#(you will fine him even when he is not there)

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegaverse, omega reader, careless alpha husband, marriage problems, poor communication

♡ GN reader

He’s a little reckless sometimes—not always paying attention to the feelings of those around him, but he means well, you’re sure of that.

He’s just a little high-strung, is all—doesn’t really have the time to think things through.

He’s always been like that—ready for just about anything and everything anyone would throw his way, and just sort of expecting everyone else to be onboard. He’s an Alpha, after all—it’s not in their nature to worry or look back.

All your life, he’s been the leader—all you others could do was chase after him and just hope on your life to keep up. And as an Omega, you were comfortable like that—with having someone to follow. It felt natural to you—safe and good and correct.

But when he started courting you, you admit being a bit skeptical—weren’t sure if it would work the same way, not sure if it even could. Being mates is different, after all. You’re supposed to be in tune with one another, and you weren’t sure if you’d be heard or just end up being bulldozed.

But you figured, since you weren’t too big on making decisions anyway, that you’d just go along with it, and it would be fine. You’d put your trust in him and follow his lead, and maybe that would be enough.

And it was. Everything worked out perfectly—for the most part. You married in the spring and moved into your new house the day after. He’s a good husband and nice man, deserving of the respect he garners, and he’s successful. A true Alpha. Perfect on all fronts.

What more could an Omega ask for?

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[baby-yongbok]

After Party

Bang Chan x Afab!Reader

⤷ The Fendi after party gets much more interesting after a few margaritas and sneaking away with a stranger. ⤷ Content warning - protected sex ⤷ WC - 1.1k ⤷ A/N - In honor of Chris looking so fine for Milan Fashion week that he broke my writers block. ✧ Masterlist ✧

You met him five minutes ago, not that something like that matters when he looks like a Greek god but it explains why his name doesn't fall from your lips as easily as you want it to. 

The Fendi after party was boring. Your manager asked - actually, begged - you to be on your best behavior and you agreed. 

Then you saw him. 

“Fuck… Chan.” Right, that was his name, yeah. The very hot stranger who you drank too many margaritas with.

“I haven't even gotten started yet and you're already moaning my name? Cute.” His voice caused a sugar rush, a high of heat and a flood between your legs. “Turn around”

His hands grip your waist, turning you to the wall and hiking your dress up. Surely the designer won't be too upset if it rips, right? 

Chan's hands smooth over your ass, landing a smack that's drowned out by the music of the after party coming from the left… or the right. It doesn’t matter. 

“You're gonna fuck a stranger? Are you always this risky?” The smile on your face makes him forge one of his own as he works to free himself. 

“I'm not.” He leans into you, putting one hand on the wall and trapping you beneath him so that your back is to his chest. His dick presses firm into your ass and the feeling makes you want to turn around and take a look. “I figured I should try something new.” 

He kisses over your jaw and takes hold of his drooling cock, rubbing it over your equally needy cunt. “Got a condom?”

“My bag.” He reaches over and opens your bag, holding it out to you instead of going through it himself. You chuckle. “Such a gentleman.”

He blushes, turning a pretty red as you hand him the packaged rubber. “Is that your type?” He rips it open, rolls it on and positions himself. 

“You're my type.” He pushes in just barely. 

“You're mine too.” He hooks his arm around your midsection, pulling your back flush to his chest and pushing inside on one smooth motion.

Your jaw hangs slack, eyes roll back and you stifle a moan. Chan's hand comes up to cover your mouth and your own hand goes out in front of you in an attempt to brace yourself against the wall.

“You’re fucking tight.” He whispers and you notice that his voice is somehow sweeter when he talks dirty.

“And you're fucking big.” His hips shift and you whimper. He plays it off, saying that he's average but there's not an ounce of you that believes him. 

The first thrust feels like you're being split in two. Maybe it's the position. Maybe it's the way he has his hand pressed over the plush of your stomach to make sure you really, really feel him. Or maybe he's just fucking huge.

But the second thrust? Heaven on earth and so was every one of them that followed. 

“God, you take me so well.” Chan groans and you clench around him. “You like when I talk dirty, huh? You like when I tell you how well your cunt takes my cock? 

“Chan…” He presses his hand tighter over your mouth. The drowned out sound of skin on skin is enough to get you two caught, your moans would definitely tip everyone off.

“You can't keep quiet, can you, pretty?”

He presses you up against the wall and moves his hand from your mouth to your neck. He doesn't press, he only holds you. He tilts your head back and meets your lips in a kiss while his hips press hard against your ass. 

You swear that you can feel him in your stomach. It makes you gasp and he shuts you up with his tongue. He slides it over yours, tasting the lingering flavor of the margaritas and humming into you. 

“Please move again.” You mumble against his lips and he groans, letting his own head fall back for a second.

“I'm gonna cum.” Chan's voice is strained as he whispers. “You're gonna make me cum already.”

You reach back, grabbing his hip and trying to get him to move at least a little. You need more. It's only been a minute and you're dizzy with need.

“Then cum for me, please I just want something. Wanna feel you, Chan.” 

He buries his face in your neck for a second, moaning and nipping at the skin a bit before pulling his hips back.

“You're hot when you beg. Such a pretty girl falling apart on my cock.” 

His hand is back over your mouth the second you whimper. His other hand grips your hip while you reach back and is balled into his shirt.

“Rub your clit, cum with me.” Your hand moves from his shirt to between your thighs. The extra stimulation makes you jolt and clench and Chan hisses. 

“C'mon, You're gonna make me fucking bust.” The thought alone makes you moan. Your orgasm is close, so damn close and you know that his is closer. 

“Gonna…” Your fingers rub faster, sloppy circles into your clit but that's not what does it. It's when Chan slides his hand down from your hip and over yours between your thighs. He presses down and bottoms out and you're done for. 

“Holy shit…” You gasp, breath stuck in your chest and your body tenses and writhes from the burning pleasure. 

All of that is enough to get Chan falling apart right after you. His thrusts get sloppy until he pulls out, jerking his cock with a groan and splitting into the condom. 

The two of you try to catch your breath, panting as the sound of the music from the after party catches your attention. You look back at Chan who has his back to the wall next to you and his eyes closed. 

You sneak a peak of his cock… How the hell is that average? Average for who?

While you're gawking he reaches out and grabs your arm, pulling you gently into his chest. The gesture surprises you but you go along with it. 

“You… have made this an unforgettable night.” He laughs, his ears turning even redder if that's even possible. “Thank you.”

“Did you just thank me after fucking me?” It's your turn to laugh and he joins you. 

“I told you that I don't do things like this, okay. I don't know how It goes.” 

You lean up a bit and kiss him, soft but still hot enough to make him hum with renewed want. Your kisses trail from his lips, over his jaw and to his ear where you whisper. 

“Come back to my hotel and I'll show you just how this goes, yeah?” He smiles, his dimples showing through the blush and he nods. 

“I'd like that.”

❥ Wanna Be On My Taglist? Click here for the Taglist Form!

Perm. Tag List:

@dreamingaboutjisung @nxtt2-u @kayleefriedchicken

@compersian @kibs-and-bits @lixiluvs @armystay89

@teddy-stay , @baconcupcakes123, @moonchild9350 ,

@krayzieestay, @soulsbbg , @stay-bi , @yzsqu , @lghtdarling @yaorzu-blog

@wealwayskeepfighting @whokno-ows @stay-tiny-things @catsforlife6864 @pixie-felix @unbel1ve4ble @estella-novella @poppet05 @lghtdarling

[Red names are broken tags]

[ohmy-gojo]

"is nanami sensei pouting?!?!"

"what??"

megumi followed his classmate's gaze to see his ever so stoic, calm and level headed sensei, pouting. although that is kinda an overstatement, he just looks sad, with furrowed brows and somewhat jutted lips. kind of like a kicked puppy (megumi loves puppies ok)

he is curious to know the reason now, what is making the only person with a functioning brain here, pout? it is expected from someone like gojo, who pouts whenever his sweets run out or when his wife scolds him for pranking his students, seeing which never fails to make him cringe and want to die. but nanami?

"he is sad because his wife has a mission overseas."

shoko informed him and his classmates who were curious about their sensei's dilemma. she continued, "(name) has been assigned to an overseas mission with yuuta, meaning she will have to stay there for 3 days. which is not a lot if you ask me, but oh well." she shrugged

it is true. 3 days is definitely not a long period. is it really such a big deal that it made his no nonsense sensei sulk? megumi is pretty sure he can stay just fine without his girlfriend (or so he tells himself)

while megumi was deep in his musings, you went up to your dear husband who was drowning in his misery. he saw you and immediately his frown softened

"do you really have to go..?"

"its the higher ups order, ken," you gently smiled and brushed his hair aside

"i know, i just.. i will miss you."

"dont you worry," you pecked his cheek "i will be back before you know!"

he scoffed lightly, "easy for you to say miss, the house becomes way too quiet and empty without you there, i also cant stay here without missing you," he became sad once again just by imagining the situation

you giggle at your cutieful husband and cup his cheeks "i will miss you just as much, but we will video call! and i will also make sure to text you every updates that you will think im right next to you!"

he smiled lightly, "you better do."

and even though you called and texted him as you promised, it wasnt enough for nanami and he ended up joining you on your mission on the very first day. he cant be deprived of his wifey time, damned be sorcery. hes not sorry at all! :p

[stvrnrock]

blurb of Chris being goofy while eating you out.

whines and whimpers emitted from your plump lips. Your hips eagerly lifting off the mattress as you grind agaisnt his face. “Chris chri—“ your voice cracked and you let out a loud moan tilting your head back—he was good with his tongue, so fucking good.

Chris giggled against your folds but before you could say anything he shook his head from side to side making the words die in your throat. Chris let out a dramatic growl doing it again before your hands pushed his head back—this action making him giggle. Your juices were dripping down his chin a big dopey smile on his face almost proud he pissed you off.

“What about my pussy is so amusing and funny to you Chris.” You whine out, eye brows furrowing as he laughs even louder. Your juices were watched as he tipped his head back down only to be stopped by your hand—okay now you were annoying him.

“Fuck y/n I swear I’ll stop laughin, jus’ wanna make you feel good now hon.” He mumbled out kissing your inner thigh and looking at you. Nuzzling his cheek into your thigh as he gave you a dead serious look.

