. You have a blanket over your still-naked body and the ceiling fans on. You see Art sitting next to you on the bed, now in sports shorts and a T-shirt. He's looking down at you as you wake up, and you have a feeling he's been like that for the whole time you've been asleep.

Art has confusion and... fear in eyes. Fear for Art is rare. Rarer than rare. Someone like Art is never scared. Confused yes, he's sometimes confused, but not scared. He's watched you almost cut a finger off while cooking and his eyes looked more hungry and like he was holding back than scared for your life. But now he's scared. There's finally some human emotion in his eyes.

You two don't do anything but stare at eachother for some time. Didn't Art almost kill you when he got home? Why does he look worried now? It's like he's not even blinking.

Arts tilts his head, looking down at you. He slowly inches his hand to your neck, lightly touching the red marks of his hand left behind. You turn on your side, smiling tiredly as you look up at him. Art touches your face and raises his eyebrows, still confused on why you just knocked out mid sex. "Ya kno-" you stop talking when you hear your own voice. It's very very raspy. You clear your throat and go to talk again. That didn't help. Still raspy. But you talked anyway.

"A girl can only take so much, baby." You laugh. Art rolls his eyes and mocks you. He's back to his usual self. "Whaat??" You laugh again and wrap your arms around his waist. Art ruffles your already-messed-up hair, grinning down at you playfully again.

"Maybe if I wake up first tomorrow, I'll wake you up with a blowjob." You rub your elbow on his crotch and he instantly gets hard again. You get off him and lay back on the bed. He looks down at you with a frown. "Tomorrow." You remind him. Art huffs and rolls his eyes, getting into bed with you. You two sleep, clinging onto eachother.

🖤🖤🖤

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103

---‐------------------------------------------------------

Tw: cussing, tension, description of Hydra tortures (if you squint)

Part 10

Words of command - Part 11

The kitchen gleamed in the sterile kind of way only billionaire kitchens do—glass, chrome, and tech woven into every cabinet.

The sun poured in through the massive windows, streaking golden light across the countertops and the back of Bucky’s shoulders as he stood, stock still, facing a cutting board like it might explode.

You stood to his left, a good half a head shorter, sleeves rolled up, voice guiding him.

“Hold the onion like this,” you said softly, demonstrating. “And curl your fingers under, so the knife doesn’t catch.”

Bucky's expression didn’t change, but his eyes—cold steel rimmed with caution—locked on your hands. He mimicked the movement with uncanny precision, down to the slight shift of weight in your stance.

He didn’t breathe.

He didn’t blink.

His metal arm hovered just slightly, tense and unreadable.

“Good,” you offered, reaching out to nudge his wrist slightly to adjust his angle. “Just like that.”

Tony strolled into the kitchen like he owned it—which, to be fair, he did—with a half-drunk coffee in one hand and his usual exasperated swagger.

“Oh good,” he drawled, leaning against the island. “I see we’ve reached the 'culinary assassin' phase of rehab. What’s next? Battle baking? Murder muffins?”

Bucky’s head snapped up.

The knife paused mid-slice, his entire body tensing like a drawn bow. His expression didn’t change, but his pupils narrowed slightly. Assessing. Calculating.

You reached out and gently placed a hand on his forearm, just enough pressure to signal.

“Non-threat, Soldat,” you said quietly. “That’s Tony. He likes to run his mouth, but he pays my wages too"

Bucky looked at you. Immediately, his shoulders eased—just a bit.

“Understood,” he muttered. But his hand didn’t leave the knife.

Tony raised a brow. “Y’know, if looks could kill, I’d be halfway to a death by now. He always this… stabby in the morning, or is that your influence, Dollface?”

You shot him a look. “Don’t you start that shit too”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to Tony again.

“She’s Doll. To me.”

For a second Tony Stark actually stopped speaking.

Bucky’s metal hand was hovering uncertainly over a carton of eggs.

The other hand now gripped a wooden spoon like it was a combat knife.

You moved slowly, always narrating your actions, never touching him without warning. He still flinched if anyone else came too close.

But you? He leaned into your presence like a plant seeking sun.

“Okay, ready?” you asked, sliding a bowl in front of him. “You’re going to crack the egg like this—not too hard, just a little tap on the side.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed in deep focus. “Like a pressure point?” he asked, staring down at the fragile shell like it might explode.

You bit your lip to hide a smile. “Kind of, yeah. But just a little tap.”

He nodded. Took a breath. Then—

CRACK.

The entire egg shattered in his grip, shell and yolk crushed into his palm. It slid through his metal fingers, gooey and viscous.

You heard applause as Tony’s voice floated from across the room.

“Well done, that egg’s dead. Good work, Terminator. Want me to get him a frying pan or a flamethrower next, Thumbelina?”

Bucky’s jaw twitched. He looked to you immediately, awaiting your reaction.

You just ignored Tony and gave Bucky a soft, reassuring smile. “That was a good first try. You’ll get it. Want to try again?”

His tense shoulders eased just slightly. “Yea, please.”

You guided his hand over the second egg, placing your fingers lightly on his. The difference in size was striking—your hand so small, his flesh palm practically engulfing yours.

“Let me show you,” you whispered.

He watched you carefully, eyes tracking every tiny motion. This time, the egg tapped lightly on the side of the bowl. A clean break. He tilted it just the way you showed him, letting the yolk slide out without spilling.

He looked at it. Then at you.

“I did it,” he said, almost surprised.

You beamed. “You did.”

Tony, mid-sip of coffee, raised a brow. “Great, now teach him how to make toast without treating the toaster like a bomb.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

While you whisked the eggs, Bucky watched your hands move, his voice quieter now.

“I think I remember something…burned toast. Steve made it. Said it was ‘perfectly fine.’” His lips twitched into something almost like a smile. “It wasn’t.”

You looked up quickly. “That sounds like Steve.”

He nodded. “I don’t remember everything. Just… pieces. Smells. The way someone laughed. Cold mornings.”

You didn’t say anything—just listened. Encouraging without pressure.

Bucky's gaze shifted and fixed on the scrambled eggs wherever they went. “ I like this Doll, its quiet. Warm. I think I like the way you… are.”

You hesitated, then touched his hand gently, curling your fingers around his flesh ones and giving them a quick squeeze.

Tony walked past again, intentionally dropping a dishtowel in your direction. “Just make sure he doesn’t use the whisk like a tactical baton. And maybe warn me next time the terminator gets cooking privileges. Stark Tower’s insurance premiums aren’t infinite.”

The island counter is now cluttered with mixing bowls, a half-dozen eggs, and two kinds of cheese—because you weren’t sure what kind Bucky would prefer.

Bucky's metal fingers are twitching slightly at his side, the other hand hovering above the whisk like it’s a weapon he hasn’t figured out how to disarm yet.

“Like this?” he asks, the words a little more fluid now, though his accent still shadows every syllable. He watches you closely, mimicking your motion.

“Perfect,” you murmur with a small smile, reaching up instinctively to adjust the bowl under his arm. “You're not going to break it. Just be gentle.”

He watches your hands again—small, soft, and completely unafraid of him. That still confuses him. No one’s hands have ever touched him with that kind of absent affection, at least not that he remembers.

Tony takes a dramatic sip of his coffee. “God, this is precious. Should we all hold hands and sing Kumbaya next? Maybe teach him how to use a dishwasher without stabbing it?”

"Jesus Tony, I know where free entertainment but give it a rest" you quipped.

Bucky narrows his eyes slightly. “The machine hissed at me. I don’t like it.”

You stifle a laugh, which makes Bucky tilt his head toward you, eyes flickering with curiosity like he wants to keep making that sound come out of you.

Tony’s already halfway out the door, waving over his shoulder. “Just don’t burn the place down, lovebirds.”

You glance up, expecting a flare of confusion from Bucky—but he doesn’t seem to register the implication. Or if he does, he’s pretending not to.

When it’s just the two of you again, the kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Quieter. The whisk clinks gently in the metal bowl as Bucky stirs again, this time slower, more natural.

“Hey Doll,” he says softly.

You look up from where you've turned a pan on, on the stove.

“Why does he… say things like that?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like we’re… more.”

Your breath catches. Not from fear—just surprise.

“He just teases. That’s how he talks to people. He’s not serious.”

Bucky stares at the eggs, then at you.

“But I don’t think I'd mind,” he says slowly. “If he was serious... your ... kind to me.”

You freeze—not because you’re afraid, but because something in his voice has changed.

Less mechanical.

More his. There’s a quiet pull behind his words. Not fully formed, not romantic exactly. But raw. Almost.

You open your mouth to answer, but he takes a step closer, something unreadable in his eyes.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat off his skin, see the faint scarring at his collarbone, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something.

“Soldat…” you start, voice trembling just a little.

But he interrupts.

“I like hearing you laugh,” he says. “Even when I don’t understand why. I think… maybe I did that ... made people laugh once.”

You say his name again, this time softer.

He’s so close.

So close you can feel the warmth from his chest and the faint scent of old leather and soap rising off his skin.

There’s a tension in the air, soft and dangerous, like something fragile perched at the edge of a knife.

His metal fingers curl slightly where they rest on the counter, not in threat but in restraint.

“Doll…” he says, low, and there’s a crackle in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Like a wire shorting out. “You make me feel—different.”

You swallow, heart thudding. “Soldat, do you know what that feeling is?”

He tilts his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he studies you. “No.”

Then, the smallest shift—his flesh hand lifts toward your face.

Trembles slightly before it even touches you.

He’s not sure if he’s allowed.

Not sure if this is part of the program.

His fingers hover just above your cheekbone.

You don’t move. Not forward. Not away.

“Hey,” Bruce’s quiet voice cuts into the moment, followed by the distinct shuffle of shoes. “Sorry—am I interrupting something?”

You blink and take a quick step back from Bucky, your cheeks warm. Bucky's hand lowers slowly, mechanically, as his gaze flicks to Bruce, all warmth wiped from his features.

Bruce holds up a tablet and gives you a tentative smile. “I ran another scan this morning. His neural pathways are stabilizing in some areas. I think I might’ve found something that could help trigger more of his long-term memory. Safely.”

You blink in surprise. “You did?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. He doesn’t move, but his stance shifts ever so slightly—too still. Too alert.

Bruce steps in closer, holding out the tablet to you. “It’s a low-frequency transcranial stimulator. Not invasive. It mimics some of the electrical patterns from sleep cycles and REM states—what helps memory form and reconnect.”

