#I mean yeah I don't have much money and I do not want or need most of the stuff I see ads for but it doesn't mean I'm immune

[almostfoxglove]

MALLORY!!! oh my god, what a perfect follow up to suburban sparks. this is such a lovely balance of I'm-ripping-my-hair-out-with-need smut and aaaachy yearning (the best kind) - I couldn't put it down. my god. I loved it sososo much?? and YEAH IT DID GET ME ALL CHOKED UP, WHAT ABOUT IT asdfkjhsdfkj

I'm popping some of my favorite bits below the cut, but FRICK I'm obsessed with this <3

His tongue licks a path down your neck, tasting the condensation on your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is softly repeated against your sensitive skin. The way you softly moan back makes his legs weak. You sound so good, you taste so good, you feel so good.

SDFLKHASDLKHFAL WHAT DO YOU MEAN oh my god. mumbling pussy-drunk javi is actually going to ruin my life like I need him SO bad you don't underSTAND (except clearly you do)

He’d always be the one to call. Phone bill be damned, he made good money.

this feels so perfectly javier?? that really small, unspoken gesture that he'll be the one to shoulder it and take care of her in this really tiny way because it's the way that he can - MY HEAART

He’s not the one for you, though you’re the one for him.

straight up mumbled 'oh my god' under my breath when I read this for the first time, then went back to read the paragraph again like twice more before continuing, because FUCK THE YEARNING IS SO FUCKING PERFECT

He thinks about you curled up on the couch during your late-night calls, wrapped in an oversized sweater, your voice soft and sleepy. He dreams of one day being on that couch with you. In a perfect life that he’ll never have.

:,,,,,) do you see the oceans rising??? that's because of my tears

“Your green shirt.” His spine straightens. “Oh yeah?”

YESSSS GIRL YESSSSS THE GREEN SHIRT YESSSS THAT'S SO CORRECT

Another sleepless night, another internal battle, another lonely sunrise, another cup of black coffee to try to wake him up.

'another lonely sunrise, another cup of black coffee to try to wake him up' is actually so fucking beautiful and so fucking sad and so fucking javi?? I just. I'm standing in that kitchen with him, watching him suffer privately, WISHING I COULD HUG HIM

It doesn’t feel like his place at all, but a Polaroid of you that leans against his bedside lamp makes it feel like home. He'd chosen this place for the view, telling himself it was because he'd always wanted to live somewhere with a skyline again. But deep down, he knows it's because he wanted to look out at the city you love.

oh GOD there are just so many perfect little setting descriptions that just take me right into the room with him, and this is another one. like fuck. my heart is going 'squeeze' in the most delicious, angsty way - you're playing me like a fiDDLE and I LOVE YOU FOR IT

The exact opposite of an old, grizzled DEA agent haunted by his past.

SWEET STUPID JAVIER OH MY GOD SOMEONE LET ME HOLD HIM PLS

“I’d rather be alone than a stranger.”

thinking about him being in the theatre to see her perform as I write this is actually going to make me cry all over again. it's so good. so hopeful and also so sad and UGH. MALLORY. YOU'RE A STAR.

I FUCKING LOVED THIS. I looooove how you incorporated the newspapers from the moodboard - it's such a perfect, both intimate and a little removed way for javi to connect with her, and ugh. my heart. this was so good. thank you SO much for joining the challenge and delivering us this masterpiece :,) I am forever in your debt!!

Long Distance

A followup to Suburban Sparks Pairing: Javier Peña x Steve's Little Sister Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: He knows he shouldn't fall for you, he knows he shouldn't pick up the phone, but you're all he can think about. Warnings: Javi's POV, angst, guilt, yearning, pining, heartbreak, impressionist paintings, using a Clairo lyric as a play monologue, jealousy, smut, phone sex, secret bathroom sex, dirty photos. Takes place after S3. Words: 8,320

A/N: Written for @almostfoxglove's Angst Challenge, who made the GORGEOUS mood board for inspo. It truly fit the vibes of exactly what I was thinking would be the next step for Steve's Little Sister and Javier. My thanks to @devineconjuring, @mothandpidgeon, and @schnarfer for filling up my draft with suggestions, reactions, and edits and always letting me yap and ... them. Masterlist

—-

His heart thuds against his chest with every descending step. He hears the clatter of plates and silverware mixed with soft conversation– hears your voice. You’re awake. His eyes immediately catch yours when he walks into the kitchen. You sit at the breakfast table in an oversized sweatshirt that hangs off a shoulder, the same shoulder he kissed before he snuck out of bed and back to his room across the hall.