You sighed in desperate need for a release and you knew. When Chris said he was gonna make you feel good he was gonna make you feel good. “Fine but please don’t laugh I just want you to make me—“ “make you feel good got it.” He quickly cut off and in an instant his head was between your thighs

That usual playful act gone—this man was starved.

Whimpers immediately spilt out of your lips as you tilted your head back. Your orgasm approaching fast again as you desperately humped his face. With a few more kitten licks in your clit and his tongue swirling around your aching hole you clenched around nothing letting your orgasm hit.

After letting your orgasm die down he sat up and crawled over you your juices still on his chin making it glisten. He gently pecked your lips before traveling his lips across your hot flushed cheeks. “Told ya, I’m serious when I gotta please my girl.” He paused before pecking your lips again. “Now let’s go shower yeah?”

a/n- hehe soooo inspired by my queen @nickssidewitch I hope I didn’t fail you I tried 😔 anywyas I hope y’all enjoyed!

Taglist: @sturnsrecord @chrepsi @drewswife @crtlness @matts-sidepiece @tezzzzzzzz @sturnl0ve @sturnschris @vanteguccir @shadowthesim237 @sturns-mermaid (sorry if I’m missing anyone!!)

[connorsui]

Dad! Price + pregnant! reader

John Price wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But lately, he’d caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.

It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitations—a small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.

Yeah. The boy was watching.

John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.

He didn’t just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.

And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.

John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.

Smart boy.

He didn’t tell him to do any of this. Didn’t have to.

The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasn’t in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.

John caught his son’s eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.

Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.

He was going to turn out just fine.

[quarterlifekitty]

Soap read too many romance stories when he was young where people kissed open mouths and “their tongues fought for dominance” and so now he’s an insanely aggressive and sloppy kisser because he’ll be damned if he loses that fight. If you let him go to town, there’s gonna be spit dripping down your chins from the corners of your mouths.

Imagine a scenario where he can’t fuck you. Can’t even eat you. Maybe you’re trying to put him to the test— tell him you’re not gonna put out until you’re really sure he’s taking things seriously, but kissing is fine.

Man is gonna tongue fuck your throat until he cums in his pants.

[my-castles-crumbling]

careful - february 26 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 349

Regulus awoke to sunlight on his eyes and the soft sound of snoring nearby. For a moment, he wondered if Evan had forgotten to cast a silencing spell, but then he registered the feel of the sheets he was wrapped in. He was not in his bed.

Stirring, he opened his eyes and took in the image of the Hospital Wing, memories slowly coming back to him. To his left, the source of the snoring moved as well, his messy black hair even messier than usual, glasses folded and stowed on the bedside table next to the chair he was slumped over in.

“Potter,” Regulus hissed, trying not to scare the Gryffindor. “Potter–James!”

“Wh–Reg!” James jumped, looking to Regulus and seeing him awake. “Oh, finally, you’re awake! Are you okay, baby?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes and grabbing for Regulus’s hand.

“Fine, fine. Did we win?” Regulus demanded, eyes wide.

James sighed and rolled his eyes. “You sound like me,” he grumbled, gripping his hand harder. “Falls a hundred feet and all he has to say is ‘did we win?’ Merlin.”

“You haven’t answered me,” Regulus said, holding back a grin. It  made his chest feel all warm to wake up to James sitting vigil at his bedside. Or maybe that was the pain potion.

“Yes you did, you arse. You didn’t even let go of the Snitch when you almost crashed into the ground,” James answered, rolling his eyes.

“Good,” he smirked. “Worth it, then.”

But rather than laugh like Regulus thought he might, James frowned. “Reg, you have to stop being so careless.”

“That’s rich, coming from the one who goes gallivanting around the Forest once a month with a werewolf!” Regulus hissed, affronted.

“Shh!” James admonished him. “I know, it’s just…” he trailed off, but shifted uncomfortably. “Baby, it’s like you have half of my heart with you. Every time you do something like that…just be a little more careful? For me?” he asked, eyes wide and full of emotion.

And Regulus, to his utter mortification, turned red, taken by James’s words. “Alright,” he murmured.

[cuntyji]

you were sure, without a doubt, that math had been invented by the devil himself—or at the very least, some ancient sadist who found joy in human suffering. and who else but the sumerians, the architects of civilization, to introduce numbers and wedge them into the very fabric of reality?

which brought you here, sprawled out on gojo satoru’s bed, textbooks and loose papers abandoned at the edge of the mattress, your laptop open but wholly ignored. your eyes were squeezed shut, thighs trembling, and brain struggling—desperately—to process the numbers being traced against your cunt with his tongue.

“you’re fidgeting too much,” he mumbled against your folds, the vibration of his voice sending another pulse of heat up your spine. he sounded amused, always so amused, as if he weren’t the one making this impossible.

“oh, i wonder why,” you bit back, and your sharp exhale turned into a shaky whimper when his tongue swirled again—slow, purposeful.

"mm, attitude," he teased, pulling back slightly. his glasses—he had insisted on keeping them on, of course, just to be extra insufferable—slipped an inch down his nose. he peered over them, a lazy grin on his lips, cerulean eyes twinkling with mischief. "you should be thanking me, you know. most people have to suffer through studying, but me? i’m making it fun for you, baby."

fun, he says. as if this wasn’t absolute torture.

"fun for you," you gritted out, propping yourself up on your elbows to glare down at him. it was hard to look menacing when your legs were thrown over his shoulders, his breath hot against your dripping cunt.

“fun for both of us,” he corrected, and before you could retort, he dove back in, tongue flat against your clit before spelling out a number with slow, languid strokes.

your back arched. fuck. that was—okay, that was definitely a six. or maybe a nine? shit.

he pulled back again, looking far too pleased with himself. “c’mon, princess. what’s the answer?”

you struggled to keep your voice even, mind still hazy. “si—sixty-nine?”

he huffed a laugh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. “mmm, close, but not quite.”

"what do you mean not quite—"

before you could argue, he started again, this time tracing a much longer sequence of numbers, each movement sending sparks of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into the sheets, jaw slack. it took you a second—two, three?—before you realized: oh. he was giving you the answer to the long equation from earlier.

bastard.

“satoru—!”

“concentrate,” he chided, pausing just long enough to smirk up at you before resuming, each flick of his tongue slow, deliberate.

"i—i can't!"

"yes, you can," he murmured against you, tracing another swirl, another long stroke that had your toes curling. "you want that A, don’t you?"

your head lolled back, a moan slipping out before you could stop it. god, you hated him. hated how smug he was, how good he was.

"better get the answer right, or you're getting a big fat D," he chuckled, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your sensitive clit. "literally."

your breath hitched. okay. fine. if this was how he wanted to play, you were going to win this damn game.

you swallowed, chest heaving, and forced your scattered thoughts into something coherent. focus. deep breath. think of the numbers, not the way he was staring at you over the rim of his glasses, lips shiny with your slick, eyes full of challenge.

“eight…three…seven…five…” your voice wavered, but you kept going, pushing past the pleasure clawing at your mind.

gojo’s grin widened, and his grip on your thighs tightened just slightly. “atta girl.”

[theonottsbxtch]

SERVE | MV1

an: im finally posting all my flipping requests - im sorry ive taken so long but expect me to be more active in the next month ish. i was working on this novel and ive finally finished my first draft so ill be able to write more on here ehehe

wc: 2.2k

The air inside Rod Laver Arena buzzed with anticipation. The crowd roared as she raised her arms in victory, another match won with the kind of effortless dominance that had long cemented her as the best in the world. Cameras flashed, reporters murmured, but she barely heard any of it. Her eyes scanned the stands, searching—until she found him.

Max stood near the players’ box, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his posture casual but his eyes locked onto hers. He always watched her like that. Like she was the only thing in the world.

She barely remembered handing her racquet to the ball kid or shaking hands with her opponent. One minute she was on the baseline, and the next, she was pushing through the crowd, past the security barriers, straight to him.

"Didn’t think you’d make it," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the noise.

Max smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Miss one of your matches? Not a chance.”

Up close, she saw the exhaustion in the lines around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. The media had been relentless again, and she knew how much he hated it—not for himself, but for the way it always seemed to drag her into the mess, too.

"Yeah?" She arched a brow, fingers sliding into the collar of his jacket, tugging him a fraction closer. "Even with half the press calling you a liability?"

His breath hitched for a second. Only she could do that to him. "Thought you liked liabilities."

"I do," she said, lips curling into the smirk that drove interviewers mad. "You’re my favourite one."

Max let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough for her to notice. He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Didn’t know I was in a ranking system.”

She hummed, fingertips brushing against the fine fabric of his jacket. “You’re the only one in it.”

The crowd was still buzzing around them, the cameras snapping relentlessly, but none of it mattered. Not when she was looking at him like that—sharp eyes softening, the mask she wore for the world slipping just enough for him to see the girl he’d loved since they were fifteen.

She gave his jacket one last tug before stepping back. “Come with me.”

Max followed without hesitation, slipping through the tunnels of the stadium with practiced ease. He’d done this a hundred times before, dodging reporters and staff, but this time, the weight of the last few weeks clung to him like a second skin.

She led him into the players’ lounge, where the air was thick with the scent of sweat and freshly cut fruit. The moment the door shut behind them, she turned to face him.

“What’s going on?” she asked, arms crossing over her chest. She wasn’t just talking about the press. She never had to spell it out for him—she always just knew.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Same old shit.”

She frowned. “Your dad again?”

His silence was answer enough.

She muttered something under her breath, a sharp curse that made him smirk despite himself. “How bad?”

Max leaned against the nearest table, arms bracing on the surface. “Bad enough that I had to turn off my phone for a few days.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s got the press eating out of his hand. Telling them I’ll never be good enough, that I’m holding you back, that you—”

“Stop,” she said firmly, stepping between his legs. Her hands rested on his chest, grounding him. “You know none of that is true.”

He swallowed, the heat of her touch chasing away the cold grip of doubt. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

She studied him for a moment, then—without warning—took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his jaw, right at the spot she knew made his breath hitch.

“Good,” she said against his skin. “Because I’m not wasting my time defending you to a bunch of idiots when I could be kissing you instead.”

Max let out a breathless laugh, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her in. “Now that,” he murmured, “is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

She grinned, fingers threading through his hair. “Then shut up and let me keep talking.”

And for the first time in weeks, Max let himself forget everything else—because when he was with her, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

He barely had time to smirk before she pulled him down, her lips pressing against his with the kind of urgency that made his head spin.