You see it—the soft, hopeful data on the screen—but Bucky doesn’t.

He hears only one word.

Electrical.

A noise escapes his throat—sharp, guttural. Not quite human.

“No.” It tears from his lips in a ragged breath, his eyes wild and suddenly gone again. “No electricity. No chair. You said—no chair.”

His hands slam down on the counter, hard enough to rattle the bowl.

You flinch instinctively, and he sees it.

That’s when he panics.

He backs up like he’s been shot. “I didn’t mean—Doll—I didn’t mean to—”

You move forward quickly, voice low and steady despite your heart thudding in your chest.

“Soldat. Look at me.”

His chest heaves.

His fists are clenched.

His metal arm twitches with barely controlled adrenaline. But he locks eyes with you, like you’ve just thrown a lifeline into the storm.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I promised you—no chair. No pain. No one is going to hurt you. Do you trust me?”

He swallows hard, lips parted slightly. The panic hasn’t gone, but he’s trying to hold it back—for you.

“I don’t… understand,” he murmurs, softer now, as if ashamed. “But I trust you, Doll.”

Your heart aches at the way he says it—like it’s a truth he doesn’t fully comprehend, but feels all the same.

You glance at Bruce and give him a small shake of your head. “Not yet,” you mouth. “Give us time.”

You find Bucky later, curled in one of the chairs on the balcony just outside the rec room. His knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them.

He stares at nothing.

You step out into the cool air and sit down quietly beside him. No words. Just your presence.

Eventually, he speaks.

“I don’t like electricity,” he murmurs. “I remember… metal. Pain. Then forgetting. I dont want to forget.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

A long pause. Then—

“But if you ask me to,” he whispers, “I will.”

And that—hurts more than anything else.

Because he still thinks he has to.

You slide your hand over his. He stiffens, then relaxes.

“You never have to do something just because I ask.”

The lab is lit low, the usual sharp white lights dimmed to a softer gold that Bruce said might make things feel less clinical.

The transcranial device sits on the medical bench—more like a padded headband than the hulking mechanical monstrosities Bucky remembers from before.

You can hear the low hum of the cooling system, the soft hiss of hydraulics in the walls—every little sound feels louder with the way Bucky's breath holds still in his chest.

He stands just inside the doorway, like a man staring into a cage.

The chair in the middle of the room looks innocuous now.

Padded headrest, ergonomic design, subtle LED lights rather than cold metal restraints. But Bucky’s eyes don’t see any of that.

They see the chair. They see Hydra. The screams, the static, the burning nerves and ripped memories.

His body language is screaming tension. Rigid shoulders. Chin tucked slightly like he’s protecting his throat. His left hand—the metal one—is half-raised, twitching like it’s already calculating escape routes.

But his flesh hand… his right hand hovers, almost uncertain, before curling into a trembling fist.

You walk slowly up to him. You don’t touch him yet. You just stand in front of him, letting your frame create a space where his fear can breathe.

“Doll,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “I’ll go first.”

His eyes flash toward you, full of panic.

“No.”

You pause. He almost never says no—it’s fear.

“It's ok Soldat, I need you to see that it’s safe,” you whisper. “You don’t trust the chair. But I trust Bruce. And I trust you.”

“Banner,” Bucky snaps, his voice suddenly cold. “What does it do?”

Bruce looks up from the console. “The device emits a low-frequency transcranial stimulation—non-invasive, non-painful. Think of it like acupuncture, but for the brain. It promotes neural plasticity and helps reactive suppressed memory pathways. There’s no electricity. No shocks. Nothing painful. And nothing remotely like Hydra’s machine.”

He walks over to the chair and lifts the headpiece. It looks more like a padded visor, a soft halo of tech with small light sensors and cooling gel pads.

“See?” he says, letting Bucky inspect it. “No wires. No needles. It just sits on your head and… helps open a few doors.”

You reach out now. Slowly. Carefully. Your hands find his flesh hand—and you take it into both of yours, gently wrapping your fingers around his. His hand is rough, cold with adrenaline, and shaking faintly.

“I’ll sit down first,” you say again, eyes on his. “I want you to see exactly what it does.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand as you move, and you have to ease away carefully to take your place in the chair.

His entire body follows you—watching, tracking, trying to prepare for the worst.

"You hurt her, I hurt you" his eyes are on you, but his words are for Banner.

Bruce give Bucky a reassuring smile before moving to set the device on your head. It emits a soft whirring sound, like a cooling fan.

"If she forgets m—" Bucky murmurs.

"I'm ok Soldat, that wont happen" you say squeezing his hand as you cut him off gently.

There’s no shock, no jolt—just a gentle pulse behind your eyes, like a flicker of warmth moving across your skull.

You smile.

“It just feels like… like a tingle,” you say softly. “Almost like soda bubbles in your brain.”

Bucky’s brows knit, his jaw still tight.

“No pain?” he asks, voice thin.

“None,” Bruce confirms, monitoring the screen, and showing Bucky. “Her vitals are normal. Brain activity looks calm. This is actually encouraging—it’s exactly the reaction I hoped for.”

You glance back at Bucky.

“I’m okay. You don’t have to do this today. But if you want to try—just try—then I’ll be right here the whole time. I promise.”

He hesitates for a long moment.

You can see the war behind his eyes.

Fear.

Conditioning.

The ghosts of command protocols.

He swallows hard.

Then he nods once, slow and sharp.

“…Okay,” he breathes. “But you don’t let go. Don’t leave me in that thing alone.”

“Where you go I go, Soldat”

Bucky moves toward the chair like a man walking into a fire. Every step is a silent scream of resistance. His body sits stiff, muscles clenched so tight you can see the tension trembling in his thighs, his jaw, his neck.

When Bruce tries to approach with the device, Bucky tenses violently, eyes flashing wide with remembered pain.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls.

“Hey,” you murmur gently, stepping into his line of sight. You kneel beside him, taking his flesh hand again. You cup it in both of yours, thumb softly stroking the back of his hand in slow, rhythmic motions.

“You’re safe,” you say quietly. “It’s just me. You don’t have to hold on so tight.”

His fingers twitch, then curl around yours in a slow, deliberate motion. His grip is terrifyingly strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“I’m here,” you say again. “I’m not leaving.”

Bruce, carefully watching, steps in again.

“Just putting the band on. It’s going to hum a little. No pulses. No shocks. You’ll feel pressure—not pain.”

The device is secured around Bucky’s head. You see his breath hitch—chest rising sharply as the hum begins.

His eyes flash wide.

“Doll, I'll remember, you promise” Bucky almost whispers to you.

“Yup, no ones taking anything away, promise” you say immediately.

You press both your hands around his hand and lean closer. “Focus on my voice. It’s just static. Like soft rain on a roof.”

His eyes dart between you and the ceiling. His grip tightens. His mouth opens—then closes again. But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t break.

“You’re doing it,” you say softly. “That’s all you have to do. Just let it be. I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, eyes wet. “Don’t be proud of this.”

“I am,” you whisper. “Because this is you, choosing something for yourself. Not because someone made you. Because you wanted to try.”

His breath breaks—just once. A faint exhale, a soft tremble, and a barely audible

“…Okay.”

When the hum fades, Bruce gently removes the device. He gives you both space, backing away to the monitors without a word.

Bucky blinks. Looks around. Waits—for pain, for punishment, for someone to shout again in Russian.

But nothing happens.

He looks at you. Eyes exhausted, but clear.

“…That wasn’t the chair.”

“No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

His hand is still in yours. He doesn’t pull away.

“…Can we do it again sometime?”

You smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

[muniimyg]

if this aligns w the bed chem universe..

probably when the rest of the group reacts to them dating or them seeing these 2 as a couple now or something. their friend group is so iconic !!

♡ 04: dinner and friends

series m.list // taglist unavailable

note: hangry vibes LOL

//

wednesday nights are for home-cooked meals.

as in: sleeves rolled up, veggies sacrificed, egos bruised. what started off as a sweet bonding tradition quickly devolved into a survival sport. a test of how many times the boys can push jungkook’s buttons before dinner is even plated. it used to be lighthearted. funny.

then jungkook started dating you.

and now? it's less who can piss him off first, and more how can we interrupt this weird domestic romance before we all throw up.

tonight, you’re running late.

not terribly. just enough that the boys are halfway through the prep, and jungkook’s slipped into his notorious silent treatment—head ducked, brows pinched, knife working like it owes him money. the onion he’s chopping is probably filing a restraining order.

he doesn’t look up when the door clicks open. doesn’t greet you. doesn’t soften.

instead, he just mutters, “took you long enough.” 

wow! it’s like he didn’t scroll through your texts four times waiting for your last message.

you smile anyway, dropping your bag on the counter and walking straight to him. your hand brushes along the slope of his back. gentle. grounding. he doesn’t flinch. just shifts a little, the smallest tilt, like he’d been saving that space beside him all night.

his hand finds your waist like it’s done it a thousand times before.

firm. steady. routine.

“careful,” he murmurs, still focused on the cutting board. “oil splashes.”

you blink, reaching for the salt beside him—and immediately feel him tug you back by the waist, slotting your body behind his like a human shield.

“i was just grabbing—”

“and i’m just trying to keep you alive,” he says, tone flat but hand protective. “sorry for caring.”

his fingers don’t leave your side until you’re holding the salt.

“wow,” jin says from the stove, spoon in hand. “didn’t you threaten to stab taehyung 15 minutes ago for breathing too loud?”

taehyung gasps, scandalized. “you said, and i quote, ‘look at my knife and look at your life.’ now you’re—fondling someone at the stove? betrayal. pure betrayal. all for what? a girl?”

“for my girl,” jungkook corrects, not missing a beat.

you snort.

yoongi doesn’t look up. just brushes past you to grab a stack of plates, muttering, “you two are a food safety violation.”

you pout. “i just got here. what’s with the hateful energy?”

namjoon points at your boyfriend, spoon dripping over his wrist. “ask your boyfriend. he’s the one with rage issues and a god complex.”

“he called me a butter fingers 10 minutes ago,” jimin says solemnly. “i don’t disagree but it still hurt… and now he’s being handsy and gentle? pick a personality, jeon.”

“hmmm. sounds like you’re being a dick, baby,” you agree, tossing in your vote for public shaming. “hangry?” 

the boys howl.

jungkook doesn’t defend himself. doesn’t even pretend to care. he just rolls his eyes like they’re all beneath him—and then gently guides you in front of the soup pot like the world’s grumpiest sous chef.

he hovers. doesn’t speak unless it’s to correct your form.

when you chop tomatoes, he adjusts your grip with a firm hand over yours. when you stir, he tucks your hair behind your ear.