You’re so beautiful, he almost falls as he takes a seat.

“Damn, Peña, still drunk?” Steve asks as he flips the last pancake.

“Just tired,” he responds. “Morning,” he casually nods towards you, trying not to let his gaze stay on you for too long.

You nod a casual “hey” as you reach for the orange juice, your fingers wrapping around the glass. He loses his breath as he remembers how those same delicate fingers felt wrapped around him.

“Coffee, Javi?” Connie asks, pulling him from his reverie.

He nods, mumbling a response as you smirk. This is going to be an interesting breakfast.

“Good breakfast, thank you,” you say as you rise. “I’m going to get a shower before I go back home. Landlord still hasn’t fixed the hot water heater.”

“Help yourself,” Steve nods. “And Jesus Christ, find a better place.”

Javier takes a sip of coffee until the thought of you under the warm running water, naked and wet, flashes through his mind. He coughs as he chokes on the hot liquid.

"You okay there, partner?" Steve asks, eyebrow raised.

Javi nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah, just went down the wrong pipe." 

As your footsteps fade upstairs, Javi focuses intently on his breakfast, avoiding Steve's gaze. He can feel Connie's eyes on him, a hint of suspicion in her expression.

He eats his breakfast, listening closely to the rumble of the water heater as Steve and Connie discuss their plans for the day. The water heater turns off, snapping Javi back to the thought of you just upstairs.

"I should get ready too," he mumbles, avoiding eye contact as he picks up his plate and coffee cup, dropping them off by the sink. "Thanks for breakfast."

“‘Course, you’re our guest,” Steve says.

As he climbs the stairs, his heart races. The guilt over Steve sitting just downstairs getting drowned out by the anticipation of seeing you again.

He passes the bathroom door and then retraces his steps, standing in front of the white wooden blockade. You’re right behind the door. He knocks softly.

The door cracks open, a cloud of steam escaping as you peek out. Your face glistens with moisture, drops of water clinging to your skin. You take his breath away.

Your eyebrow quirks up before you open the door wider, stepping aside to let him in. He slips inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You’re wrapped in a towel–one measly towel. A drop of water trails down your collarbone to between your breasts, and his mouth waters, thinking of how good it’d taste.

"Javier," you whisper.

He steps closer. "I know, I know. We shouldn't."

But, as the words leave his mouth, you’re already reaching for him. His mouth crashes against yours, desperate to taste you again. You instantly mold into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he backs you against the cool tile wall.

The towel slips, pooling at your feet. He breaks the kiss, his eyes reverently roaming your bare skin. “Fuck,” he breathes.

You grab the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down. “We don’t have much time.”

He nods, helping you pull down his boxer briefs, his cock already hard for you, weeping to feel your tight pussy around it.

He lifts you onto the countertop, spreading your legs wide and groaning when he feels how wet you are for him. Your eyes stare into his as he sheaths himself in you, both of you gasping at how good it feels. Your legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer as he begins to move. His hands grip the counter as he quietly fucks into you, the faint sound of his skin against yours and your soft moans echoing off the tile.

His tongue licks a path down your neck, tasting the condensation on your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is softly repeated against your sensitive skin. The way you softly moan back makes his legs weak. You sound so good, you taste so good, you feel so good.

Your hips meet his as his thrusts become more urgent as he listens for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He wishes he could savor you, hear you scream his name, fuck into you for hours, but he can’t. He has to be quick. His hand travels down your smooth skin, and his finger begins circling your clit as his other hand grips the plush of your breast, kneading it in his hand. Your head falls back, your bottom lip captured between your teeth to stop yourself from making any more noise.