It was always like this with them—sharp words and sharper minds for the cameras, but when they were alone, none of that mattered. She kissed him like she needed it, like he was the only thing keeping her grounded, and he clung to that feeling like a lifeline.

His hands slid to her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her tennis kit as he pulled her closer. She sighed against his mouth, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and he felt it—the tension in his chest finally breaking, giving way to something softer, something that only existed between them.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and Max groaned low in his throat. “You’re going to kill me,” he murmured against her lips.

She smirked. “That’s the plan.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, like she wanted to take her time undoing him completely—

A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

“Hey! Media in five minutes,” a voice called through the wood.

Max exhaled heavily, forehead dropping against hers as she let out a quiet groan. “I hate media,” she muttered.

“I hate media more,” he said, brushing his nose against hers.

She pulled back slightly, giving him a look. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to sit in a room for half an hour pretending to care what they think.”

He smirked, thumb tracing slow circles against her hip. “True. But you could just skip it. Tell them you got caught up with something important.”

She arched a brow. “And what would that be?”

Max grinned. “Me.”

She huffed a laugh, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping back. “Tempting,” she said, smoothing her hair down. “But if I start skipping media obligations for you, they’ll start calling you a bad influence again.”

“They already do.”

She shot him a knowing look as she grabbed a water bottle from the nearby table. “Yeah, but if I do it, it’ll be true.”

Max shook his head, watching her with something caught between admiration and amusement. Even after all these years, she still had him completely wrapped around her finger.

As she reached for the door handle, she turned back to him, her expression softening just slightly. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

Max leaned back against the table, arms crossing over his chest. “Where else would I be?”

She held his gaze for a second longer before nodding. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

And just like that, the noise of the world came rushing back in.

The press room was packed, cameras flashing as she took her seat at the table. The moderator gave the usual spiel about keeping questions respectful—not that anyone ever listened.

She took a sip from her water bottle, already anticipating the first round of questions. It was the same every time—something about her form, something about her rivals, and, inevitably, something about Max.

"Rough start to the match today," one reporter said, leaning forward. "Do you think the outside distractions are finally catching up with you?"

She raised a brow. "What distractions?"

The reporter cleared his throat. "Well, there’s been a lot of talk about Max and the negative press surrounding him. Some would argue that having a partner in the spotlight—especially one facing so much criticism—might be… well, holding you back."

The room went quiet. She felt her jaw tighten, fingers curling around the bottle in her hands.

Slowly, she tilted her head. "And how many titles do you have?"

The reporter blinked, caught off guard. "Uh—what?"

She leaned forward slightly, voice smooth as silk. "How many Grand Slam titles do you have?"

The man stammered. "I—I don’t play tennis."

"Right," she said, nodding. "And how many Formula One World Championships do you have?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

She smiled. "That’s what I thought."

A few people in the room stifled laughs, and even the moderator looked like he was holding back a smirk.

"Next question," she said easily, taking another sip of water.

And just like that, the subject was closed.

Max was still in the players’ lounge, leaning back on the worn leather sofa, one arm slung over the back as he scrolled through his phone. The live stream of her press conference was playing on the screen, but he already knew where this was going the second some smug reporter brought him up.

The question was barely out of the guy’s mouth before Max’s jaw clenched.

He knew the narrative well—he was the distraction, the liability, the one holding her back. It didn’t matter that she was literally the best in the world, that she had more Grand Slams to her name than most players could dream of. Somehow, the press always found a way to twist things back to him.

But then she hit the guy with that line.

"And how many titles do you have?"

Max sat up a little straighter, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The poor bastard stammered.

"How many Formula One World Championships do you have?"

Max barked out a laugh, running a hand over his mouth. The entire room went silent, and then the barely contained amusement from some of the other journalists? Yeah, that was the cherry on top.

The guy had nothing. She knew it. The entire press room knew it.

And Max? He definitely knew it.

His phone started blowing up instantly—his teammate, a few other drivers, even his PR manager, all sending messages ranging from laughing emojis to "I owe her a drink for that one."

Max just shook his head, watching as she casually took a sip of her water, completely unbothered.

"That’s my girl," he muttered under his breath, grinning.

Because if the world wanted to come for him? Fine. He could take it. He always had.

But her? She was untouchable.

And she’d just reminded everyone exactly why.

The door swung open with a little too much force, slamming against the wall as she strode into the room. Max barely had a second to react before she was yanking her kit bag from the chair and stuffing things into it with sharp, irritated movements.

He smirked to himself, pushing off the couch. Oh, she was fuming.

"That good, huh?" he teased, leaning against the doorframe.

She shot him a glare before aggressively zipping up her bag. "They’re so annoying, Max. Every bloody time. Do I look like I need a press room full of middle-aged men questioning my priorities?"

Max bit back a laugh. He’d seen her mad before—at bad calls, at opponents, at losing a set she should’ve won—but this? This was entertaining.

He crossed the room in two strides, slipping behind her just as she reached for her jacket. His arms looped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, right in front of the floor-length mirror.

"Baby, baby," he murmured, pressing his chin to her shoulder, "calm down."

She huffed, but her hands instinctively came to rest over his on her stomach. "Calm down?" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "Do you know how much I want to throw a racquet at that guy’s face?"

Max grinned, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the side of her face. "I’d pay to see that."

She exhaled sharply, the tension in her body loosening just slightly. Max knew her too well—knew exactly how to disarm her with just a touch, a whisper, a perfectly timed kiss.

She caught his gaze in the mirror, and that sharp frustration softened into something playful. A wicked little idea flickered across her face.

"Give me your phone," she said suddenly.

Max raised a brow. "Why?"

She turned in his arms, holding out her hand expectantly. "Just give it."

He sighed dramatically but dug it out of his pocket, placing it in her palm. She unlocked it easily—of course she knew his passcode—and tapped into Instagram.

Max watched as she flipped the camera to the mirror, angling it so both of them were in frame. His arms were still around her, his face pressed into the side of hers, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

She snapped the picture, typed something quickly, then handed the phone back.

Max glanced at the screen. His feed refreshed. And there it was—his screen now showing her latest post:

"7 titles, 4 WDC & 2 WCC."

His brows lifted before a slow, proud smirk spread across his face.

"You little menace," he murmured, kissing the side of her head again.

She grinned. "Let’s see them try to talk shit now."

Max chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket before tightening his arms around her. "This is why I love you," he muttered.

She sighed, leaning into him. "Yeah, yeah. Now take me to dinner before I have to cuss someone out again."

Max just laughed, grabbing her bag and slinging an arm around her as they headed out—because that? That was the easiest request he’d had all day.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[blorbo-apologist]

I'm not black, I'm not even American, but live here and I *want* to love the country. I really do. I love and even married an American and moved here to be with him. There's a lot to love here. But ummm there are certain institutions that uhhh....

Anyway, I'm so mad about ca:bnw not because it's a terrible movie. It's not, it's okay. But I'm mad that Anthony Mackie is a fantastic Cap and it just underserves him so badly. They actually wrote him really well, and Anthony Mackie is just absolutely nailing his portrayal. I didn't even love Sam Wilson that much when he was first handed the shield. I didn't hate him, but he was just like a character that sometimes made quips and he was fine, but i wouldn't have missed him if he wasn't around. But as someone who fights for the people? As someone to represent the actual people of America? As a symbol of hope? That someone is out there to do and be good while wearing my country's flag? I think i would be proud to be an American if all my major representatives were this capable, charming, thoughtful, genuine and good. If he was what the country stood for? Yeah, America is great. I genuinely feel like he is an inspirational figure. I get that no one can be that perfect, and you can see the pressure get to him. The ideal obviously would be that he doesn't have to be the sole beacon of hope to shoulder it all. That we'd have a political system of leaders full of people like that and more support for Sam Wilson. But we can't even get everyone to be happy that we get Anthony Mackie to play Captain America. And his movie isn't going to do well. And I'm so mad about it.

And he’s RIGHT. Fuck everyone who is throwing a fit over Mackie speaking the truth. He and Chris Evans know this role better than anyone. Captain America is a figure of American propaganda both in the real world and in the MCU, despite how the characters Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson and actors Chris Evans and Anthony Mackie feel. If you just see the red, white and blue, the propaganda, and not what these characters have stood for, that’s on you. And if you think that America represents honor and dignity for everyone, wake the fuck up. Honestly, just look out the window.

[siempre-bucky]

existence

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

summary: There's a rumor at the base that MRs. Torres doesn't exist. No birthday parties, no drinks at the bar after a mission, no base run functions. Sam crashes at the Toress' after the White House incident and sees if she actually exists.

wc: 1457

a/n: Spoilers for CA:BNW

 His ears were still ringing. 

Echos of gunfire and police sirens shrouded his mind, Sam’s body was on autopilot with his eyes burning holes into the dirty apartment complex carpet and his sore feet dragging along it. He still doesn’t comprehend how Joaquin could be in a chipper mood after that. Sam noticed the limp in Joaquin's step and the bruise on the back of his neck. It could have been worse, the President could have died, Cap reminded himself. 

“Wait till you meet her, Sam! Ugh, I have been waiting for this for the longest time!” he cheered, clearly forgetting the late hour. Right, Sam blinked, he was finally meeting Mrs. Torres. After working together for three years, he thought this mystery woman didn’t exist. The younger man would make excuses “She’s working overseas,” or “She has no service.” But after catching a glimpse at his lock screen which proudly displayed a photo of the pair at a Hurricanes baseball game he changed his mind. The rest of the base thought it was AI-generated. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it, man,” Sam forced out a chuckle, ribs screaming back at him. 

Joaquin stopped at the door, digging his key out of his pocket and turning the lock. The echoes disappeared once Sam took a step into the small DC apartment. The smell of baked goods and a soft “We’re home, Amor” coming from the other man was enough to silence them for a moment, the pain in his ribs dulled with the feeling of anticipation rising. 

She was real. His brown eyes discreetly widened as she appeared in the doorway that divided the kitchen and living room, wiping her hands with an orange and green rag. He didn’t take his eyes off her, she examined Joaquin up and down before giving herself the ok to crash into him.  “I’m so happy you’re ok,” She muttered against his neck, his arms holding her against him. 

The soft interaction made something in his chest ache, and the way Joaquin then cradled her face and whispered reassurance in two languages almost made him tear up. Almost. He’d be sure to make fun of him for this later. 