“it’s gonna fall in and i’m not fishing it out.” 

when you reach for the apron, he wordlessly takes it from you, ties it himself. his knuckles graze your waist. linger there. 

and the thing is—you know him.

jungkook isn’t a patient man. he’s snappy, sarcastic, and occasionally evil when hungry. he’s got a fast mind, a quicker temper, and a long list of grudges taehyung is definitely at the top of. but when it comes to you?

he simmers.

“why are you standing like that?” you ask, peeking up at him.

“like what?”

“like you’re trying to merge into my personal space.”

he doesn’t even blink. “it’s our space.”

“you have your own counter.”

“yours has better lighting.”

you raise a brow. he raises you a soft smirk. 

challenge accepted.

you lean in, press a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, and catch it—that moment. the buffering. the breath he forgets to take, the slight hitch in his chest, the twitch of his fingers.

he glares at the cutting board like it offended him. “can you not do that when i’m holding a knife.”

you grin. “does it distract you?”

he mumbles something.

“what was that?”

“...obviously.”

and then—

the teasing does not stop.

“look at him,” jin points with the ladle. “she kisses him and he forgets he has opposable thumbs.”

“he cut onions faster than that earlier,” jimin adds. “now he’s like… stirring with love or something.”

“he asked me to move my elbow five times,” namjoon deadpans. “she bumped into him twice and he said ‘it’s fine, baby.’ i feel like crying—”

“fuck.”

a small ouch breaks through the kitchen chatter.

you turn instantly. “what happened?”

jungkook holds up his finger.

it's just a shallow nick, but it’s already reddening. he’s not panicking, but he’s definitely blinking like he can’t believe it happened. the room stills.

you step closer. “let me see.”

“it’s fine.”

you grab his wrist. “you always say that when it’s not fine.”

he lets you inspect it. lets you tug him toward the sink and run water over it, thumb brushing over the back of his hand, jaw clenched as he watches you work.

the room is silent.

“babying him now?” yoongi mutters, but it’s weak. even he’s watching curiously.

you dry jungkook’s hand with a paper towel, inspecting the cut again. “it’s not that bad. you’re lucky.”

“i’m always lucky,” he says, voice low. “i have you.”

you stare at him.

taehyung actually gags.

“can you kiss it better?” jungkook asks, way too earnestly. “baby, it’s ouchie.”

he says it too fast. 

way too fast—like his mouth jumped the gun before his brain could catch up. there’s a beat of silence where no one moves, like the kitchen collectively paused to process it. then it hits him.

his cheeks tint a slow pink, crawling up to the tips of his ears. he clears his throat once—twice—eyes darting to the floor as his thumb rubs against the side of his cut finger. you watch the way he fumbles for recovery, eyes scanning for a way out, but nothing lands. he’s already too far in.

and then—your lips press against the tiny scrape on his knuckle, gentle, like a whisper.

just once. soft and quick.

that’s when the teasing starts.

“it’s ouchie?” jin repeats, blinking like he’s trying to make sense of a foreign language. “you really said that out loud?”

jungkook glares. “i was in pain.”

“in your soul, maybe,” jin mutters.

taehyung leans against the counter, arms crossed, expression exaggeratedly solemn. “you’ve changed, man. you used to be cool. i used to admire you. the whole tsundere thing was really working for you—but ouchie? holy fuck.”

jimin’s already grinning, eyes flicking between you and jungkook like he’s watching a very slow, very romantic sitcom. 

“so all i have to do is get hurt and i’ll get kissed too?” jimin says, holding up his palm with an invisible wound. “look, i think i have a paper cut. right there.”

“i think i pulled a muscle reaching for the soy sauce,” taehyung adds, clutching his side with a dramatic wince.

“you guys suck,” jungkook mutters, quieter now, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand. “don’t forget i’m a chem major. i’ll poison you all.”

he says it without much bite.

mostly embarrassment.

regardless, his gaze flickers to you like he’s checking whether you’re laughing at him or with him.

you try to hold it in.

you really do...

but your shoulders shake a little, a quiet smile curling at the corners of your mouth. it’s endearing. all of it—his flustered attempt at asking for comfort, the way his ears haven’t cooled down since, and the petty threats he tosses out to keep from completely combusting.

he sees it. 

sees the way you look at him and don’t tease, just soften.

and under the edge of the counter, almost like it’s second nature, you feel it—his pinky hooking around yours.

[bettystonewell]

COUPLE THINGS #2

Putting You x Dean Winchester through everyday relationship stuff - 1300 words

Pasta and Pie

It’s a rare moment when you can cook in the bunker. Not just make a meal, but cook from scratch with fresh ingredients.

Pasta that’s not al dente after two minutes in the microwave, but the kind you put in a pot and boil. Nevermind it’s dried and came from the local grocer in a plastic bag that’s flakey and easy to break. It’s the thought that counts.

Yes, you bought tinned tomatoes, but you picked up some mushrooms and onions to counteract them. A carrot and a small zucchini like your mom used to do for you because both Winchesters need their vegetables. They’re growing boys, after all.

You’re just chopping them up fine for Dean and countering again with bacon and minced meat.

“Meat man,” you whisper with a grin and place everything at the ready. You reach under the steel bench for a bowl, and up top for a pan, swinging overhead. Stretch behind for a knife just as Dean walks in.

His hair still holds the water from his shower. It’s dishevelled, but it’s clean, free of monster guts.

“Feeling better?” you say as he pads over to you.

His bare feet slap on the polished floor as he crosses the room. “Yeah,” he croaks.

His fingers grip your waist. They shuck up your shirt. Palms smooth over your skin. Toned chest covered in a simple Henley reminds you Dean Winchester has a heart. He nips your jugular from behind, tugs on your chin, then demands a kiss from your lips.

“What’s all this?” he says, when he pulls away just enough. Breath touches your nose, fresh with mint, cooling and sweet.

“I told you I was making pasta. Got you pie for dessert, too.” You wink.

“Oh, yeah?” His hand finds your ass. Taps you once. Smooths the skin beneath through the soft material you wear.

There’s no need for stiff jeans or FBI gear when there’s snow days afoot. Rest and recuperation is key. Your bra was gone the second you got back from the store.

“What if I want you?” he husks. Plants another nibble below your ear and behind it.

Hmm. You hum. “Later.” You grab an onion and slide the wooden chopping board close.

The blade glides through the skin. Chops it clean in half, and you’re soon peeling and dicing the layers into sizable chunks.

“You’re going to cut yourself,” he says, and your knife hits the wood with a dull thud.

“What?”

“Just. Here.” Dean’s calloused grip pries the handle from you. Snatches the second half of the onion, and starts chopping with you in the middle. “See. You gotta keep your fingers clear of the blade.”

“I know that.” You just find it awkward.

Any retort you had gone as you watch on, however. His hands, steady. His glide smooth.

“Who taught you how to do that?” you say. You can’t recall him ever using onions on his Dean Deluxe’s. Just store-made patties, lettuce, cheese, tomato. Sauce.

His “Lisa” is quiet. His eyes stay on his hands as yours did, making quicker work of the vegetable than you ever could.

Your tongue pokes at your cheeks. Swipes up and down. He never mentions them, though you know of her and Ben, of course.

They were still together when you met the guys. At least Dean was trying to make it work. You saw what Crowley did to her. Saw the pain Dean felt when he let them go, and you picked up the pieces of a broken heart years later.

You’re left unsure whether to ask about her or pass the moment off and forget it, so “She teach you how to grate, too?”

You’re an idiot.

His, “Yeah,” crackles on the end.

He looks your way. Eyes almost amber in the bunker’s light. “Same principle.” His voice deepens, and he flashes a grin. “Keep the fingertips away from the sharp bits. Makes ‘em small enough to hide in the sauce.” He cocks a brow.

“A wise woman.”

“She is.” He nods. “Never fed me bacon, though.”

“No,” you exaggerate. Full of fake disgust. Eyes widen, but you can’t help the smile. “Guess she wanted to keep you ‘round.”

You shouldn’t have said that.

“And you don’t?” He squeezes your waist with his arm.

“It’s bacon!” You nudge him back with your hips. “If you don’t want it—”

“No, no, no. I never said that.” He drops the knife. His hand grips your wrist and turns you to him next. Pauses. “I want you ‘round.”

“Yeah?” Your grin widens. Even more so when he repeats you. Your hand finds its way to his chest.

It rises, heartbeat holds firm below the warmth of his body. He leans down and gives you another quick kiss. “Lisa was in my past. You know that.”

Your nod can only be curt when his lips still sway next to yours. Eyes flutter close, breath breathes him in. His soap, toothpaste, his musk. You’d never be able to describe it to anyone, but it’s the best in the world.

“I know,” you say. “I’m thankful for that.”

He pulls back. Blinks, pouts. His throat bobs up and down. The question of why plays on his features, his brow, the dimple just above his chin.

“She shaped you into who you are.” You pat his tummy. Palm thuds on the one too many burgers. The whiskey gut on a beer diet.

The worth he never gives himself credit for flashes through his eyes, and just as he’s about to pull you in and kiss you again, you open your mouth, and swoop in for the kill. “Now I’m gonna ruin it with more bacon.”

He takes another pause. His brows furrow, then relax when his grin pulls them down to squeeze his cheeks as his fingers squeeze you.

He leans in and ghosts your lips. “And I’m gonna ruin,” he starts and you’re breathless now, heart rate climbing fast, “that pie. Where is it?”

You snort first. He follows. You give him a soft smack, landing on his pectoral. It shakes beneath your palm as an airy snicker hisses past his front teeth. The bellow that comes next flitters through your ears and into your own chest, now warm like the bridge of your nose above it.

“Is it here?” Fingers creep under the elastic wrapped around your waist, spreading more warmth into your skin. You’d melt if it weren’t for his arm holding you upright. Your grip on the steel bench helps as his breath comes back to take yours again, interrupting the shake of your head.

You could stay like this for minutes, hours. Mould into and let him carry you away to the stars or some other poetic place bordering on lust and lecher, only he pulls back.

And though you’re partial to continuing, wanton for a different kind of feast, when he says, “Later?” gaze flicking down to the shelf below your chin? You nod with your eyes. Bite grazes your lower lip. Tongue rubs the upper. It’s a promise.