It’s forbidden and wrong. He knows this, but the way your body trembles underneath his touch, your hands exploring the broadness of his back, your tight pussy beginning to clench around his cock–he can’t say no to you. He circles your clit faster and harder, his fingers working in quick, tight circles as he fucks into you faster. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his shoulders as you fight to stay quiet.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispers. “I need to feel you cum.”

Your body tenses, a strangled moan escaping your lips before he presses his mouth against yours, swallowing your cries as he chases his own release. You pulse around him, and it’s too much. He buries himself inside you, his body shuddering as he cums, spilling inside of you. He stays buried in your heat, even though he knows he needs to leave. He just can’t. He rests his forehead against yours, listening to your soft gasps, trying to savor the moment for as long as he can.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice lilts in awe.

He nods, trying hard to swallow the guilt. “I know.”

He pulls out slowly, both of you wincing at the loss of each other.

You hop off the counter, grabbing your towel, and wrapping it around yourself again. Javi tucks himself back into his pants and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

"You should go," you say softly, not meeting his eyes. “You know… just in case.”

He nods, his hand already reaching for the doorknob. "Hey," he says, waiting for you to look at him. When you do, he sees the conflict in your eyes, knowing it mirrors his own, but he ignores it. “What’s your number?”

—-

The phone line hums, building a bridge between Laredo and Washington, D.C. He waits all day to hear the sound of your laughter spill through the receiver–sweet and warm, like honey. Most of the time, silence settles between the two of you, content to just stay on the line with each other 1,800 miles away.

He’d always be the one to call. Phone bill be damned, he made good money.

On some nights, after too many whiskeys or beers, he’d let some of the burden of Colombia off his shoulders. He’d tell you about the girls, the bodies, the nightmares. You’d meet every revelation with understanding and acceptance, letting him talk as little or as much as he wanted. 

It’s simple and comfortable, something he never felt like he deserved. But he can never have simple and comfortable–there’s always a complication. You are Steve’s little sister, after all.

He hates nights like this when the guilt creeps in and gnaws at him. The world is hushed, his thoughts loud. He tosses and turns, sheets tangling around his legs as he wrestles with his heart. He’s falling for you–Steve’s little sister. The same Steve who had his back in Colombia, who became more than just a partner.

He stares at the ceiling, your voice always echoing in his head.

It’s been three months since he met you at that ordinary suburban party. He replays everything in his head to calm himself–your smile, the sweet lilt of your voice, your wide eyes as you stared at him. The sound of your muffled moans escaping from behind his shirt, the warmth of your body pressed against his as you drifted to sleep.

Now, the memory of your soft skin under his fingertips haunts him, an almost bittersweet reminder of what he can never have. It could never work. Steve’s so protective of you that Javi can’t even imagine how he’d react if he knew someone like him was falling for his baby sister. He can’t do that to you… or Steve.

You’re in your twenties, still full of life and promise. While he’s forty, scarred from the long life he’s already lived. He pictures you growing resentful, feeling held back by his world-weariness, longing for someone more carefree and unburdened. He’s not the one for you, though you’re the one for him.

He turns, shuffling his cold sheets up around his shoulder as he stares out the window. One night spent together in his friend’s backyard and guest bedroom. One morning spent in a white-tiled bathroom. Countless nights on the phone.

He thinks about you curled up on the couch during your late-night calls, wrapped in an oversized sweater, your voice soft and sleepy. He dreams of one day being on that couch with you. In a perfect life that he’ll never have.

—-

Javier Peña never reads the news. He doesn’t pay attention to the news. He doesn’t care about the news. He doesn’t want to hear about the news—that is, until you entered his life.

“Any news?” he asks, hearing the rustle of your newspaper crackling through the phone.

“Hmm, lemme see.”

He can imagine you scanning the headlines, your finger running down the text, brows furrowed in concentration. You love the news, love reading and learning, love being informed. Now, Javier Peña reads the news.

"Ohh! The Smithsonian's got a new exhibit opening next week. An Impressionist Sensibility. It says the paintings in the collection are linked through a shared sensibility about American cultural aspirations at the turn of the century."