“Sam, this is my wife.” 

The woman smiled softly, aware of the situation at the White House,  and introduced herself, outstretching her hand. He noticed her firm grip, but he could feel the tremble. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sam. I can’t get him to shut up about you,” she chuckled, leaning back into Joaquin’s embrace. 

“Nice to meet you too,” he said with a small smirk. 

“There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch for you along with some clothes. Half his closet is just U Maimi stuff—I hope you don’t mind the colors.”  

Sam turned around and glanced at the neat pile resting on the arm of the couch. “It’ll do fine. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome anytime. I’m going to get him cleaned up, let me know if you need anything else.” She patted her husband on the back and ushered him into the kitchen, dismissing all of his protests. 

Sam walked towards the couch and ran his fingers over the plush olive green material of the blanket before picking up the vibrant green t-shirt. He snickered and tossed it over his shoulder. 

“Shit!” a shrill curse came from the kitchen followed by soft apologies. It was instinct for the hero to look over and check out the scene. Joaqquin was fine, sitting on the counter with a piece of gauze covering his eyebrow. She stood between his legs, a look of sympathy on her face while she dabbed at the wound. 

Love looked good on the kid. In their line of work, there wasn’t much room for love or even just the look of it on someone's face. He remembered the first night he saw it on Joaquin’s face; it was at a bar somewhere in Europe and Sam had been counting on his fingers how many girls the other had turned down for a dance. 

“Five,” he laughed wiggling his fingers in his face. 

Joaquin rolled his eyes and playfully shoved his hand away, “Yeah, yeah.” 

“Wanna go for six or do you wanna tell me why you’ve said no to every pretty girl in this place.” 

The curly-haired man took a swig of beer for confidence, letting out a deep sigh as he put the bottle back on the table. “I have someone back home,” he finally admitted. 

“You got a little girlfriend!” 

There was a small blush on his cheeks and a smile so soft and sweet it was sickening. “A wife.” 

“Wife,” Sam repeated slowly. 

“College sweethearts, I think that’s what it’s called.” 

Yeah, love looked good on him. Sam snapped out of his memory and opened the blanket his eyes watching her press her hand against Joaquin’s chest with his wrapped around her wrist, his thumb swiping along the bone. His heart was beating, he was alive. Sam wondered if that was something they did after he came home from deployment, or now when he returned from a mission. Tonight was just supposed to be a fun night celebrating their mission, not stopping an assassination attempt. 

“Sam…bro, you good?” 

The couple stood in front of him, a red first aid kit in her hands. “Go get changed, I’ll patch up Captain America,” she smirked. Joaquin smiled and kissed her on the temple before retreating to the bedroom down the hall. 

“I’m fine,” Sam laughed it off. 

Her eyes flickered down to his arm, wet crimson staining a patch of his forearm. “Sit,” she told him firmly. 

He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought as he looked at the sliced skin, it shouldn’t need stitches. She popped open the kit and got to work in silence. He should say something, the gears in his brain working overtime to come up with something appropriate. 

“You know, I was starting to think you didn’t exist.” He settled on that. Nice going, Sam. 

Thankfully she laughed, pouring a clear liquid over the cut that made him wince. “We get that a lot. We have a tally of all our friends who’ve said that.” 

“Sorry to add another. Work keeps you away?” 

She smiled and nodded, “I work for a charity. Helping communities rebuild after the blip. Some places haven’t been as lucky as we have. I was away a lot—it worked out when he was deployed.” 

A sadness began to loom over her as she gently wrapped his arm with a white gauze. She missed him, and he missed her just as much. “Was?” he narrowed in on the past tense of her words. 

“I requested a transfer to a desk job as soon as he finished those wings. I need to be here if something happens.” There was a tremor in her voice, “Him being Falcon puts him in even more danger. I want—need to be closer to him.” 

“He’s a good man,” Sam told her gently, “a damn good Falcon, he learned from the best.” He got a smile and a small chuckle out of her relieving her of some of the nerves she carried. 

She put her hand over the gauze and looked at him dead in the eye. “Keep him alive, Sam.” It was a gentle command. “He means everything to me.”

His lips parted and glanced down at the silver wedding band around her finger, thinking of a way to tell her that he might not be able to in this line of work. Joaquin saved the day, strolling into the room with a signature toothy smile. “Have you been talking about me this whole time?” he joked. 

Her smile instantly brightened. “You wish,” she laughed, collecting her things from the couch and rose to her feet. 

“She’s a miracle worker.” Sam raised his arm to show his partner the neatly wrapped gauze. 

“Looks good, Sam!” The other man cheered, leaning forward to get a better look. “We don’t have a well-stocked medicine cabinet for nothing.” 

“Yeah, I learned after too many scraped knees from the basketball court back in Maimi.” 

Joaquin winced and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Let’s let Captain America get some sleep,” he suggested, pressing his lips to the side of her head. 

“Let us know if you need anything, Sam,” she told him. 

“Will do, Mrs. Torres. Thank you for everything.” 

“Anytime. We’re here or you.” 

Sam got comfortable on the couch, and surprisingly he felt like he could fall asleep instantly. Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to his friends at the base: ‘Mrs. Torres exists.’

[neontiger]

breakfast downtown

♡ MDNI 18+

♡ Jason Todd x fem!reader

♡ Bad week at work? Don't worry, princess. You can take your frustrations out on Jay. He's a big boy, he can handle it. Maybe. Smut served with a side of angst.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A scream bubbles in your gut as glass crashes to the floor into a million pieces. Maybe the stars were out of alignment, or mercury was in retrograde, or some other bullshit – something to explain the absolute mess of a week you’d had. Maybe you’d done something wrong, pissed somebody off, and they’d put a curse on you.

That guy on Tuesday, the one in your section at table three, the one who’d flirted with you relentlessly and then called you a bitch when you turned him down. Maybe he’d fucked up your week. It certainly had thrown you off-balance enough that by Friday night you were demanding Saturday off because you couldn’t take it anymore. Thankfully you had sick days saved up.

The elevator is still out of order, and you have to make the hike up three flights of stairs. A normal week that would be fine, but tonight each step sounds like echoes of bullshit. You wonder if Jason will be waiting or if he’s already gone for the night.

That pisses you off too. He’s always running away. You’ve never spent an entire night together – no, that would be asking too much of somebody who thinks of themself as some sort of savior of a city that could not give less of a shit about him. He’s like a goddamn cat, coming and going as he pleases, with a set of morals to match. What are you to him? Is your apartment some sort of fucking safe house?

What the fuck is he planning with you? Is he even planning anything, or is he just here to get his dick sucked?

You forget to remind yourself to rein it in before you shove open the door to your apartment. The first thing you see is Jason’s mask on your kitchen counter next to a sink full of dishes. Your bag drops to the floor with a loud thud.

Jason gets up from the couch. He’s half in his uniform; the leather jacket is thrown over the back of the couch along with the multitude of holsters. He walks up like nothing in the world is wrong and leans in to kiss you.

You turn your head. His lips land on the corner of your mouth. He grips your chin in gloved hands and turns you back to him to steal the kiss you don’t want to give.

“Stop.” You shove his hand down.

“What’s wrong?” Judging blue-green eyes look you up and down underneath a furrowed brow and a curl of white. You roll your eyes and push past him, not bothering to be pleasant when your shoulder meets his arm.

He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t reach out. Just stands there, staring at you as you head to the wardrobe by your bed and rip out clothes to wear.

He takes a few steps and stops by the kitchen counter. There’s no space to hide in the studio apartment except the bathroom, so you gather your clothes to take them in there to change. He blocks your path. “What’s wrong?” He asks, again. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.” You could cut skin with the sharpness in your tone. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Here, I think,” he says. “If you don’t want to talk –”

“I don’t,” you snap. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed, so can you get out of the way and go do your stupid – whatever it is you fucking do, Jason!”

That’s not how you meant for it to come out, but you don’t come to that realization until too late – by then his eyes are narrowed with hurt and his fists are clenched at his sides, his mouth closed tightly, his feet taking a step back for you to move past. You don’t, not right away, frozen with the fear in your gut that you just fucked up something.

Jason lifts his hand, gestures for you to walk. It hurts your entire body to take that step.

You watch from the bathroom door as he clips on his holsters. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He nods, pulls on his jacket. “Okay.”

Okay is a brick to the head. You watch him put on the mask, and the Jason you know disappears. The Red Hood looks at you for a moment before leaving through the fire escape. You fucked up.

─── ⋆⋅❤︎⋅⋆ ───

Sleep doesn’t come until the sun does. You spent the night waiting for Jason to return, but he never does, and you fall asleep with tear-stained cheeks and tired eyes just as the morning light is peeking through your window. Hours later, after nightmares that have nothing to do with him, you wake up to the smell of coffee wafting through your apartment, and the sounds of the street below – cars honking, people talking and laughing. Music plays from somewhere and knocks on your skull, furthering the birth of a headache.

“Good morning,” Jason says dully.

You sit up halfway and frown at him in the armchair by the window. He’s out of uniform, now in a black tank top and a pair of black sweats. You want to admire his arms and chest, the muscles and the scars that mark him, tell his story…but you can’t, not now. There’s a new injury, still red and raw, on the knuckles of his right hand.

There’s also a tray of food on your nightstand, where the coffee you smelled in your sleep sits next to a plate of french toast and a bowl of berries sprinkled with sugar. You glance at it.

Jason frowns. “Or, good afternoon. Sleep bad?”

You sit up more, pulling your knees in. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m really – I didn’t mean it, Jay. I’m really sorry.”

He nods. “I think you meant it.”

You bite your tongue, but it does nothing to stop the tears that bubble at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head, and open your mouth to say no, you didn’t, that you were just angry at everything in that moment, but he speaks first.

“It’s okay.” Jason runs a finger absentmindedly over his injured knuckles as his gaze remains on you. “I figure it’s not easy. I didn’t think we’d get this far, honestly. I thought you’d be tired of me.”

“I’m not,” you rush out with a choke.

He nods again. You’re beginning to hate that, but you say nothing, instead squeezing the fabric of your blanket to hold back your fears. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you are. We can…” His voice trails off and his gaze drops away from you to the floor. “Stop here, if you want. It might be better for you.”