“So.” He clears his throat, lets you go. Puts his hands on his hips and scans the counter. “Want me to grate the other stuff?”

“If you like.” Your thumbs rub your fingertips, nails scratch your palm, willing your brain to think. For the high to subside enough to continue the task at hand.

“I’ll start on the mince,” you say and move to the fridge to get it. Heart in a flutter, making itself known in your chest. Mind aware of the tall hunter, grappling with the lid of the slicer that won’t quite fit. It’s a son-of-a-bitch, or so he says. Heaven help the carrot and zucchini that are about to face his wrath.

Heaven help you later.

This one is thanks to a poll I remember answering a couple of months ago, regarding which SPN character could chop an onion correctly. I voted for Rowena on account of the potion making she no doubt has experience in, but I can also imagine Dean commandeering a knife in this instance. Hoping to do a Sammy one next - Beth ❤️

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[r-memberme]

sharing type | k.p

⎯⎯ He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

warnings: fluff

The Mystic Grill buzzed with its usual half-hearted charm—dim string lights flickering overhead, lazy country music floating from the jukebox, and the scent of onion rings clinging to everything like a curse. You sat beside Elena in a corner booth, sipping a strawberry soda through a striped straw, one leg curled beneath you as you listened to her recap the latest Salvatore drama.

Kai and Damon had wandered off to the bar to pretend they could stand each other for more than ten minutes. So far, no blood had been spilled. A win, in your book.

You gave her a sly grin. “They’re growing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

Elena glances at you the moment the shadows fall across your table—two strangers, tall, arrogant, too sure of themselves. They lean in, leering, stinking of cheap cologne and worse intentions, voices slick with the same tired charm they’ve probably used on half the bar.

You don’t even blink. Just sip your drink and exchange the look.

That silent, unimpressed look shared only by women who’ve seen gods bleed. The do they have any idea who our men are? look. The should we warn them or let them die oblivious? look.

You sigh—long, theatrical, drenched in boredom—and place your glass down with deliberate care. The straw shifts like a white flag in the cup. Then you twist in your seat, letting them see the full force of your disdain. Your expression could cut glass.

“See that guy over there?” you say, voice feather-light, motioning with your chin toward the bar.

Kai hasn’t looked away since the moment the men approached. He’s perched on the stool like a lounging serpent, elbow on the counter, eyes glinting beneath lazy lashes. Still, there's nothing lazy about the way he watches. His gaze is lethal—like a knife dipped in something slow and fatal.

He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

“The one who looks like he’s moments from setting someone on fire with his mind?” you continue sweetly, tilting your head just so. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Elena, perfectly timed, gestures at Damon—who’s swirling his bourbon like it holds the last nerve he has left, already glaring hard enough to burn holes through both men.

“And mine’s the one who’s murdered people for less,” she says with a bright, innocent smile.

The men freeze.

Smirks falter. Confidence flickers.

One of them clears his throat, the sound dry and nervous. “Oh. Uh. You’re with… them?”

“Mhm,” you chirp, rising from the booth like it’s a stage and you’ve just been cued. Elena moves in tandem, the both of you calm, polished, rehearsed.

The strangers barely have time to stammer out an excuse before Kai shifts.

He doesn’t move much—just turns to face them, slow and serpentine, one brow arching with something between amusement and malice. His fingers twitch like he’s already chosen which spell to use. Not if—which.

The men take one look at him—truly look—and bolt like someone shouted fire.

Cowards.

You and Elena stroll back to the bar like you’re returning from a casual walk. Damon spares a glance over his glass and mutters, “Trouble?”

Elena shrugs. “Handled.”

Kai is still watching you, eyes narrowed, chest rising a little too slowly. You reach out and press your hand to his sternum—firm and warm beneath your palm.

“They weren’t worth it,” you murmur. “Just two boys playing brave.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” he lies.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I was just mentally planning their funerals,” he amends, with a slight pout. “That’s different.”

You grin, rising up on your toes to kiss the edge of his mouth—the corner, barely there, featherlight. He sucks in a breath like it startles him every time. Like the softness always strikes harder than the fire.

“You’re adorable when you’re unhinged,” you whisper.

Kai huffs. But you see the way he glows under your praise—subtle, hesitant, like he’s not quite used to being loved this way. Not yet. But he wants to be.

Damon groans something foul about lovebirds, but neither of you hear him.

Kai’s already tugging you gently toward the door, his fingers tangled through yours with an urgency he can’t mask.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, low and rough into your ear. “Before I accidentally test a fire spell.”

༊*·˚

The door barely clicks shut behind you before Kai’s already kicking off his shoes, peeling off his jacket, and sprawling dramatically across your couch like he owns the place.

And to be fair—he kind of does.

He’s been slowly overtaking your space like ivy: leaving books open on your counters, jackets slung over chairs, a set of rings on your nightstand that you’re pretty sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. His toothbrush showed up in your bathroom three weeks ago without a word.

You haven’t asked him about it. He hasn’t offered. But he’s here more often than not, and you like it that way.

“Movie time,” he announces, claiming the middle cushion like it’s a throne and opening his arms wide like he expects tribute.

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean our movie night? The one where I pick the movie because last time you picked The Shining and then asked why I don’t sleep with the lights off anymore?”

Kai shrugs, wholly unbothered. “Not my fault Jack Nicholson is a cinematic genius.”

“He tried to murder his family.”

“With style,” Kai says, deadpan.

You throw a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him dramatically, like you’ve wounded him. Flops sideways and groans, sprawled like a fallen king.

Eventually, you settle on something safe and cozy—an old rom-com, something where no one dies and everyone ends up kissed. Kai grumbles at first, makes sarcastic comments for the first fifteen minutes, but his hand finds yours anyway. Lazy fingers playing with your knuckles. Thumb brushing over your wrist like it calms him to feel you breathing.

It’s not long before he shifts closer. And then closer again. Until your legs are tangled and his head is buried against your shoulder, nose in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in.

“You smell good,” he mutters into your collarbone.

You hum, threading your fingers through his hair. “Better than popcorn?”

“Better than blood.”

You snort. “Romantic.”

He grins against your skin. “I’m serious. You smell like… peace. And cinnamon. And that one shampoo that says it’s made of like, eleven herbs and doesn’t specify what any of them are.”

You laugh and tip your head back, letting it rest against the cushions. Kai just watches you for a moment. Soft-eyed. Quiet. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And maybe he can’t.

He shifts again, tugging the blanket over both of you. His arm winds around your waist, snug, protective, heavy in a way that feels more grounding than suffocating. His voice is softer now, low and earnest:

“Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For not running away. For… making room for me. Even when I make it hard.”

Your hand curls instinctively into his shirt.

“You make it easy, Kai.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days. You lean in, press your forehead to his, let silence bloom soft between you. The only sound is the TV droning on in the background and the quiet rhythm of your hearts.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I’d kill anyone for you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I know.”

“And I’d only sort of feel bad about it.”

“Progress.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I’m working on it.”

You kiss his temple, slow and fond. “I know.”

And then you both fall silent again. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in each other.

Kai Parker—terrifying, reckless, half-reformed mess of a man—falls asleep on your chest twenty minutes later, soft snores muffled against your t-shirt.

You don’t move.

Not even when the credits roll. Not even when your arm goes numb.

Because it’s Kai. And for once, he feels safe. And more than that—he trusts you.

You’re not moving. Not yet.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

thank you to @sc4rrc for the request <3 I hope you enjoyed it!!

feel free to request fics with kai again! <3

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Eight: elephant in the room

tw: anxiety, vomit

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up. 

Stiff muscles and joints scream as you stir, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room as thick curtains forbid sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the wooly dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig. 

It’s dreadful. Briny and falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half of the bottle is gone anyway. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it—thick, like pudding. 

Up your body urges. You sigh as you swing your legs over the side of the bed where sweet Pumpkin stares through you. Pursing your lips, you give her threaded nose a quick poke before standing. You’ve been stagnant for too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess—a zombie with half a brain. 

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach into submission as your mind begins to buzz. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself. 

“Morning Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.” 

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.” 

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly. 

John turns, cutting board in hand, where he dumps the contents into the broth. The liquid quells for only a short moment before it begins to boil once more, this time with a vengeance as steam billows from the liquid like mist upon a lake. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help—to give something back to the people who housed you for the night—but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream. 

Perhaps, just this once, you will allow someone to take care of you. 

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veg. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” John teases as he dries his hands. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking. 

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talking about.” 

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Aelin enters the kitchen swaddled in a fluffy pink bathrobe, freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms. Half dried hair presses against your cheek as you’re smothered in the strong sillage of rosewater. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm—most likely thanks to her shower—and you can’t help but melt into her despite your illness. 

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine. 

“Well, you’re feeling good enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you. 

Just as John turns the stove off, Aelin slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and attempt to laugh—you’re brutally interrupted by another wet cough. 

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions. 

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff. 

“John?” she says as if calling a dog. 

He chuckles. “On it.” 

“You have to keep up on taking this stuff,” Aelin chastizes. “Remember what the doctors said? You’re going to get an ear infection again if the pressure and fluids build too much, and I don’t think you can afford to lose any more of your hearing. Really, we ought to get you to an audiologist…” 

“I’ll be fine,” you assure. “Just… give me the stupid medicine.” 

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Aelin is going to force down your throat, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile, utterly content with herself. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes. 

“You seem… happy,” you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment. 

Aelin hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.” 

“What about?” 

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret. 

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Aelin are. Even as a child, Aelin lived a somewhat privileged life due to the status of her father as a Chief Inspector. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job, he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of financial discomfort since they got married. 

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you—not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough. 

“Sounds fancy,” you smile. 

“Sounds warm,” Aelin corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?” 

“Sure, and John can drag me around like a third wheel,” you say with bitter humor. “Think if I shrink myself small enough we can trick them into thinking that I’m your child?” 

Aelin’s laughter is stiff. Her smile doesn’t get her eyes to shine as bright as they normally do. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.” 

A pang echoes throughout your chest. “Good idea,” you murmur, gauche. 

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it to you across the island countertop like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night’s rest to thank for that. 

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Aelin’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.” 

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the congestion that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.” 

“Good,” Aelin hums, though she’s yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone this year, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.” 

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Aelin out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she’s been less than tactful about it. 

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA—something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared—just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong. 

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup. 

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis. 

For a moment, Aelin turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?”

He pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.” 

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat. Alone.” 