"Yeah?"

“Yeah, it looks really cool, Jav.”

He loves it when you call him Jav. It’s so casual, so comfortable. Nobody ever calls him Jav besides you. He listens intently as you read, letting the sound of your voice wash over him.

"Sounds pretty interesting. Sounds like something you have to see in person."

You hum in agreement, a wistful note in your voice. "It does. Maybe someday we could…"

The sentence hangs unfinished, both of you acutely aware of the complications that keep you apart. He clears his throat, pushing away the surge of longing that threatens to overwhelm him. Move on, agent.

"My turn," he says, unfolding his paper. "Let's see what thrilling news Laredo's got today."

—

“Tell me I did good, Jav. Tell me to stop obsessing over it. Tell me they didn’t notice I paused a little too long between lines.”

He chuckles. “You did amazing. I’m sure of it, cariño.”

He doesn’t know how you can be so brave, going up onstage in front of auditoriums full of people. All eyes on you. He could never do what you do.

“Really?”

“I’d surely cast you if I could.”

“Mm, I’m sure you would,” you respond. He can hear the smile in your voice.

You’ve been so nervous over the audition for the play. He remembers how you'd practiced your lines with him, how he stayed up late listening to you recite the main monologue over and over just so he could hear your voice. He could hear the emotions. You’re so talented, there’s no way you’re not going to get the part.

“You’re going to get it, cariño.” 

"You really think so?" you ask, a hint of hope in your voice.

"I do. When will you find out?"

"Rehearsals start next month, so hopefully soon," you answer.

"You've got me to keep you distracted."

“I swear, I’d lose my mind without you…”

—-

He’s lying in bed awake again. He’s getting to a point of no turning back with you. He closes his eyes, and all he can see is you.

“I swear, I’d lose my mind without you…” repeats through his head.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. It would be so easy to call, to hear your voice one more time. But he can't. He won't.

Instead, he pushes himself out of bed, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor of his apartment to the sparse but functional kitchen. He pours a glass of whiskey, hoping it’ll help drown out his thoughts.

This feeling is so foreign to him. He hasn’t felt this way about anybody since Lorraine–and even then, he fucked that up. He shouldn't have let it go this far. Shouldn't have knocked on the door of that guest room, shouldn't have kissed you like a drowning man praying for air. But he did. And now he can't forget.

You’re too young, too bright, and too adventurous. You’re so full of potential. What the hell are you doing talking to him every single night? He has to step away and let you go. But he won’t. Because underneath all of those accomplishments and pursuits, he’s still a coward.

—-

You softly moan into the phone, and he can hear the swishing of the sheets as you get comfortable on your bed. He can almost see you, feel you, remember how sweet you tasted. He thuds his head against his pillow, an ache of loneliness from his heart traveling down to his cock. 

“You can’t do that, cariño,” he lowly growls.

“Huh?”

“Moan like that,” he responds. Now, he’s the one adjusting. “I–it’s been a while.” 

You chuckle, a low, tempting sound. He’s in trouble. It’s been a month of talking to you almost every night, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t constantly fighting the urge to touch himself while listening to your voice. But he’s resisted, not wanting to cross that line and make things even more complicated than they already are. 

“Sorry, my bed feels really good. Quite lonely, though,” you pout, your voice dripping in saccharine sarcasm. 

Fuck. He’s so needy for you, he’s already growing hard.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, feeling a little ridiculous at the question, hoping you’re just as turned on as him.

“Don’t laugh. Promise you won’t laugh.” 

“What? Why would I laugh?” he smiles, shaking his head.

“Because Javi. Just… don’t laugh or judge.”

“I won’t. Trust me. Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“Your green shirt.” 

His spine straightens. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You wear it a lot?”

“Mmhmm, I sleep in it all the time.” 

“I’m sure it looks real good on you, doesn’t it?” 

“I think it looked better when it was stuffed in my mouth while you were fucking me.”

He groans, his heart racing as he reaches down and grips the heft of himself tucked away in his shorts. 

“That was a good night, wasn’t it?” he asks, softly squeezing himself. 