“No.” You sound like a toy with a broken squeaker. You swallow, clear your throat, fight the tremble in your body to repeat the words, firmer and more sure. “No. I don’t want to stop here.”

Jason’s eyes jump back up to meet yours. “Are you sure?”

“Very. I'm sorry,” you say, more confident now as his gaze softens. “I didn't mean it, Jay, really. I've just…it's been a shitty week. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“Oh.” Surprise flashed over his face. “Next time just tell me. I can help you…with your frustrations.”

The breakfast he brought sits at the back of your mind. You don't think that's what he meant, not with the way his mouth curls around his final words. “Where'd you get breakfast?” You ask.

“That place downtown. Remember the one on the water we went to last month?”

“You went all the way downtown to get me breakfast?” A soft laugh escapes your lips, something you didn't think possible moments ago. Then it hits you. “Did you think I was mad at you?”

Jason stands up suddenly and stops by the bed, towering over you and blotting out the sun with his broad frame. The weight of the morning seems to lift from your shoulders at the delicious sight of him, and you can finally take him in as he deserves, dragging your eyes down from the scar on his cheek to his body, muscle rippling under tanned skin. The autopsy scar cuts across his chest and dips under the dark fabric of his fitted tank. You stop short of the waistband of his sweats and wrench your eyes back up. The ache between your thighs demands otherwise, however.

“I guess I should make it up to you. Last night.” You run your fingers lightly down his arm, tracing over a vein that runs down his forearm, until you reach his hand. You take it in yours and press your lips just above his knuckles. ‘What would you like?”

Jason smirks. “I was thinking the opposite. Gonna take care of you, get your mind off whatever's pissing you off.”

You blink up at him. “What? No. I was…I was mean. I should –”

His large hand keeps you in place as it grips your cheeks and his mouth crashes on yours, silencing any protest you might have had left. Spit connects your lips as he breaks from you. “Lay down,” he orders, breath hot on your skin.

You throw yourself back onto the pillows. Jason grins, a dark look in his eyes, one you've come to know well. You've wondered before if it's the same look he gets when he's on the streets at night, but you hope not.

“Uh-uh, princess. On your stomach.”

You roll onto your belly without second thought, sticking your ass in the air for him. Your attire is far from sexy, an oversized shirt (Jason's) and a pair of pajama bottoms that hang off your hips, but he quickly remedies that problem by tugging off your shirt before pulling down your pants, leaving you in nothing but gray cotton panties. He snaps the band once before slipping them down your ass and legs.

If he was being honest, he'd admit this was his favorite view, you ass up, face down, pussy already slick with arousal. Yeah, he likes all versions of you, but this one hits him differently, twisting his stomach into anxious knots and rushing all blood to his cock. He strains against his sweats, has to fight the urge to stuff you full of him this very second.

Jason swallows. “Keep that ass up,” he instructs, lifting off his own shirt now. You bite your bottom lip, savoring the reveal of his upper body. He places a knee on the edge of the bed and moves out of view, positioning himself behind you.

“You want to tell me…” His breath brushes over your slit, hot and cold at the same time. “What happened? Why are you so upset?” He blows gently on your clit, sending a shock through your body. You push back in an attempt to connect with his mouth but he pulls away.

“It’s stupid…it’s not – ah…” Cheek pressed into the pillow, your gasp is still audible enough to motivate his tongue, causing it to dart out from his lips to flick your clit again. His hands keep you in place with a solid grasp on the back of your thighs, preventing you from trying once more to quicken his pace.

Another lick, this one longer, slicking up through your folds. Your eyelids flutter, mouth suspended in a moan against the flower-patterned pillowcase. In an effort to keep still, you squeeze the life out of the pillow as your core burns with impatience.

This time Jason’s tongue presses inside, deep enough you feel the tip of his nose against your slit. One hand lets go of your thigh so he can press the pad of his thumb to your clit, making small, teasing circles. His tongue retreats and you nearly cry. “If it’s stupid, then why take it out on me?”

The question ruins the work he’s doing. Your cheeks flush red, guilt bubbling in your stomach. “I shouldn’t have,” you say. “The week – rough mm –”

His tongue shoves back inside your heat as he works his thumb with more sincerity, clearly seeking to see you undone. Your body trembles in his grip and the fight to keep still and not shove your whole cunt in his face starts to feel impossible. His hand brushes up your thigh to cup your ass, lifting you higher for him. “Make you feel better,” he whispers, the words vibrating against your pussy. “You want that? Kiss away your problems.”

You mumble against the pillow. “Uh-huh…I want…”

Jason runs a finger through your folds, teasing the entrance with the thick digit, and lowers his lips to capture your swollen clit in them. “Mm. What do you want, princess?”

“Jay.” At the moment you want to kick him, make him stop teasing with his fingers threatening to sink inside your heat but never making the connection, his lips brushing your clit, every word a jolt that doesn’t complete. You whine, squirming in his grip. He tightens his hold on you in response and pulls his mouth away from your cunt completely…to bite you on the fat of your ass.

You cry out, jerk your head around to glare at him. “What the fuck, Jason?”

Jason smirks, kissing the same spot. Heat emanates from the mark left behind by his teeth, a pulsating type of warmth that echoes in your core. It felt…good, maybe. But you don't want him to know.

“What do you want?” He repeats the question with his lips pressing your ass again, teeth scraping the skin like a threat.

He always does this – wants you to say it. Exposed as you are, arousal dripping down your thighs in his face, you still find it difficult to get the words out. Clothes on, maybe you've got an attitude – last night proved that completely – but like this, under him? You whine into the pillow. All that does is get him to sink his teeth into your soft flesh again, this time the back of your thigh. Your walls clench desperately around nothing.

“Want you to fuck me,” you mumble, whiny and feeling hot.

The tip of his finger presses inside your slit. You inhale, forget to exhale, as he takes his time sinking into you. “Like this?” He drags his finger almost out. You tighten around the digit instinctively, refusing to let go even though it's not exactly what you're looking for. This ache cries for something bigger, deeper.

Jason adds a second finger and scissors them in your cunt, stretching you out. His other fingers pinch your clit lightly. “So wet,” he whispers, almost too low for you to hear. “For me. All this…huh…”

You try to glance back, realizing he is talking to himself. He mumbles against your cunt words you can't make out, and fuck if it doesn't stoke the fire in your belly, the way his lips wrap your clit with intent, fingers fucking into you slowly, coiling you tight. He moans as he sucks. You watch him through clouded eyes, his free hand palming the front of his sweats, his cock in desperate need of some friction.

“Jay, please,” you whisper. Why is your voice breaking? “Fuck me now. I’m sorry.”

He pulls his fingers free, leaving you empty, and runs both hands up your thighs to your lower back as he gets up on his knees. The touch continues up your spine and guides you to flatten on the bed with your thighs pressed together, your skin soaked. He leans to whisper in your ear. “I know. It’s okay.” He sighs, and presses his lips to your neck. “You scared me. I’ve never…” He laughs softly, shifting above you as he pushes down his sweatpants. The bed shifts but he keeps you in place, sits on the back of your thighs, and kisses your cheek. “Never been scared like that.”

You twist to look up at him but can barely turn halfway with his weight holding you down. “I won’t do it again. Promise,” you say.

Jason says nothing. There’s no smile on his lips, but a tender look in his eyes remains locked on your face. He swallows. “I…” His mouth hangs open, a thought just on the tip of his tongue that doesn’t complete. Lips move, but nothing comes out.

“What?” You run your fingers up his arm, his hands on either side of you the only piece you can comfortably reach.

He exhales shakily. “I…uh, you’re beautiful.” He wets his lips before leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Gorgeous. Can’t wait to make you a fucking mess.”

You roll your eyes. Jason straightens up and places a hand on your lower back as the other grips his cock. The tip nudges your entrance, and you arch and lift as best you can to urge him on. He fills you achingly slow, spreading you open and stealing your breath until he bottoms out. His hips sit flush against your ass as he gathers your hair in one fist, tugging it gently out of the way for him to press his lips to the sensitive skin of your neck.

His teeth sink in – this time there isn’t an ounce of protest in your cry and your walls clench around him as he leaves his mark. His hips pull back and snap forward roughly, slamming the head of his cock into your cervix. You grab onto his hand where it fists the mattress for stability as he repeats the move. He flattens his hand and laces his fingers through yours.

The bed creaks underneath you, the headboard smacking the wall almost as loud as the sound of skin meeting skin and the squelch of your needy cunt. Jason fucks a quick rhythm, hardly pulling out enough and never leaving you empty, like he can't stand the feeling of being apart from you right now. Neither can you, your walls clenching around his cock every slight draw backwards, slick coating his length. You squirm, make small circles with your hips that pull groans deep from his throat.

“Fuck yes,” Jason pants, pulling on your hair and lifting your head from the pillow. He watches where his cock is sucked into your greedy hole, mesmerized with how well you take him, how you can't keep still because you need him that bad. “That's good, baby…don't stop. That's a good girl…” He leans forward for another taste, biting into your shoulder as his pace shortens, thrusts becoming animalistic and hard.

Your lungs constrict, hardly able to suck down air from his weight on you, and moving becomes impossible. He jerks on your hair to expose your neck further to him and give his teeth purchase on your throat. Your hand almost breaks from his – would have, if he doesn't tighten his hand around yours the moment he feels you try to pull away. His cock grinds against your cervix with overwhelming pressure. You squeeze your eyes shut, crying out with pleasure. Another sink of his teeth in your neck has your legs trembling as the orgasm rocks your body, release dripping from your swollen cunt to soak your thighs and the sheets.

Jason grunts close to your ear. “Close, baby – fuck.” Lips press your cheek. His breath burns your already feverish skin. His words are strained, caught between heavy breaths. “Where…do you want – ahh – want me? Tell me, baby.”

“Inside,” you choke out. The single word is a spell that undoes him. His body shudders under climax, cock desperate to press as deep inside you as possible as he comes. Inside your core it's hot, close to burning, as you clench around his twitching length. You can feel it, his release coating your walls, overflowing to drip down and mix with your fluids on the bed.

Jason rests his head on the pillow next to yours. Your hands, palms sweaty, remain tangled together, but you make no effort to pull them apart now. Instead you let your eyes close as you relish in the full feeling of him still inside you. Gradually his cock softens but stays snug, and you could almost fall asleep like this…if it wasn't for the need to breathe.