A pout forms on Aelin’s rosy lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to. 

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” she finally concedes. 

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse; ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you—but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable. 

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lips that rustles his facial hair—he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway. 

“Aelin-” you start. 

“You promised me on Halloween that you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.” 

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene—but this isn’t his fight. 

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.” 

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on a chalkboard. It’s loud enough to cut through the tinnitus in your ears. 

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you. 

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. It’s why your hearing is marred and every flash of light seems like it’s reflecting off of the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Aelin begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you in a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Aelin. 

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the island. He says something, but it doesn’t reach you. “I can’t.” 

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic scrapes against the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the bin just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as soup mixes with cough syrup and salt. Aelin slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand. 

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry, I-”

“Easy now,” John whispers, his voice so deep you nearly can’t register it. 

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some sort of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Aelin. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back. 

Once more, your stomach lurches but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop. 

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone—especially yourself.  

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Aelin help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Aelin’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. Not John’s attempt at comfort. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broke that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk—share that darkness inside of you—do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good at is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth. 

Aelin takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest that you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father who’s been long dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, or why you’ve seemingly thrown away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually. 

Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion. 

For now, you let the flesh rot inside of you and pray that Aelin can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap and cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body. 

You think that’s why—after all these years—you and Aelin are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it. 

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like it’s sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Eventually, you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger which only begins to worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame. 

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you’re unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue—it hurts more than usual. 

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had any time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month, your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly—you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out. 

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you try to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain. 

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning, you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him too well. 

How are you feeling? 

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it? 

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought. 

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. It’s that perfect canned broth that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them out for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge. 

Glad to hear. 

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you—forces you into the depths of dreams—but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon: 

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join? 

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Aelin’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike. There’s not really a need—he cleaned it last week—but he knows he has to. He has to keep his hands moving, otherwise his mind gets the best of him. 

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re doing better than you were before. 

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway, but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign. 

It doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you’re safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow. 

When his phone vibrates again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving it once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling. 

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it. 

“Ah, I know you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea. 

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” He cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.” 

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice now, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has. 

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures. 

“Let me guess. France?” he asks. 

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains. 

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.” 

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.” 

It’s impossible for him not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all. 

“Course I am. We’re goin’ Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains. 

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin. 

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend and I, yeah.” 

“What kind of friend?” she prods. 

“Just a friend.” 

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can see them swell with the curve of her lip and tilt of her head. 

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…” 

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.” 

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame an old crone for trying,” she titters. “But, Christmas Eve. Perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.” 

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother—yet again—why he never brings any girls home for the holiday. 

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was taking that call: 

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (: 

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually, he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry either, but no one at work seems to call him anything else. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain. 

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[dickgraysonisnothereforthis]

Jason Todd x gn mean!reader

I love you mean!reader take jason by the balls like he deserves

(Short, fluff, established relationship)

Swearing, no use of y/n

———

“Shit.” The knife slips off the onion yet again and Jason feels like driving it into the countertop. Instead, he takes another go at the onion and almost nicks his finger.

He throws the knife onto the cutting board with a clatter. This is so fucking stupid. Jason is exhausted and starving and at his wit’s end. All he wants is to make himself some pasta, why can’t he cut this goddamn onion?

It isn’t helping that he came home pissed to begin with. The night was a complete waste of his time. He’s spent weeks sniffing around for one of Bane’s weapons shipments and finally tracked it down to a warehouse on the south side. Jason had got himself all gussied up to go in guns blazing, but he kicked in the door of an empty warehouse. They had already cleared the fuck out, they were one step ahead of him. It was so goddamn embarrassing, all he could do was shuffle home in the rain and try not to picture how Bane was probably laughing at him.

And now even this onion is getting the best of him. Can’t Jason have anything?

He perks up as he hears the clank of your key in the lock. You’re home, thank god. He abandons the onion and goes to meet you at the door.

“Hey, babe.” Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Jason ignores your words and pulls you into his arms, jamming his face into your neck. Your hand comes up to card through his hair. “Huh. Rough night?”

He grunts, and you huff out a laugh. “Aw, poor baby.”

“It was so fucking stupid,” he mutters. “How was your work dinner?”

“Fine. Nothing to report. Drinks went on forever.” You slide your fingers under his shirt and pinch at his waist. “You eat yet?”

“Hm.” He bites lightly at your neck. You tug sharply at his hair. “C’mon, Jay, you have to eat.” You gently shove him aside so you can slip out of your coat and slip off your shoes.

“‘M trying to,” he sulks.

You raise your eyebrows. “Well, what does that mean?”

He sighs, gesturing toward the kitchen, and you go investigate. “Couldn’t cut the fucking onion,” he grumbles. It’s so annoying; normally he’s not a complete idiot in the kitchen, but tonight his skills are failing him.

“Ah,” you say as you approach the cutting board. “Well, unfortunately, you’ve done it wrong.” You take his place at the countertop. Grabbing the knife, you hold it to the onion but then stop, turning to squint at him. “You want me to do it?”

Jason looks at you blankly. You nod. “You want me to show you how to do it or just do it?”

He smiles ruefully. “Good.” You start slicing. “Didn’t want to teach you anything, anyway.”

Jason sighs contentedly, putting his arms around your waist and leaning into your back. Your work steadily for a few minutes, before nudging him with your shoulder. “What were you going to put in the sauce?”

“Garlic,” Jason shrugs. “Onion.”

“Hm. It would be better with cherry tomatoes. And white wine.”

“Mm.”

“Go get the tomatoes. And the wine from the fridge,” you order. Jason blows meaningfully at your neck. “Please,” you add.

Jason knocks his head lightly against yours, then goes to get the requested ingredients. Soon, you’re frying up the onions, garlic, and tomatoes, pouring in some white wine, and setting some water to boil. Jason half-heartedly offers to help, but you take one look at him and wave him off. Fifteen minutes later you’re handing him a fork and sliding a bowl of pasta his way.

He digs in hastily. “Thanks, babe.”

You smile in satisfaction, stealing his fork to take a bite. “Hm. Pretty good.”

Jason wolfs it down before getting up for seconds. He grins at you, and you smile softly back. “Fuckin’ delicious.”

“Damn right. I’m gonna shower.” You move toward the bedroom, pulling your shirt over head. Jason gets momentarily distracted by your bare skin.

“Tsk.” He glances at your face, you’re smirking at him. “Eyes up here, big guy.”

“Can’t blame me for lookin’, sweetheart.” Jason smiles cockily at you, and you roll your eyes.

“Finish your dinner.” You turn back to the bathroom.

He picks up his fork. “I’m cleaning up,” he offers.

“You bet you are.” Jason grins cheekily, and you disappear into the bathroom.

———

He needs to be bullied.

[softlypossessive]

Hello! May I request a Hawks x reader fic where the reader teaches him how to cook their favorite dish? The dish can be whatever you like!

A Recipe for Trouble (and Something Like Love)

♡ Characters: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x gn!Reader ♡ Warnings: Domestic fluff, playful banter, shirtless Hawks in an apron, food-themed innuendo, emotional vulnerability, light kisses, mild spice (heh badum tsss ), love as comfort food ♡ WC: ~1.8k ♡ Notes: Thank you for the adorable request! I meant to write a quick fluffy moment and somehow ended up in my feelings over tomato stew and apron Hawks. This was so fun to write—Keigo is chaos in the kitchen but he means so well. Hope you enjoy this messy lil love letter disguised as a cooking lesson!

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The kitchen was a warzone of domesticity, a cramped little corner of your apartment bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sun streaming through the window above the sink. 

Dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink, a testament to the chaos Keigo Takami — better known as Hawks — had unleashed in his valiant attempt to conquer your childhood recipe. 

The air was thick with the scent of sautéed garlic, simmering tomatoes, and a faint whiff of charred onion, a casualty of his earlier bravado. 

Keigo stood there like he’d been born to rule this domain, though the evidence suggested otherwise. Your second-favorite apron — the one with cartoon chickens dancing across a faded yellow background — hung crookedly around his lean waist, the strings knotted in a messy bow that barely held it in place.

No shirt, of course — why would Hawks, the Number Two Hero, bother with something as mundane as a shirt when he could flaunt the sculpted lines of his torso, all sharp edges and golden skin kissed by the sun? The beautiful bastard.

His blonde hair was a tousled disaster, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d just flown through a storm, and those amber eyes of his — sharp as a predator’s — were locked on the onions he was brutalizing with a kitchen knife. 

The blade flashed in his hand, wielded with the same reckless confidence he brought to every fight, though here it was woefully misplaced. 

A single bulb hung overhead, its light catching on the chipped paint of the cabinets, giving the whole scene a lived-in, cozy charm that felt distinctly yours. 

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at your lips as a chunk of onion launched itself across the room, skittering under the fridge like a fugitive. 

“Are you… fighting those onions?” you asked, watching him hack away.

“I’m chopping them with style,” he shot back, his voice dripping with mock indignation, though his technique was anything but stylish. 

Another piece flew, bouncing off the wall with a soft thwack.

“Totally intentional.” 

You sighed, the sound exaggerated for effect, and pushed off the counter. 

“Keigo. You’re holding the knife wrong. You’re supposed to curl your fingers, not — baby, you’re gonna lose a thumb.” 

He paused mid-slice, tilting his head to fix you with a lopsided smirk, the kind that made your heart do stupid little flips despite yourself. 

“I have like three knives in my belt at all times, and you’re worried about this one?”

“I like your thumbs,” you muttered, closing the distance between you. 

Your hands brushed his as you reached for the knife, guiding his fingers into a safer grip — curling them under, away from the blade’s path. His skin was warm, calloused from years of hero work, and the contact sent a quiet thrill up your spine. 

He went still under your touch, his smirk softening into something quieter, more real. 

“You’re really good at this,” he said, his voice low, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair fell into your face, instead of the cutting board.

You scoffed, trying to play it off, though your cheeks warmed. 

“Chopping vegetables? It’s not that impressive.”

“No,” he murmured, his tone deepening, “letting someone in like this.” 

Your breath caught, snagging in your throat like a thread pulled too tight. 

This whole thing — the dish, the cooking lesson — was just a whim, a half-joking offer to share a piece of your past: a stew your mom used to make, rich with tomatoes and herbs, the kind of comfort that lingered in your memory like a soft blanket. 

You’d laughed when you suggested teaching him, picturing the great Hawks fumbling with a spatula. 