“It was one of the best, Javi. I think about it all the time.” 

“Me too,” he divulges, remembering the brightness of your eyes, the sweet taste of your lips, the feel of your pussy clenching him. “I also really liked the morning in the bathroom.” You laugh–a sweet sound that makes his heart beat even faster–before you sigh. “I wish you were here, Javi.” “I do, too, cariño.” 

“What would you do if you were with me?” you ask, your voice low. You’re such a temptress.

His voice drops to a sultry whisper as he closes his eyes and imagines you in his bed. "I'd start by getting you out of that shirt, real slow. I’d get to take my time and kiss every inch of skin."

You let out a soft moan. "Mmm, then what?"

"I'd push you back onto the bed, trail my fingers up your soft thighs." His own hand mimics the motion, sliding up his leg. "I’d spread your legs and kiss my way up, before giving your sweet pussy a long lick, savoring just how good you taste."

"God, Javi. Please," you whimper.

"Touch yourself for me, baby. Pretend it's me."

He can picture you perfectly–laid out on your bed, his shirt bunched up around your waist, your hand between your legs.

You let out a gasp and a long, low moan. He pulls his shorts down and gives himself a tight, slow stroke.

“Feel good, baby?” he asks, rubbing the bit of precum he’s leaked out across his head.

“Mmhmm,” you moan. “I love it when you call me baby.”

“Baby,” he groans as he spits in his hand and strokes himself.

“Fuck, I’m so wet,” you breathe into the phone.

“I wish I was there with you, baby. I'd slide two fingers deep inside your tight little pussy, curl them just right to make you moan for me." He strokes himself faster, imagining the slick heat of you clenching around him.

You let out a whimper. “I need you inside me.”

“I need to be inside you too, cariño,” he replies, his hand moving faster along his length. “Tell me how badly you want me.”

“I want you to fuck me hard and fast,” you moan. “God, I think about it all the time, Jav.”

He grunts in response, imagining your body writhing beneath him.

“Oh god,” you cry out.

He squeezes his cock harder, picking up the pace as you whine and moan for him.

“You sound so good. I love the way you moan for me. You’re all I ever want to hear.”

“Fuck,” you pant. “Gonna cum.”

“That’s it, cum for me, cariño.”

You let out a loud moan as your orgasm hits. It floats through the phone into his ear and down to his cock. He lets out a long, low “fuck” as he reaches his own release, grunting your name as his cock pulses in his fist, streams of cum spilling out onto his hand and stomach.

All that can now be heard is heavy breathing and soft moans as you both come down from your highs.

He feels the guilt begin to show its ugly head just as you say his name.

“Javi, that was… wow.”

“I know, baby, I know.” 

—-

He pulls an envelope out of his mailbox. Your handwriting is neat and flowy–he smiles at the bright green marker you chose.

So, this is why you wanted his address.

He’s opening the envelope before his door even shuts. He hasn’t been this excited to open something since Christmas morning thirty years ago.

He pulls out a handmade card–a dark green Christmas tree adorned with little red hearts is painted on the front, with MERRY CHRISTMAS JAV written in cursive above it–and his face lights in a wide grin.

As he opens the card,  a bundle of Polaroid photos tied together with a ribbon falls out and lands on the table.

A simple message is inside the card.

Surprise! I hope you like them. xoxo

With a quick pull on the silky ribbon, the bundle is untied. He slowly flips through each photo, his heart skipping a beat as he assesses each one like evidence.

You’re smiling in a few of them, his green shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders. You look so beautiful, so carefree and happy. He traces a finger over one, wishing he could touch you.

His breath catches in his throat as he flips to the next photo. You’re still in his shirt, but you sit, wearing only that on your bed. Your smooth legs bent to the side of you, your eyes hooded, with a coy smile playing at your lips. He swallows hard as he flips to the next photo.

His mouth goes dry. You’re completely naked, lying back on your bed. Your body is on full display for him. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling slightly dizzy, his cock twitching at the sight of you.

It feels so forbidden, so wrong to have these photos of you.