Jason, on the other hand, seems to have gotten too comfortable. He snores softly next to your ear, and you almost feel guilty jostling him awake. “Jay. Jay, can't breathe.”

He groans as he lifts himself, cock slipping free at last with a soft plop that reddens your cheeks. You startle as you feel his fingers brush your sore slit. He mumbles to himself.

“Stop,” you say, shivering. Not that you don't want it, but…you feel too exposed like this, knowing he's devouring you with his eyes, taking in the mess he's made.

Jason leans to kiss your cheek. “Sorry. Let me get you cleaned up.”

“No.” It comes out so fast, surprising both of you. You turn onto your back, self-conscious of the dripping down your ass when you do. “It's fine. I'll take a shower later. Just lay down for now.”

The bed shifts as he collapses next to you, pulling you into his arms. You nuzzle his chest and find his heart beat, still fast, not yet come down completely. His fingers make lazy circles on your arm. You want to sleep, but any thought of it seems to have faded, and all you can think about now is staying in this moment.

“Do you work tonight?” Jason asks.

“No.” You match his circles with traces of your own, going over the scars on his chest with light fingertips. “I took a sick day. Go back in Tuesday.”

He inhales deep and sighs, rolling you with the motion. “I won't go out tonight,” he says. “There's nothing…important. I'll stay here, if that's okay with you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's alright.” You prop your chin on his chest to look up at his face. His smile is soft, dreamlike. “Where do you live anyway?”

Jason shrugs a shoulder. “I've got a couple places.”

“Oh, really? Is one of them, like, an abandoned warehouse? A cardboard box under a bridge?”

He laughs. “You think I'm homeless?”

You hadn't really thought about it before, but the signs are there. “You always shower here. Your clothes are here, your toothbrush, and I've never seen your place…you just appear out of nowhere. I mean, shoe fits.”

“I like it better here,” he says.

“Then why not stay?”

He shrugs again, but this time it's almost sheepish the way he glances away, like he can't look at you. “Stay,” you say, before he can object, find some excuse. “I mean it. Move in with me. You pretty much live here anyway.”

Jason reaches to the tray on the nightstand and picks up the cup. He takes a sip and frowns before replacing it on the tray. “Coffee's cold. Let me up so I can make a new pot.” He starts to sit up, pulling his arm away and letting you fall softly to the pillow.

You stare at his scarred back as he tugs on his sweats again. “Jason, we're talking.”

He shakes his head. “Later. I have to think about it.”

Maybe an hour ago he was upset because you hadn't talked to him, hadn't told him what was wrong. He'd been scared. And now you can only stare at him in the kitchen, scooping coffee grounds into a thrift store coffee maker. You don't reach out. You don't know what you're supposed to say.

You say nothing. A scream bubbles in your gut but goes nowhere.

[slytherin-pen]

Nothing To Prove

pairing: Garrick Tavis x Reader

word count: 3k

warnings: RSC torture, injuries, ptsd, side character death, hurt/comfort

a/n: now that i’m nearly at 200 followers i finally post my ‘100 followers appreciation’ fic. looks like i’ll be posting another poll soon 😆 genuinely though thank you for all the support, it truly means the world to me. comment if you’d like to join my Fourth Wing specific taglist!

Everything was muffled—like someone had stuffed cotton in your ears. Pain pulsed through your body, a sharp, aching throb that started in your face and spread down your body. You were only meant to have been in the RSC training torture chamber for two days, but it felt like it had been much longer than that. It became obvious early on that you were being targeted due to your relationship with Garrick Tavis when you were strapped into a chair in the middle of the room while the rest of your squad was chained to the wall next to each other.

But they didn’t break you. Even after they took away the bond with your dragon, even when they took their frustration out on your squadmates. You held the line. You wish you could say the same for everyone. One of your squadmates, Patrick, had given in.

You now understand why Professor Grady had only responded with ‘Don’t’ when a cadet had asked what happens if you break. Your whole squad had held their breath when Patrick gave up his phrase. That’s when the delusion had kicked in—that maybe it would be ok. Your squad would just have a few points deducted, your Wingleader would scold you and call you all embarrassments to the Wing but Patrick would be fine.

He was not fine.

The two Infantry cadets executing the interrogation had started beating him relentlessly. Punching his face, kicking his stomach. You think you might have screamed, but it was hard to tell over the cries of pain from Patrick and the shouting of your squadmates.

That alone felt like it had gone on for hours, and by the time they pulled away it was a shock to see him still breathing. His face was purple with blood running down his nose and chin. A couple of his teeth lay on the stone floor and his nose was undoubtedly broken. You thought his ear may have been hanging off but it was hard to see through your swollen eyes.

It wasn’t long after that when Professor Grady walked into the room, gave a disapproving frown toward your squad, and then broke Patrick’s neck.

Someone fainted. Someone else pissed themselves, but no one else broke after that. Thank Zinhal the interrogation ended soon after.

You survived. Now, you just had to survive the aftermath.

The bright mage lights of the Healer’s Quadrant were disorienting after spending two days in the dark chamber. Fuzzy figures passed you, one stopping by to pour some disgusting tonic down your throat. The only reprieve was that you could feel your dragon, Thalor, again. Grunts and moans of pain filled the room and the smell of antiseptics nauseated you.

You barely registered it when strong arms lifted you from the cot you’d been placed on after your squad was escorted to the infirmary. There was a low murmur of voices, but your head lolled against a broad chest, exhaustion dragging you under. That’s when the scent of leather and steel reached your nose. Garrick.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

The world blurred as he carried you to the barracks, his grip secure yet gentle. You wanted to say something, anything, but you were too drained to open your mouth. You let your head rest on his shoulder and shut your eyes.

His steps were long and determined, quickly navigating the halls of Basgiath and narrowly avoiding being spotted by leadership. He knew you wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this despite disagreeing with your reasoning. Everyone who had survived second year knew exactly what it was like to go through RSC scenarios, and they would be hypocrites for judging you. Garrick’s heart hammered in his chest, his rage ready to lash out like a beast in a cage. He saw the rest of your squad lying on the other cots when he walked through the infirmary, and you looked significantly worse. Blue and purple bruises marred the skin that was visible outside of your uniform, and dried blood was smudged around your face.

He tried to remain calm for you though. You likely had enough panic running your system to power a dragon, he didn’t need to add to it. Even though RSC torturing was a sanctioned scenario, it didn’t mean those running it couldn’t take advantage of an opportunity to cause you harm. You weren’t a marked one like him, but at Basgiath you weren’t as good as guilty by association. Choosing to be with him was frowned upon but you never batted an eye at the whispering or glares cast your way. You’d just raise your chin and grab his hand, signaling to everyone who could see that you did not care what they thought. It’s one of the many reasons Garrick loved you.

He finally approached his room, unlocking the door with a flick of his wrist. His rucksack and swords were still tossed in the corner where he left them when he found out you had been released from the chamber. Xaden had him running extra drop-offs just to keep him busy, too busy to run down there and break you out.

You whimpered when the warmth of his body disappeared as he placed you on his bed. Garrick pulled the blankets over your trembling form. His hands, calloused from years of flying and fighting, gently brushed the hair from your face before checking the damage.

His voice was a growl when he finally spoke. “I should kill them for this. I should—”

He cut himself off. Cool. Calm. Collected. You were sensitive to emotions others gave off, and him getting worked up would only set you off.

Garrick took a deep breath. “Just rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You mumbled something he didn’t quite catch, but then your body relaxed and he knew you were asleep.

The memories chased you in your slumber. The feeling of the leather straps being tightened around your wrists. The terror you felt after you realized you couldn’t communicate with your dragon anymore. Your squadmates being beaten over and over again. Patrick as his body hung loosely from the grip of the chains after Professor Grady snapped his neck.

Your nightmare took on a mind of its own. Patrick started to move. His neck, at an unnatural angle, turns to look at you. Lifeless green eyes staring into your own. He was muttering something—you couldn’t tell what. He began to thrash against the chains as you screamed. Your screams got more frantic as you looked around the room and noticed all of your squadmates were dead too. Slouched with bones going in the wrong direction, blood dripping from their throats.

You jolted awake as a large hand gripped your shoulder. The flickering of a candle on a desk across the room was the first thing you saw, then your head snapped toward the hulk of a shadow sitting on the bed next to you.

“Garrick?” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He frowned, eyes roaming over your sweaty form. “I told you I’d be here when you woke up.”

You blinked, struggling to remember when he said that or how you got here. Swallowing past the tightness in your throat you asked, “Don’t you have training with Xaden tonight?”

He let out an exasperated huff. “No, love. I have much more important matters to attend to.”

Your sleep-addled brain was slow to catch up. “Like what?”

His hazel eyes softened as he met your gaze. “You.”

Something in your chest cracked with those words. You knew he loved you, of course. But Garrick was always so busy. Being a Section Leader, assisting a revolution, helping train the first years—all on top of keeping himself alive. An insecure, anxious part of you sometimes sees yourself as less important. I mean really, how do you compare to the protection of an entire province and a hundred and seven marked ones?

But then you looked at him. Really looked at him. His dark, curly hair was tussled like he’d been running his hands through it. Dark circles lined his under eyes, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hands with seeming restless energy.

Garrick had always been the calm and steady one. When you were pacing or nearly tearing your hair out, he was the anchor that kept your mind from drifting too far. Preventing the waves of your emotions and worries from pulling you under. But right now, there was something unsteady in him too.

“Garrick, I—” You tried to push yourself up, but the pain hit like one of Imogen’s punches, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

He was there instantly, hands bracing your shoulders, stopping you from moving too fast. “Easy,” he murmured.

He adjusted the pillows behind you and helped you slowly scoot up to lean your back on the headboard. You sighed as your muscles relaxed slightly. Garrick handed you a glass of water and you gulped it down, the cool liquid soothing the dryness in your throat.

You whispered a thanks as you handed the glass back to him, and placed it on the table beside the bed.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled as your fingers fiddled with the seam of the blanket.

His lips twitched, crinkling the scar that ran along his cheekbone. “You make it hard not to.”

“Because I look like I got thrown off a dragon?”

His expression darkened. “Because I hate seeing you like this.”

You exhaled, shifting against the pillows. “It’s part of training. We all have to go through it.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he shot back.

“Still. You don’t have to babysit me,” you sighed. “I’m a big girl, I can manage to not bust my ass on the way to the bathroom.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not babysitting you. I’m taking care of my girlfriend.”