But now, with him standing barefoot in your kitchen, looking at you like the peeling linoleum and the hiss of the stove was some kind of sacred ground, it hit you harder than you’d braced for.

“I just wanted to share something with you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers still lingering on his. “Something that makes me feel at home.” 

Keigo’s grin softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re my home.” 

The words landed like a punch, stealing the air from the room, leaving only the sizzle of the pan behind him and the wild thud of your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. 

You stared at him, caught off guard by how easily he said it, how sure he sounded.

You cleared your throat, nudging him with your elbow to break the tension before it swallowed you whole. 

“Alright, Mr. Sentimental. Get back to work. Stir that before it burns.” 

“Yes, chef,” he quipped, snapping into a dramatic salute with the spatula, the motion so over-the-top you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

He turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce with exaggerated care, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. 

It was absurd — Hawks, the fastest man alive, treating a pot of stew like it was a life-or-death mission. His wings, tucked tight against his back, twitched every now and then, a few stray feathers fluttering to the floor, catching the light like tiny embers.

The kitchen wasn’t big — barely enough room for two people to move without bumping into each other — but it felt alive with him in it. 

The counter was a mess of spilled spices and vegetable scraps, a cutting board stained with onion juice, and a jar of dried basil you’d knocked over in your haste to save the garlic from his earlier assault. 

He’d insisted on helping, shrugging off your protests with a lazy “I’ve got this, babe,” even as he’d promptly set a dish towel on fire trying to light the stove. 

You’d laughed until your sides hurt, swatting him with the singed fabric while he grinned like a kid caught sneaking cookies. 

Now, the chaos had settled into something softer. The stew was coming together — slightly lumpy, the tomatoes a little unevenly chopped, but fragrant and warm, filling the room with a scent that tugged at your heartstrings as he hummed a tune you vaguely recognized from one of his patrols, something he’d picked up from a street musician downtown.

When it was done, he plated it with a flourish, the bowls mismatched and chipped from years of use, the stew sloshing a little over the edges. 

“Ta-da,” he announced, holding one out to you like it was a prize. “Michelin-star worthy, if I do say so myself.” 

You snorted, taking the bowl.

“You’re delusional.” 

“Delusionally talented,” he corrected, hopping up to sit on the counter beside you. 

You followed suit, your legs swinging in tandem, the cool edge of the counter pressing into your thighs. 

He hummed around the first taste, eyes fluttering shut for a second. 

“Damn. That’s good.”

“You made it,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. 

“We made it,” he corrected again, tapping his fork against yours with a soft clink. 

The stew was rich, a little salty from his heavy hand with the seasoning, but it hit all the right notes — warmth spreading through your chest, a taste of nostalgia wrapped in something new. 

You smiled, softer than you meant to, and he caught it, leaning in just enough that your knees bumped again. 

“Can I confess something?” he asked, his voice dipping into that playful, flirty tone that always made your pulse skip.

“Is it about the onions?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. 

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the space between you. “No. It’s about you.” 

You tilted your head, waiting, your fork hovering mid-air. 

He looked at the plate, then back at you, his gaze steady and unguarded. 

“I’ve done a lot of reckless things — flying into burning buildings, picking fights with villains twice my size. But learning to cook for you? Might just be the scariest. And the best.”

You froze, the fork slipping slightly in your grip.

His words hung there, simple but heavy, and before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed the front of that ridiculous chicken apron, yanked him close, and kissed him.

It was messy and perfect — his lips tasting of garlic and tomato, a hint of the stew still lingering, warm and familiar like the dish you’d just made together. 

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer across the counter as you melted into him, his kiss carrying a hunger that belied his easy grin, a quiet intensity that made your head spin. 

When you pulled back, he was flushed, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and bright. 

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, and whispered, “I burned the onions on purpose.” 

“You liar,” you laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the heat still coursing through you.

“I’d burn a hundred onions if it gets me another kiss,” he said, his grin widening, all teeth and charm. 

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding up to tangle in his messy hair, tugging gently at the strands. 

He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and the fork clattered to the counter, forgotten as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. 

The kitchen faded away — the mess, the smells, the hum of the city outside — until it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other, the taste of home on your lips. 

His wings flexed behind him, brushing the cabinets with a soft rustle, and you felt the tickle of a feather against your arm, a reminder of who he was — wild, untamed, but here, with you, soft in a way he didn’t show the world.

“Keigo,” you murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough to catch your breath. “You’re a terrible cook.” 

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, his nose brushing yours. 

“Yeah, but I’ve got other skills, babe. Wanna see?” 

You swatted his chest, but he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief. 

“I mean it, though,” he said, softer now. “This — cooking with you, being here — it’s better than any mission. You’re better.” 

Your heart squeezed, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, his bare skin warm under your cheek. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, and he chuckled, wrapping an arm around you, holding you close as the sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in shades of orange and pink.

The stew sat cooling in its bowls, but neither of you cared. 

Later, you’d drag him to the couch, curl up under a blanket, and argue over what movie to watch — him pushing for action, you vetoing anything with explosions — but for now, you stayed there, perched on the counter, legs tangled, sharing a bowl of slightly burnt stew and a love that felt like it could outshine even the brightest hero’s spotlight. 

With Keigo, it was always like this — messy, unexpected, and so damn sweet you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 23: Comfort/Crying

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Comfort/Crying (🌼)

Summary: You’ve had a shitty couple of months, trying to hold on for the sake of everyone around you, but you can only take so much…

Warnings: Angst, crying, slight allusions to depression, self-loathing, hurt/comfort, not proof-read

Word Count: 982

A/n: This prompt hits differently now than it would have when I intended to post it, but now it also comes at the right time because I do feel like we have all cried a lot lately. I know I have, and I could use some good old Matty comfort right about now. Like, a hug would be enough.

Read Me On AO3! (coming soon)

You’re tired. 

You’re so tired.

Life has had quite the habit of beating you down lately, and you are so exhausted you just want to disappear. You are expected to function, but how can you when you’re already falling apart?

“Hey,” Matt says softly from the doorway. “You okay?”

You don’t look up from the onions you’re cutting. He just got home from court; the last thing he wants is to listen to you bitch and moan about what a shitty month you’ve had. 

You have to function because there are people who depend on you. If you’re not strong for him, what is the point? In your mind, at least, that makes sense, twisted as it may be—and it is incredibly twisted.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… making dinner.”

The vegetable’s gases burn in your eyes. You’re shaking, but that must be all the caffeine you had after yet another sleepless night. Matt is gone so much, during the day as this kindhearted lawyer who fights for the rights of the innocent, and at night as Daredevil, he doesn’t know how you keep tossing and turning when he’s not there. You can’t blame him for having his own shit to deal with; he’s a good boyfriend, and you love him to pieces, but you can’t talk to him. 

You don’t want him to worry because you know he would burn the world down if it meant you could be free of all this pain. He would find a way to exorcize the hell out of the demons in your head, wrap you in cotton, and keep you safe from the storm raging outside. He would let go of everything just to be with you, and you refuse to let yourself be this fucking selfish. Because people depend on him, too. 

But oh, you are truly falling apart at the seams. Too much to feel, too much to think about—it is a painful weight on your chest threatening to crush you. There is no reason behind it, just a myriad of disasters balled into one, and the avalanche is about to take you away. 

Matt reaches out, fingers brushing your shoulder. “You sure?” he asks. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. 

“You’re crying.”

“It’s the onions,” you say. “The, uh, fumes…”

“Okay.” 

He doesn’t have to acknowledge the fact that you’re crying to know something is wrong with you. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest. 

He’s your sanctuary. 

His hand hovers over the one holding the knife.  “Let go,” he says. “Let go…” 

Your fingers loosen around the handle. Matt catches it, wasting no time to place it aside before you can hurt yourself on the sharp edge of its blade. His voice is a mere breath against your heated temple. “That’s it. It’s okay.”

You can barely breathe, your arms flailing around helplessly. Matt doesn’t dare let go of you, afraid you might fall apart if he loosens his hold, so he squeezes his arms around you until you are enveloped in a cocoon of him, and the world outside disappears.

He shushes in your ear. Gentle whispers of, ‘You’re okay. I’ve got you,’ course through your veins like a balm for your weary soul. You’ve been holding on for the sake of the people around you for too long; it rolls over you like a boulder. You can no longer stop it. 

His hands find yours, intertwining your fingers as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Let it out,” he says. 

The tears run down your cheek in an endless flood. It’s ugly, messy, and feels like too much, but Matt doesn’t pull away. He stands there, absorbing every bit of it, trying to work as a sponge to soak up what’s hurting you. He would rather have you take the pain out on him than suffer through any of this alone.

When you finally manage to suck in a deep, shuddering breath, you’re exhausted—wrung out. Wrecked. But there is a sudden emptiness where the crushing weight of the world on your shoulders used to be. 

You finally lift your head, tearful eyes staring back into his. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He shushes you. “You needed to cry. It’s okay.”

You whimper at the tenderness in his voice. 

“It’s okay to lean on me.” He turns you around to him, pressing your face into his chest. “Just promise me you’ll come to me next time.” A kiss melts against your temple. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

A sharp breath burns the tender flesh of your lungs. “No, I–” you stammer. “I have t–”

He cuts you off, his own voice on the verge of breaking. “You don’t. You’re not alone, sweetheart. Not anymore.”

The dam might be breaking, but he is right there to pick up the pieces before they can get lost in the current with the shards of your broken heart. He patches you up the only way he knows how: with his hands and silent declarations of his undying love. 

And it really is undying, you realize. He loves you when you’re put together, and he loves you when you’re broken. He loves you without a doubt or second thought. He loves you unconditionally, wholly, and he would go to the ends of the earth for you. 

You’re not alone. You might have been once, but not since you met him. Not since he walked into your life and turned it all upside-down. 

You filled each other’s empty hearts like it was the only thing to do.

You don’t have to deal with these demons on your own anymore because Matt will always be there for you, no matter how much you loathe your miserable self. He will always be there to pick up the pieces, and you will never have to be alone again.

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Quick! Info dump about your favorite blorbo!

König headcanons

NSFW content below the cut, 18 + only (These apply to yandere König as well, the toxic stuff is marked with a red flag 🚩)

Does like 50 crunches and 50 pushups first thing in the morning when he wakes up, as he has done since he was a teenager.

Will fix everything from cars to furniture. If the door is creaking he will oil the hinges immediately. Actually, he will treat every single thing in life as a problem... A problem he will fix.