“Fuck,” he whispers when he turns to the next picture. You’re kneeling on your bed, your hands resting on the back of your neck. Your tits are pushed out, your nipples hard. He can see the glistening wetness between your thighs. He wants to taste you so bad.

The following picture makes him gasp. You’re lying across your bed, one hand gripping the soft swell of your breast while the other is between your legs. Your lip is caught between your teeth. He can almost hear the breathy moans you’re letting out.

He flips to the next one, and his cock throbs painfully against his jeans. You’re on your hands and knees, your head turned, peering over your shoulder at the camera. The sight of your ass makes his mouth water. He wants nothing more than to grab your hips and pull you back onto his aching cock.

With a shaky breath, he reveals the final Polaroid. Your hand is outstretched towards the camera, a drop of your arousal glistening on your fingertip as if you’re offering him a taste of you. The image is so visceral he can almost taste you.

He sits back in his chair, the Polaroids tightly clutched in one hand while the other palms himself through his jeans. This is, without a doubt, the best gift he’s ever received, but he still feels wrong to have it.

—-

“So, any news?” you ask, your voice still a bit slow and low from the orgasm you just moaned out for him. It’s now a nightly ritual–phone sex followed by sharing local articles.

He scans the headlines. “The Laredo Little Theater is putting on a production of Our Town next month.”

“Our Town! I was Emily a few years back.”

“I-I’ve never seen it.” Frankly, he’s never heard of it. He’s never really seen a play–unless he counts the couple of productions Lorraine was in during high school. He wishes he was more cultured for you.

"I still remember my lines. Emily's monologue at the end about realizing what she missed in life. It's always stuck with me."

He leans back against his headboard, intrigued. "Tell me about it, cariño."

You clear your throat softly. "Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?"

“Wow,” he whispers after a long pause. "That's beautiful, baby.”

“Thanks, Jav. I just wish…”

Your voice trails off, and his chest tightens.

“I know,” he sighs. “Me too.”

He knows exactly what you’re thinking. If only things were different. If only there wasn’t a shadow of guilt and secrecy. He knows he’s already fallen for you.

Silence stretches. He clears his throat. “Your turn, cariño. What’s in the news?”

—-

Another sleepless night, another internal battle, another lonely sunrise, another cup of black coffee to try to wake him up.

The shrill ring of his phone cuts through the silence, startling him from his brooding. He glances at the clock–8:17 a.m.–an unfamiliar number with a DC area code on the screen.

"Peña," he answers gruffly, his voice rough from whiskey and lack of sleep.

"Mr. Peña, this is Agent Thompson from DEA headquarters in Washington. I wanted to inform you personally that we'd like to offer you the position."

The job. The one he'd interviewed for months ago, the reason he'd been in DC. The reason he'd met you. He should feel elated, triumphant even. Instead, dread settles in his stomach and heart.

"Mr. Peña? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Thank you for the offer. When, uh, when would you need me to start?"

"We'd like you here in two weeks, if possible. Is that doable?"

Two weeks. Fourteen days to uproot his life, to move across the country. Fourteen days to figure out how to tell you… or if he should tell you at all.

"Mr. Peña?"

"Yes, that's fine. I'll make it work," he says, his mind already racing.

After hanging up, he stands motionless in his kitchen, the half-empty whiskey glass from last night sitting on the counter. The job he'd wanted, the fresh start he'd been seeking for so long–it's all here for him. But now, it feels like a curse.

He imagines being in the same city as you, knowing you're just across town. The temptation to see you, to touch you, would be constant. And Steve–how could he look Steve in the eye, knowing what he's done with you?

The guilt gnaws at him, heavier than the weight of everything else. He should be honest, should tell you about the job offer. But the words stick in his throat every time he thinks about picking up the phone.

Days pass in a blur of packing and paperwork. You try calling, leaving a message each time. They start out sweet until the third day when you sound upset.

"Javi, hi, it’s me. I-I don’t know what’s going on, but please call me.”

Each night, he stares at the phone, his hand reaching to grab it. But he can't bring himself to dial. Can't bear to hear the excitement in your voice when he tells you he's moving to DC.