The word sent a strange warmth through you.

Girlfriend. Riders didn’t often use those terms. Usually, two people would hang out and hook up regularly, and then after graduation they’d get married if they wished. That was when labels were put on things. Life was so short and uncertain at Basgiath, using labels like boyfriend or girlfriend felt so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But as a warm fluttering swarmed your stomach, it didn’t feel so insignificant.

You and Garrick had always been close. You met him just before you crossed the Parapet during your first year at Basgiath. After he took your name for the roll he had warned you to tie your hair back so it wouldn’t obstruct your eyesight. Looking back, it should have been obvious to you that being blinded by your hair might lead to your death, and maybe he should have let you cross as you were and you would have had no one to blame but yourself. But he didn’t. He broke a rule for you before you’d even properly met. Then he found you after your first formation and invited you to join him and his friends for training later that night. Somewhere between midnight flight drills when neither of you could sleep, relentless sparring practice, and stolen glances during Battle Brief—things had shifted. He had become the one person you could truly let your guard down with. Someone you didn’t have to hide your spiraling thoughts or sensitive heart from.

And now, when you were at your lowest, he refused to leave.

“I just—” You hesitated, frustration rising in your throat. “I hate this. Hate having to rely on someone.”

His lips dipped into a slight frown. “There’s nothing wrong with needing a hand. We all can use a little help every now and then.”

You scoffed. “When have you ever needed help?”

“After I watched my parents die.” He looked down at the relic winding up his arm, stroking it thoughtfully. “After Parapet and I realized this wasn’t all some fucked up nightmare. That we really had been sent to this death sentence of a college for the crimes of our parents. I was lost. But Xaden picked me up. And Bodhi, and Imogen, and Liam. We help each other. We lean on each other. And I’ll be damned if my girl thinks she has to stand on her own to do what? Prove that she’s strong?”

Your throat tightened, tears gathering in your eyes.

Your dragon, Thalor, chimed in for the first time since getting access to your bond again. “The Section Leader is right. You have nothing to prove. I chose you. You held the line. That is enough.”

Garrick sighed and grasped your hands in his. He leaned in close enough you could see the mix of brown and green in his eyes. “You are strong. I know it, your squad knows it, this whole damn quadrant knows it. The only person who still questions that is you.”

The memories of the interrogation hit you again. The bone-deep chill, the fear on your squadmates’ faces. Your own fear.

Tears ran down your cheeks and your breath hitched before the dam broke. “I was so scared,” your voice cracking with the admission. “The whole time. I wasn’t brave and I wasn’t calm. I was an embarrassment to what it means to be a Rider. Every time they walked into the room I wished I could flee. And then—and then they killed Patrick and I—”

Garrick grabbed your face with his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Baby. Baby, look at me.”

Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast. Garrick’s eyes were wide, his brows drawn together when you met his stare. Your hands trembled as you pressed them against your ribs as if you could somehow steady the erratic rhythm of your breathing. The room felt too small, the walls creeping closer, the dim lighting casting shadows that flickered like ghosts.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and gentle. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He seemed to notice your aversion to the darkness and with a flick of his wrist the mage light was on, casting the room in a light blue glow.

You forced yourself to nod, but your throat was tight, your body locked in place. His gaze jumped around to your face, your arms—the bruises, the cuts, and his jaw clenched. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. When he met your eyes again, there was no pity, only quiet understanding.

“What you went through…” He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “No one walks away from something like that without scars. It’s normal.” His voice softened further, the words weaving through the haze of your mind. “Your reaction is normal.”

A shuddering breath left your lips. “Then why—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard. “Why does it feel like I can’t breathe?”

He removed his hands from your face and instead grabbed your knees, squeezing lightly. Grounding you. “Because your body still thinks you’re there,” he said. “It takes time to teach it that you’re safe now.”

Safe. You wanted to believe him, but you’re never truly safe at Basgiath, are you?

Garrick gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll go grab a med kit, I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of a cabinet opening and closing filling the silence. When he returned, he was carrying a small black box. He returned to his spot beside you, opening the latch with one hand.

“Let me?” he asked, holding up a cloth he’d soaked in antiseptic.

You nodded.

His touch was firm but careful as he cleaned the cuts on your hands and arms, his thumb brushing along your skin with the occasional silent apology when the antiseptic stung. He grimaced the same times you did when he got to your face. There was a cut through your left eyebrow and on your cheek. From experiencing a lifetime full of injuries he knew the face was the most sensitive. His movements were so at odds with his body. This large, muscularly dense man, who could snap you like a twig if he wished, was using a gentleness that made your heart stutter. It was as if you were a priceless vase and he was trying to put it back together. His methodical movements, the crease between his brow as he focused helped soothe you, the panic receding like the tide.

“I can’t believe the Healers didn’t patch you better,” he said through gritted teeth. He placed your wrist on his knee as he wrapped it with a bandage.

You licked your dry, cracked lips, focusing on his face again rather than his hands. “They gave me a tonic and I think they mended a few bones, I don’t remember much though. I was pretty out of it by the time we got there. But they had a whole squad to heal, they couldn’t spend all of their time on me.”

He clenched his jaw but said nothing. You looked up at him as he moved back to your face, placing a butterfly bandage on your brow. Your hand twitched with the urge to caress the two days worth of stubble that covered his sharp jawline.

“There,” he said after smoothing a balm over your cheek. “All patched up.”

You blinked, snapping out of your reverie. He didn’t move right away, and neither did you. The weight of exhaustion pulled at your limbs, but you were hesitant to succumb to it. The fear and adrenaline still running through you. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he just knew you better than you know yourself sometimes, because the next thing he did was set the med kit aside and motion for you to scoot over with his chin.

He untied his boots and kicked them off before climbing into the bed beside you and maneuvering under the blankets. His arm curled around you, pulling you against his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you. His other hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands.

“Go to sleep,” he said, his tone soft yet leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

And this time, you believed him, the rest of the adrenaline draining from your body as your eyes finally shut.

[ipushhimback]

Hugs?

pairing: lando norris x reader words: ig around 500? warinings: periods?

summary: you wake up with cramps and your boyfriend comforts you <3

You woke up in the morning feeling like crap. Your whole body was aching and even just the thought about moving just a little made it hurt even more. 

Lando was still softly snoring next to you with his arm wrapped around your waist and his face buried in your neck. You gently moved his arm from your waist as the pain was just intensifying with the pressure. Your boyfriend scrunched his face but didn’t wake up. Luckily.

You didn’t need him to wake up to you being on your period the first time he stayed over at yours. You knew how unbearable you could become when you were in pain and your hormones were all over the place. 

But only a few minutes later you could feel Lando stir next to you as he stretched himself and rubbed his eyes before opening them and looking at you with so much love in them you thought you would melt in a puddle right now.

“Hey, darling. How long have you been awake?”, he asked with a sleepy smile on his face.

“Not long. Maybe ten minutes or so. You slept well?”, you asked as you pressed a kiss to Lando’s lips.

“Yeah. Your bed is comfy. Or maybe I just like having you next to me. You ok? You look a little pale”, Lando said while he furrowed his brow in worry. 

“All good, Lan. Just tired”, you tried to reassure him though you could see that your boyfriend didn’t believe you. 

The next moment you couldn’t pretend to be fine anymore as a sharp wave of pain rolled through you, making you swear under your breath. “Fuck.”

“You are absolutely not ok. Is it your period?”, Lando asked and you just stared at him perplexed. “I have sisters. No pretending here. I did it all. Doing hot water bottles. Going to the store to get chocolate or whatever cravings they had. Buying pads in the middle of the night. Seriously, just be honest. Is it bad?”

You couldn’t help but nod as you felt your eyes well up with tears by how sweet your boyfriend was.

“You want a heating pad? Hot chocolate? Painkillers? Hugs?”, Lando asked again and you nodded while the tears started falling. 

“Oh, baby. No crying, ok?”, Lando said as he wiped the tears from his your cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute”, he continued as he got up.

As promised, he returned only a little later, having a heating pad, painkillers, water, and a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. He placed it all in front of you and sat down next to you, wrapping his arms around you again. You leaned your head on his chest and let yourself just be held.

Lando leaned forward a little and grabbed the painkillers that he then held out to you. 

“Here. They’ll help.” He grabbed that water bottle as well and opened the lid. 

You took a sip and placed the bottle back on the table to swap it with the hot chocolate. 

“I hate seeing you in pain”, Lando said as he kissed the top of your head. 

“Well, I hate being in pain”, you said chuckling a little. “But thanks for being here. For taking care of me. I was scared you might be grossed out”, you admitted.

“Grossed out? Never. You are amazing and I won’t leave over something so small. I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Lan.”

a/n: something short bc i am planning to write something else but don’t have any inspiration… also, i think all of us deserve a lando in our life who makes us hot chocolate

tags: @strawberryy-kiwii / @a-distantdreamer / @requiemforthepoets / @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @comicalivy / @sid-is-gr8 / @picklesbuddy93 / @sadiemack9 / @f1fantasys / @cloud-55 / @sunny44 / @widow-cevans / @gigicisneros / @mbioooo0000 / @sinfully-yoursss / @bravo-delta-eccho / @rue-t / @mayax2o07 / @alexanderachillesisgay / @maviesamour / @suhchenjun / @pippyth3hippy / @sweate-r-weathe-r / @joannaln4 / @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy / @aleatorio1234 

[softtdaisy]

in the meantime / Aaron Hotchner

summary. when hotch gets hurt, you're called as his emergency contact. thing is, nobody knows you're not together anymore.

words count. 2 336

what to expect. a little angst I guess but fluff too, Jack is mentioned but he's a teen

a/n. I first imagined this very funny and light and I ended up adding more angst??? but it's still sweet and cute and hotch is a lover boy

F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

When you got called at school, at first, you didn’t think it could be that moment you’ve been scared of for months finally happening.

Being a kindergarten teacher, it was easy to leave your class and ask for a colleague to take care of your children. They were all occupied with creating a new poster with their names and wouldn't even notice your absence. Well, you imagine they wouldn’t because you weren’t supposed to leave for too long.

“Do you know who’s asking for me?” you asked the principal’s assistant who came for you. He was one of your friends here, so you knew how to analyze his gesture. And from how fast he was walking right now, you could tell this was more serious than you first thought.