He's great at math and physics and has vast amounts of knowledge about mechanics, thermodynamics, even things like quantum theory and other complex astronomy stuff.

He's completely clueless when it comes to following trends and memes. You have to explain every other tiktok to him. He rarely uses emojis but when he does, it's awkward and slightly intimidating because König doesn't know the hidden meanings behind them. If you send him an eggplant or peach emoji he asks if you need veggies from the store.

Loves your cooking (even if it's just microwaved mac and cheese). If you start to feed this man, you'll never get rid of him.

This is your classic mama’s boy who never had to learn how to cook and then went to the army and got used to the facility taking care of him so… yeah. Doesn't know how to cook but will try to help in any way he can! König is very excited to see you’re making food and wanders into the kitchen like “What are we making today?” You can try and give him a chopping board, an onion and a knife, but this poor man doesn't even peel the onion unless you tell him he has to remove the outer layer first...

Eats like a horse. Is secretly afraid that you run out of food. Goes to the fridge and if it's half full, he will not take the snack he was supposed to have, only comments: "The fridge looks empty." (It's not a passive aggressive statement, he's just worried.)

Also: everytime there's a crisis somewhere – he follows the news neurotically – König starts to prep. There's a month's worth of food stashed in one of the cupboards at all times. He also preps fuel, propane, medicine and the like.

Ruins all the fun when you're playing board games because he fusses about the rules so much. König holds the rulebook in his hand through the whole game and double-checks every single thing.

He's very clumsy, sometimes hits his head on the door frame when he's in a hurry or visiting a new place. He can't stay still either, always shakes his leg when he’s sitting. König needs a lot of exercise when he's not deployed to get all that energy and frustration out.

This has been discussed earlier but yeah, König even drops his mags sometimes in the field because he's too excited. He's a very capable martial artist though. Has done Savate, Escrima and Pekiti-Tirsia Kali and is very agile and precise with the double kali sticks he carries to field sometimes. Suddenly his clumsiness disappears when he has to knife someone, kick someone in the head or beat them to death with those sticks.

This is the reason König fucked up his sniper dreams too: having to control his breath, lie still for long amounts of time, then take aim and shoot a rifle vs. aiming during an adrenaline high, giving a tight spurt or two with his SMG… The latter just comes naturally to him! If you ask him how he managed to take down a human trafficking cell all alone König will say he simply "got carried away."

König goes to the gym a lot. Gets back super pumped and with an urgent need to make love. But not before he's had a cold shower! It's almost like a ritual: he has to torture himself with weights and cold water first before he can have his prize (= access to a woman)

Wakes you up in the middle of the night because he started to worry about petty, stupid things and then got a lil horny. Humps your leg or your back very, very slowly while grunting in your ear: "Hey... Hey. Are you sleeping…?" (Like. Yes, König, I was but I'm not anymore, thanks for asking)

Asks what kind of fantasies you have all of a sudden while you two are cuddling. Asks very detailed questions about them too. If you ask him what kind of fantasies he has in return, König will tense up and then say he doesn't really know, perhaps something like… a blowjob in the forest… And somehow you just know that his real fantasies are so perverse you don't even want to know more about them.

If you "nag" or yell at him, he might get a boner.

If you notice and get offended, ask: "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?!' König will freeze and look at you with a bewildered, obsessed stare and go: "Ja..?" while the boner situation in his pants gets visibly worse.

🚩 Would never go to bed before you've settled your argument. The problem is that it's very difficult for König to apologize because he always thinks he's in the right and that you simply need some time to come to that conclusion too. If you give him the silent treatment he will eventually come to you, gets all touchy and asks surprisingly demurely: "Are you still angry with me?"

🚩 The minute you forgive him or decide it was a stupid argument anyways, the demure puppy act disappears. König thinks he won and that it's time for some makeup sex ❤️

Has like the longest cock known to man. He has actual trouble finding comfortable underwear to fit that beast into. It's beautiful but intimidating, uncut, smooth and sleek. Not too thick but certainly not thin either. He likes to keep himself tidy down there too so the lack of hair makes this murder weapon look even bigger.

You two occasionally break furniture while having sex. It's mainly his fault (he gets carried away). He's very upset about it afterwards though, looks at the destruction he caused, muttering "Scheisse…" while rubbing the back of his neck. Then he tries to fix it while you're still there with your legs shaking and in need of aftercare.

If you remind him that he has other duties first, perhaps whimper his name in frustration, König will apologize and carry you to bed. He gives you that precious aftercare with unwavering passion and attention every time you ask for it ❤️ He's just a little clueless sometimes (König is also neuroatypical, either has AD/HD or falls somewhere in the autism spectrum)

🚩 Hates condoms with an intense passion. You're practically forced to take birth control pills or whatever so that he can cum inside you. This man's whining will ultimately gain a level that's absolutely ridiculous if you don't.

The first time you do it without the rubber, he sounds like he's about to cry. He tells you a hundred times how good it feels, and won't pull out until he grows soft and is kind of forced to do so. For a man who's never even heard of a breeding kink, he seems vehement about keeping his load inside you.

🚩Grunts and whispers loving but obsessive things in your ear while making love to you. You're mine, Say it, Promise that you're mine, I don't want to live without you, Why do you feel so good? at first… but as he approaches his peak, König switches to German. You have no clue what he’s saying, but from the way he spits those sentences through gritted teeth you get the feeling that it must be something desperate and that perhaps it's a blessing you don't understand his native tongue...

🚩🚩If you leave your phone on the table he tries to stalk it and check the notifications. He's so jealous it's unreal, if he sees you receive a message from some other guy König will start a circus. He needs to know all about your connection with this man. After that, he wants you to go through your contacts and show him how many guys there are and tell him what your affiliations are with them. If you're on social media König wants to go through your friends/those you follow. You have to give an account who they are and why you follow them.

🚩🚩🚩 You get a feeling he's forming a list of people he has to kill if you don't tell him they're just a cousin or something 💀

[supernova2205]

A Recipe for Trouble

Chef Gaz x reader

Summary: What starts as a simple cooking class to cure boredom quickly turns into something more when your charming instructor, Kyle, challenges you to a final test cooking him dinner at your place. With your track record in the kitchen, success isn’t guaranteed, but maybe the real lesson isn’t about cooking at all.

Boredom had a way of making you do questionable things. Like signing up for a cooking class despite your well-documented history of culinary disasters. You had scorched eggs, burned pasta, and once managed to set toast on fire. If there was a way to ruin a dish, you had found it.

So, naturally, a cooking class seemed like a logical next step.

The only thing that stopped you from bolting right out of the class on the first day was the instructor himself, Kyle.

He was confident, charismatic, and, unfortunately for you, devastatingly attractive. That last part made focusing on anything remotely related to food prep significantly harder.

Your first lesson began with an introduction to knife skills, and you quickly realized that chopping onions was its own form of torture. Your hands fumbled, your slices were uneven, and at one point, you nearly lost a fingertip.

Kyle chuckled as he slid a cutting board in front of you. "Alright, let’s slow down before we end up in the emergency room, yeah? Hold the knife like this, firm grip, but relaxed." His hands covered yours, guiding you through the movement. "There you go. Now try again."

You tried to ignore the way his touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, focusing instead on not making a fool of yourself.

That resolve lasted about three minutes until you managed to send half a tomato flying across the room.

Kyle blinked, lips twitching in amusement. "Well, that’s one way to do it. Not exactly the right way, but you’ve got enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm won’t stop me from burning the kitchen down," you muttered, shaking your head. "I’m hopeless."

"Nah," he grinned, leaning against the counter. "Just need the right teacher. And lucky for you, I happen to be the best."

The lessons continued over the next few weeks, each one filled with equal parts disaster and progress. You learned how to knead dough without it sticking to everything in sight, how to properly season a dish without making it taste like pure salt, and, most importantly, how to not set things on fire.

Every lesson was a battle between your growing skills and your natural inclination for chaos, but Kyle never lost patience. If anything, he seemed to enjoy watching you stumble through the process.

"Alright," he said one evening as you both hovered over a pan of sauce that miraculously hadn’t turned into charcoal. "Moment of truth. Taste test."

You hesitated, scooping a bit onto a spoon. Your track record with homemade meals wasn’t exactly great. But as soon as the flavors hit your tongue, your eyes widened. "Holy—this actually tastes good."

Kyle grinned. "Told ya. You’re getting the hang of it."

You turned to him, a slow smirk forming. "So, what you’re saying is… I’m a natural?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re better, but let’s see if you survive the final test."

Your stomach dropped. "Final test?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cooking a meal all on your own. No help. Just you, the ingredients, and your questionable decision-making."

You groaned. "You’re trying to kill me."

"Nope, just makin’ sure all this hasn’t been for nothing. I’ve got faith in you."

And damn it, with the way he looked at you just then, soft, encouraging, like he knew you could do it, you almost believed it too.

Then he smirked. "And, since it’s your final test, I think it should be a special occasion."

You raised an eyebrow. "Special how?"

Kyle leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself. "How about this you cook me dinner. At your place. Just us."

Your heart did a weird little flip. "Wait, is this part of the test, or are you asking me out?"

He chuckled, tilting his head. "Little bit of both."

You stared at him, trying to find the catch. "So, you want me to cook for you, knowing full well that my kitchen skills are questionable at best?"

Kyle shrugged. "I like a little danger. Keeps things interesting."

The teasing glint in his eye made your stomach do another flip. You exhaled, dramatically wiping your hands on your apron. "Alright, Kyle. You’re on. But if you die from food poisoning, that’s on you."

"I’ll take my chances."

The next evening, you found yourself pacing your kitchen, trying to remember everything Kyle had taught you. You had picked a simple dish, one you had actually managed to cook successfully under his watchful eye. But without him hovering nearby to save you from disaster, your nerves were getting the best of you.

When the knock came at your door, you took a deep breath and opened it to find Kyle standing there, dressed casually but somehow looking effortlessly good. He held up a bottle of wine with a smirk. "Figured we might need this."

You let him in, and he surveyed your kitchen with an amused glance. "So, what’s on the menu, Chef?"

"That… is a surprise," you said, nudging him toward the counter. "No interfering. You’re the guest tonight."

"Alright, alright," he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show."

Despite a few near mishaps, the meal actually turned out well. You plated everything carefully and set the table, feeling ridiculously proud of yourself. Kyle took a bite and let out a satisfied hum. "Look at that. My star pupil actually pulled it off."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made your face heat up. "So, does this mean I passed?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Oh, you definitely passed. But I think we might need a few more lessons. You know, just to be sure."