On the sixth day, you leave another message.

“Hey Javi, it’s me again, I… I hope you’re okay. I… did I do something? Please just call so I know you’re okay.”

He has to call you. Has to think of some way to let you down because he knows, deep down, that he can't have you. Not really. Not without destroying his friendship with Steve, not without ruining your relationship with your brother. Not without tainting the pure, beautiful thing that's grown between you.

By the tenth day, you’re mad.

“Hey, Javier. I ended up having to ask Connie if she had heard anything about you, so that was real fun. Listen… I don’t know what the hell is going on. If you found someone else or… got tired of me, but I just—I hope you’re happy. I… I guess I’ll… I don’t know. I hope you’re fine.”

His heart clenches as your voice cracks on the last words. He can hear the hurt, the confusion in your tone, and it tears him apart. 

He can't take it anymore–the guilt, the longing, the fear. It's all too much. He picks up the phone and dials your number.

Ring… ring… rin–

"Hello?" Your voice is hesitant, guarded.

"It's me," Javier says. "I'm… sorry."

There's a long pause on the other end. He can hear you breathing, can almost feel the tension radiating off of you through the line.

"Javi?" You sound uncertain, like you can't quite believe it's him. "Where have you been? I've been so worried."

He closes his eyes, leaning against the wall. "I know, I'm sorry. There’s been a lot going on. I… I got a job offer last week. The job in DC is mine."

Another pause. "Oh," you say softly. "Javi… that’s great news. Congrats.”

"Thanks," he says before taking a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knows has to be said. "Listen, I-I think it’s best if we don’t keep doing this."

The silence on the other end of the line stretches. He can almost picture you, your eyes wide with confusion and hurt.

“This?” 

“Yeah, talking and… I just fear it’s gone too far.”

"What?" you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. "Why?"

He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He feels his heart break as the words get caught in his throat, but he forces them out. "It's complicated. I’m so much older than you, and you’re… you're Steve's little sister, and I’ll be working with him again. It's not right. It was never right."

He hears you take a shaky breath. "So, you ignore me for over a week and then call to let me know this? I know you’re older than me. I know I’m Steve’s sister. That’s fucked Javi. How could you? I thought we had something speci—”

"I know," he interrupts. "I know, and that's why we have to stop. Before it goes any further. Before anyone gets hurt."

You gasp, and his heart clenches at the sound. He wants to take it all back, to tell you he didn't mean any of it, but he forces himself to stay silent.

“Yes, before anyone gets hurt…”

“You deserve more than me, cariño. I’m old, and I’ve been through so much. You’re still so young and full of life… I’d only hold you back. I’m sorry.”

"I see," you say, your tone suddenly cold and distant. "Well, thank you for your honesty, Agent Peña. I hope your new job in DC is everything you've ever wanted."

The formality in your voice cuts him deeper than any anger could have. He opens his mouth to speak, but you've already hung up. 

—-

He stands at the windows of his new apartment in Arlington, gazing out at the lights of DC across the Potomac. Snow falls outside, and he reminds himself he needs to buy some warmer clothing. It’s beautiful, he thinks. His eyes search the horizon, wondering if your building is visible.

His apartment is nice–modern and spacious with sleek furniture that doesn’t suit him. It’s more than he needs, really, but the DEA had been generous with their relocation package. It doesn’t feel like his place at all, but a Polaroid of you that leans against his bedside lamp makes it feel like home.

He'd chosen this place for the view, telling himself it was because he'd always wanted to live somewhere with a skyline again. But deep down, he knows it's because he wanted to look out at the city you love.

He imagines what you might be doing right now. Are you curled up on the couch, reading a book? The newspaper? Are you, like him, standing at a window, looking out at the city and wondering what might have been? Or are you out with your friends, trying to meet somebody else? Do you miss him like he misses you?

He tries to dislodge the thoughts with a shake of his head. It’s been two weeks since that phone call. Since he broke things off. Since your cold voice let him go. He tells himself it was the right thing to do, that he’s protecting you from the darkness that follows him.