“Well, she’s a brunette, dressed in black.” He stopped in the middle of the hallway to think for a second. Trying hard to remember what her name could be. Thing was, you didn’t know that many brunettes, dressed in black that could authorize herself to come here. “I think her name is Emily or something like that.”

You stopped in the middle of the hallway, freezing. 

You appreciated Emily. You would even call her a friend, even if you only knew her through Hotch. But you barely talked outside of the moment you spent together. 

Getting a call from her would have been weird. Having her come to your school wasn’t normal at all.

Yet, here she was. Waiting in the principal’s office. Indeed, she was wearing an all-black outfit but mostly wearing a concerned expression on her face.

When you opened the door, she rushed to you, interrupting her conversation. Her hand was soon on your shoulder and her eyes were locked on yours. You found some comfort in it. The problem was, you had no idea why you needed it.

“What are you doing here, Emily?” you asked, whispering like it was some secret the rest of your colleagues or your superior didn’t need to know. Which was true, somehow. “Is everything alright?” 

But you knew it wasn’t. And the three words that followed were the proof. “It’s Hotch.”

Your heart dropped, and the whole world went silent. 

You’ve spent months afraid of hearing these words one day. Checking your phone multiple times a day, waiting for his text to make sure he was doing fine. There were moments when you would have the same nightmares of coming home to an empty house, sometimes with more graphic images you wished you could forget.

When Emily noticed you seemed to disconnect from reality, she put her other hand on your shoulder. “He’s ok,” she added. 

“I don’t know how, but the unsub managed to stab him in the stomach. He lost a lot of blood and went to surgery, but he should be fine. Spencer told me he was waking up when he arrived here, you heard Emily explain, but her voice seemed like a distant melody.

You tried to focus on the good news, that Hotch was fine. As fine as he can be after an attack that probably woke up some trauma, but fine. Not dead. Not in danger. Fine. 

You took a breath and nodded to accept the information you just got. And showing Emily that you listened, that you understood what she said. 

It wasn’t until you managed to keep your stress as low as possible that the question popped up in your head. “You came all the way here to tell me?”

Emily looked at you with confusion. 

“Well, you’re his girlfriend and his emergency contact. And you weren’t answering your phone. I thought it would be better to bring you to the hospital myself than let you learn about that later by yourself.”

That was the moment you understood why Emily chose to drive all the way here.

Hotch didn’t tell anyone you weren’t together anymore.

Dating Hotch was easy, more than people thought it was.

He was a great listener. He loved to hear you speak about everything in your life just as much as he loved paying attention to small details. Offering your favorite flowers, having your favorite artist in his car, and sending a text about important events at your job even when he was miles and miles away. 

You could tell Hotch was working on the experience he got from his past relationship and all that he still had to learn to be a good partner for you. And he was doing a wonderful job on it.

This relationship did a lot of good for him too. With Jack being a teen and less with his dad, he finally felt like he had a new purpose to come back home. Hotch learned to love opening his door again. This time not being met by the silence. But by you, with some kind of reality TV on, reading a book on a sofa he almost forgot about before seeing you on it—not to mention the memories the both of you created on it. You made him feel loved. At his place but at every place in his life too.

For a year, you two have been the happiest and did everything to make this relationship work. Even the team noticed the change in Hotch’s personality. And after multiple drinks together, you started to call them friends too. You both loved the routine you created together. 

But even with the brightest sun shining on your relationship, the truth was the stress was still there. His job was anxious, to you, but to him too. Having someone to care about in his life once again made Hotch concerned about losing you. He tended to be more protective after rough cases, sometimes leaning to some controlling behavior he hated as much as you did.

The disputes became more and more recurrent. And after another fight, you both decided that maybe you needed a moment away from each other to wonder if this was really worth it. You wanted Aaron Hotchner to be the love of your life; you really did. Just as he wanted to. But was it really the life you both wanted?

It was a hard month away from him; you won’t lie.

And knowing you almost lost him was even hard.

“Let’s go,” you finally replied. And the ride to the hospital was surprisingly calm.

The few times you saw Emily, you both kept chatting for hours to the point Hotch even laughed one day about fearing she might steal you from him. But this time, there were no words. Not only because of the stress, but also because you realized you were lying to your friend because of Hotch. You haven’t seen him in a month, having no idea about what his life might have been these past thirty days. And she was great at worming information out of you. So you would rather not say a thing instead of spilling a secret.

The whole drive to the hospital felt like a fever dream. And nothing could have prepared you for the overwhelming feeling you got when you opened the door. A mix of relief and stress.

Hotch was there, indeed. Underneath a white sheet that made his skin look even paler, with dark circles bigger than the last time you saw him and a tired expression that made you wish you could do anything to let him relax and rest for at least a month.

He was facing the window and only turned his head when he heard you coming in. And the confusion replaced the tiredness on his face. Yet, you still noticed the short smile that drew on his lips when he saw you. “What are you doing here?”

His tone was sweet. Sweeter than usual. No matter how down he was, Hotch took everything in him to make you feel welcome. He didn’t want you to question your presence here or to think he was questioning it. He was glad to see your face after the awful day he had. Yet, he was still wondering why you came. After a month apart, he thought you put him aside. 

Deep down, Hotch had the feeling he was easy to forget. But you weren’t. You never felt his head or his heart.

You didn’t answer his question. You couldn’t even talk. You were just focused on the silhouette of the man that shared your life these past months, lying on this hospital bed, looking so fragile.

You walked to him, as close as you could. So close that your knees bumped in the bed without you realizing it. You couldn’t resist the need to brush his hair, putting away some strands that were on his forehead. His confused and drained eyes follow each one of your moves.

“Honey?” he asked again, reaching for your hand. 

When you were together, not a day went by—except for those when he was away—where you wouldn’t hold hands. In the morning, when he was getting up, you tried to keep him with you a little longer. During breakfast, while he was drinking his coffee. When he said goodbye, kissing you before putting a kiss on your entangled hands. Or when you went to sleep, cuddling, with your hands on your stomach—or his, when he needed it after a rough day.

“You didn’t tell them we broke up,” you said in a low voice. It was the first time you said it out loud but also realized what it meant. And having Hotch in front of you, calling you by the nickname that followed you your whole relationship and caressing your hand with his thumb softly, helped see the truth behind that. “Emily came and picked me up because I’m your emergency contact, and I wasn’t answering my phone, and as your girlfriend, she assumed I needed to know. Because you didn’t tell anyone we weren’t together anymore.”

You finally landed your eyes on his, losing yourself in his baffled puppy look. “You’re right, I didn’t.” Hotch said. It was the first time since you came in that you noticed his voice was a little raspy. “And I’m glad it led you here.” 

You could hear the sincerity in his voice, not that you doubted he meant it. Over a year, you’ve learned to recognize Hotch’s expression. Especially the way his face was always softer when he was with you. Or how his very stoic and linear mouth always curled up in a smile around you.

Still, you had one question on your tongue. “Why?”

“Why am I glad?” he replied with a giggle. One that was sadly followed by a grimace. You watched as Hotch brought his other hand to his stomach to ease the pain. The doctor told him that even with the medicine, it would take him multiple days to get better. And until the stitches were gone, he wasn’t allowed to go back on the field.

But suddenly, the idea of being stuck at his office or at home wasn’t as awful as it was when he first thought about it. 

You sighed, focusing on his face rather than the wound he was clearly keeping hidden from you. “Why haven’t you told them?” 

Hotch took a second to look at you. The answer was obvious to him, to the point that there wasn’t a question to begin with. Over this past month, there was not a moment where he thought he had to make things clearer about your situation. Sure, he was a very private man, yet he never lied about you. He just kept things as they were. “Because I didn’t want it to be over.”

Hotch sat up against the headboard and motioned to you to sit on the bed with him. He moved his legs to give you space. And the heat you felt when he held your hand tighter to help you reminded you of the obvious attraction you had for him. Even after he had a terrible day. 

“Listen,” he started again with a tone that imposed on listening to him. That's not to say you weren't paying attention in the first place. “I know we made this decision together, and I respect it. And this month apart gave me the time to think about us.”

The first night coming home to an empty and silent house wasn’t easy for Hotch. He felt like he had failed again at keeping someone in his life. He hated that he lied to Jack, saying you had family obligations to explain your absence. He didn’t want his son to be disappointed about his dad's inability to maintain a great relationship.

And one day, Jack told him about a girl at school he had a crush on and everything he did to prove to her it was worth trying rather than giving up.

“I want to make things right with you.” Hotch pursued, bringing your hands to his chest. “Maybe I need to work on my perception of danger when it comes to you. And if so, I will do it. Because I want you.”

You always found it fascinating how his eyes often spoke louder than his words. And the look he was giving you right now was the best argument he could have found to prove you he meant it. Hotch loved you. And so did you. 

When a smile started to grow on your lips, also a silent answer to his silent confession, you noticed his lips curved too. Hotch let go of your hand to bring his own to your neck and move your face closer to him. But you stopped right before your lips touched.

“Maybe you should just consider not getting hurt the next time we argue.” You whispered, which made him laugh.

“Right, I’ll think about that.” He replied before finally guiding you to his lips.

Hotch never stopped believing he would get you back. So maybe he was right about not telling anyone about the breakup. 

[bronzealchemy]

zayne never saw you cry. you didn‘t want him to worry about you, ever. so you held it in. the pain, the hurt, everytime you went through something. zayne didn‘t show it, but you knew he did worry about you. about your heart—and the protocore shards inside it. so you only showed him the light side of you. smiling, even through the pain. getting a small smile out of him was hard work, but oh so worth it.

when zayne saw you cry for the first time, he was startled. you sat in the hospital waiting room after your regular check up. nothing was wrong, he made sure of that. your vitals were fine, and so was everything else. but you cried. and you obviously didn‘t want him to see, otherwise you would have done it while you were in his medical room. zayne didn‘t ask what was wrong. without a word he sat down next to you. you sat up straight, wiping the tears away, immediately smiling again. „sorry, I was just …“ you couldn‘t even finish the sentence. zayne lay an arm around you and quietly pulled you to his side. „don’t talk. just let it out.“ his hand cradled you and you gave up trying to get your guard up again. „I’m here. even if a certain someone is trying to be strong—I’m here.“ you sank against him, accepting his sudden gentleness. he understood you even when you didn‘t say a word.

zayne was a calm in the storm that was brewing inside you. and you loved him for it.