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this had never really been about cooking at all.

Authors note:Hey everyone! Just wanted to share a little fic for all my fellow Gaz fans out there. I still have more ideas brewing about him because I absolutely adore his charm and sass! Enjoy and stay tuned for more!!!!$

[kaidacr1sis]

Chef was cute, would eat here again -Baek Kang-Hyuk x Reader

—F! Reader | Personal Chef! Reader | Baek Kang-Hyuk being a flirt | Tbh idk how I feel about this fic. It seems rushed. | Reader burns themself | 1.2K Word Count | Suggestive | Enjoy!

Stir Fry Udon

Starting the week off with stir fry udon was always refreshing. The freedom to add whatever vegetables you had lying around, except mushrooms. God, you knew he hated mushrooms. You gently remove the carrots and broccoli from the fridge, mentally cursing yourself when you realize that it had almost gone bad.

Washing the broccoli and carrots in the sink, you dry them and set them on your cutting board. Grabbing your knife and sharpening it with quick, precise slides against the sharpening stone. Grabbing an onion & garlic, swiftly adding it to the pile of vegetables needed to be cut.

Filling a pot, you set it on the stove to boil before you grab your vegetables and start slicing them. Carrots into thin sticks, broccoli into smaller chunks, and cutting the onion in half before dicing. Peeling the garlic and setting aside 4 cloves of garlic aside and dicing them. Setting the other half of the onion into a container and the rest of the garlic into the icebox before back towards the counter you go.

Adding your udon noodles into the boiling pot, you gently slide the broccoli atop it and wait for your noodles to separate. A soft huff escaping your lips as you stir the pot and kill the heat after a few minutes.

Grabbing your pan and adding oil & garlic and cook it until the smell gently fills the air. Adding your beef strips, carrots, and onions in and gently letting them cook before adding 2 table of soy sauce, 1 tablespoon of oyster sauce, and ½ tablespoon of honey & pepper.

Stirring and playing with the food before adding your noodles and broccoli in and stirring before setting it aside and plating it. Thank god cooking was easy sometimes.

The keys gently playing in the apartment doors lock made you perk up. Carefully. Taking off your apron and bringing the plate to the dining room. A wave and a smile towards Baek Kang-Hyuk as he entered his apartment.

You watch as his nose crinkled slightly as the smell of freshly cooked food filled his senses. A smirk tugging on his lips before he walked over and waved. “Thank you for cooking again. You are free to go. I can clean up.” He nodded.

”No! No, it’s alright. I was going to package some for leftovers and I’m happy to clean up.” You smile, pushing him to sit down before moving back towards the kitchen and smiling.

Baek Kang-Hyuk watched as you walked around the kitchen, a soft smile on his lips as he admired your soft features, how your hair fell from your hair clip, how you gently packaged the rest of the food and tried to fit as much in as you can; but didn’t fill it with more than you knew he could eat.

But god.. if he’s being honest with himself? He would rather eat you. Just because your a cook doesn’t mean you won’t taste just as good as your cooking.

Creamy Garlic Chicken Rice bowl | TW! Reader gets burned in this one!

You gently knock on the door as you hold a bag with a container of leftover chicken. Listening as you hear Kang-Hyuk’s footsteps approaching the door, a smile playing at your features as he opens the door and waved. Stepping aside and gently grazing his hand on your waist as you passed him. Grabbing your bag before helping you shrug off your jacket.

“Good Afternoon..” He muttered, running a hand through his hair, a grimace on his lips as he suddenly became aware of his messy state. “I apologize for my appearance, it has been.. quiet at the Trauma Center.”

You chuckle, shaking your head and gently patting his shoulder. “No worry, but since you’re home, would you like to cook with me?” You offer, gently taking the bag from him and walking towards the kitchen.

Truth be told, you loved how he looked right now. Hair messy, shirt slightly askew, and his facial expression softer than normal.

You grab your apron and tug it onto your figure before washing your aunts. Being sure to scrub beneath your nails and up your forearm. A soft chuckle escaping your lips when Kang-Hyuk soon joins your side.

Removing the chicken from its container, you quickly make work of cutting it. “Could you, cut up some garlic & parsley?” You ask softly, turning towards Kang-Hyuk as you season the chicken.

Grabbing a pan and quickly setting it atop the stove and letting it heat up. Tossing in a small amount of butter, garlic, and chicken after a little bit, you watch as the chicken soon turned a golden brown before you set them aside.

Grabbing a little bit more butter, you add it in the pan along with chicken stock & heavy cream. Gently stirring the pot as the cream turned a beautiful yellow color. You carefully stir the pot, a soft gasp escaping your lips as Kang-Hyuk appeared behind you and set his hands on your waist, causing your hand to slip and graze against the pan.

His eyes widened before turning off the stove and pulling you from the pan. His hand wrapping around your wrist to inspect the angry skin. “Shit.. I’m sorry.” He muttered, quickly pulling you towards the sink to grab a towel and gently pouring cold water on it before applying it to the burnt area.

“Are you okay?” He whispered, catching your gaze and gently rubbing your waist with his other hand. Taking a step forward and backing you against the sink counter. His hand traveling from your waist to your chin and lifting your jaw as he inspects you.

“Y-yeah! I’m fine..” you blush, looking away and gently pulling the towel from him and pressing it against your wrist. Suddenly becoming aware of how close you were. Not to mention how he seemed to pin you against the counter.

“Dinner is done so.. just grab some rice and put it on top. Parsley just goes on top. I-I’ll be fine.” You stutter, pushing yourself away from him as you take a step to the side. Your breath hitching as he stops you with a hand against the counter and his eyes catching yours.

“Eat dinner with me. It’s the least I could do.” He offers, it sounds more like a command though. His eyes locked with yours until he not-so-subtly checks you out before stepping backwards.

“That’s.. fine.” You blush, grabbing a bowl and filling it with rice before making your plate. He nods before following your steps and sitting down at the table.

A subtle blush on his cheeks as he sits next to you and his thigh brushed yours. “You should.. come over more often. I mean, not as I chef.” He mutters, looking down at his plate before looking at you. Hope in his eyes before he went back to eating.

You nod silently before your fingers gently brushed up against his thigh. “I’d like that..” you mumble, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks.

He smiles before his other hand interlaces with yours and rubs your thumb with his. “Y’know.. the chef is cute, I think I’ll eat here again.” He laughs.

[misfortunelady69]

I like you

Male Oc x Sanji

Angst, sadness, insecurity.

Masterlist

I should have known better.

No, actually, I did know better. Since the very first time I caught myself staring at him, watching the way he moved in the kitchen, the way his golden hair caught the sunlight when he smoked on the deck, the way he smirked when he flirted with Nami-swan or Robin-chan—I knew it was hopeless.

Sanji didn’t like men.

He made that clear every single day, drooling over every woman on board, treating them like goddesses while the rest of us barely got a glance. And yet, here I was. A fool. A total, absolute fool.

I tried ignoring it at first. I really did.

I focused on training, sparring with Zoro more than usual, picking fights with Luffy to distract myself. But everything led back to him. I'd hear him humming while cooking and suddenly my chest felt too tight. I'd catch his scent—cigarettes and spices—and my whole body would lock up. I was acting like a pathetic schoolgirl, and it made me sick.

So, I did what any idiot in love would do.

I tried to impress him.

It started small—lifting heavier weights when he was around, throwing myself into fights recklessly, hoping he'd say something like "Nice work, Nova." or "You're strong, huh?" But he never did. He just sighed, shaking his head whenever I got too roughed up.

Then, I took it further.

One night, he was making dinner, and I thought—what if I help? Maybe he’d see me in a new light. Maybe he’d—hell, I don’t know, notice me.

"Oi, cook, need an extra pair of hands?" I asked, leaning against the counter.

Sanji didn't even look up from chopping onions. "If you're offering to leave, that'd be a great help."

I should have stopped. But no. I needed his attention.

So, I grabbed a knife, thinking I'd prove my worth. "I can cut vegetables too, y'know."

"Don't touch my knives," he snapped, finally looking at me, blue eyes sharp.

"Relax, it's just—"

I barely even touched the onion before the knife slipped. A sharp pain shot through my finger. Blood dripped onto the cutting board.

Sanji sighed, grabbed my hand, and cleaned the cut without a second thought. Without looking at me.

His hands were warm, firm. I could have died happy in that moment.

"Idiot," he muttered. "Leave the kitchen before you chop your damn fingers off."

I did. With a burning face and a heart that ached.

One day, we docked at an island with a fighting arena. Sanji wasn't interested in the brawl—he was too busy shopping for ingredients—but I knew he'd come watch if Nami and Robin wanted to. And, of course, they did.

So, I went all out.

I fought like a demon, throwing punches harder than necessary, getting hit just enough to look cool. I grinned through the pain, hoping Sanji was watching.

When I won, I turned to him, panting, bleeding, desperate.

"Did you see that?" I asked, chest heaving.

Sanji exhaled smoke. "Yeah. You were reckless."

"Reckless?" I scoffed, brushing off the pain. "I won."

"And nearly got your ribs broken," he shot back, unimpressed. "For what? A few beri?"

For you, I wanted to say.

But instead, I laughed it off.

"You’re no fun, cook."

He shook his head and walked away.

I felt like an idiot.

It was an accident. I swear.

We were alone in the kitchen. I had no plan to confess, no intention of making things weird. But I was exhausted—tired of holding it in, tired of pretending it didn’t hurt every time he ignored me.

So, it just… slipped out.

"I like you."

Silence.

I felt my hands go clammy. My throat closed up. No, no, no, I didn’t just say that—

I like you.

My heart was beating so fast it hurt. My stomach twisted. My breath came in short gasps. Shit, I really said it.

I looked at him, my lips trembling. Begging the universe to rewind time.

But all I saw was the way his expression darkened.

Not surprise. Not confusion.

Disgust.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, then exhaled, not even looking at me.

"Get out, now," he said, voice cold. "Don't ever come near me again. From today on, we are nothing—we’re just part of the same crew."

Something inside me shattered.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

I wanted to take it back. To run.

But my legs carried me to the door in a daze, my body numb.

I didn’t cry until I was alone.

I knew it was hopeless. I knew he’d never feel the same.

But I never thought he'd look at me like that—like I was something disgusting. Like I was nothing.

And now, I really was.