In a perfect world, you’d be here, looking out the same window as he wrapped his arms around you. You’d lean back against his chest, fitting perfectly in his embrace. There’d be no hesitation, no guilt. Just pure happiness, waking up next to you every morning. In that world, Steve would be happy for you both. In that world, Javier would be happy. But he knows all too well this is not a perfect world.

—-

He goes to the Smithsonian alone, wandering through the halls of the art museum on a quiet Sunday afternoon. The same exhibit you read to him about. The same exhibit he dreamed of taking you to, holding your hand and kissing your cheek as you gazed at the paintings. He moves slowly, hands clasped behind his back, taking in each painting. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, how to describe what he’s seeing, or how to feel… he wishes you were here to help him understand. None of it makes sense to him. Are the paintings supposed to look unfinished and kind of blurry? He imagines you beside him, telling him all about the break from tradition these paintings represented. He’d nod, pretending to understand, the same way he’s nodding as he reads the guidebook.

He pauses before a painting. Vibrant flowers grow amongst the dappled sunlight–the bright colors remind him of the way your eyes light when you laugh. He can almost hear your sweet voice reading the exhibit description to him again. He wonders if you’ve been here, if you’ve stood in this very spot, admiring the same painting.

As he moves to the next painting, a flash of familiar color catches his eye. For a moment, his heart stops. A woman stands across the room, her back to him, wearing a dress in the same exact shade of green as the shirt he’d left you. She resembles you from the back, and he takes a step forward, your name on the tip of his tongue, before she turns.

It’s not you. Of course, it’s not. All that’s left now is a hollow ache in his chest.

What would he do? What would he even say? What is he doing here, a cop trying to be cultured?

He moves on, trying to focus on the art. He thinks of you again, imagines your voice in his ear. “Art is for everyone. There’s no right or wrong way to experience it. Just let yourself feel.”

Feel. He doesn’t want to feel. All he can feel is how much he misses you. How much he knows he’ll never have this with you, seeing the world through your eyes.

Each painting seems to hold a piece of you. The soft light of a Twachtman landscape captures the glow of your skin in the firelight. The bold strokes of a Sargent portrait remind him of your spirit and personality.

He pauses in front of a Renoir. A man leads a woman, her hand in his. His eyes focus on their fingers intertwined with each other’s, imagining the feel of your hand in his. He rubs his hand against the denim of his jeans, trying to warm the coldness running through his veins.

He turns away, unable to bear the sight any longer. The weight of his regret, his longing, settles heavily on his shoulders as he exits the gallery.

He'd pushed you away to protect you, but being here, surrounded by a softer, more beautiful world, he wonders if he made the right choice.

—-

He finds himself driving through the busy streets of Adams Morgan, the same neighborhood you call home. His heart pounds stronger with each turn as he navigates the unfamiliar roads. 

He parks his car and steps out onto the sidewalk, feeling out of place as he takes in the colorful row of houses and stores that line your neighborhood streets. He walks down the street, his eyes scanning the bright buildings until he finds the taco place you’d always rave about.

“I bet it’s just as good as Laredo, Javi,” he remembers you saying. “You have to try it when you’re here.”

He hesitates for a moment before pushing open the door. The small restaurant is packed.

His order is simple: two al pastor tacos and a Topo Chico, just like you’d recommended. He takes a seat at a small table by the window and waits for his order.

How many times have you walked down this very street? Have you sat at this very table?

He takes a bite of the taco. It’s good. Damn good. Almost as good as home. He can practically hear your triumphant "I told you so!"

People pass by on the sidewalk as he eats. He imagines you and him–his arm wrapped around you, your body close to his as you walk around your neighborhood. Your face lighting up as you show him all of your favorite places. He'd follow you, unable to resist your enthusiasm… or you.

The winter wind snaps against his skin as he steps out of the restaurant. He starts walking with no real destination in mind. Colorful murals, bright storefronts, and eclectic homes line the street. This is your world, he realizes. These are the sights you see and sounds you hear every day.

He wonders how close he is to your apartment. He imagines you coming home from work and stopping at one of the little bodegas on the corner for some milk or bread.

He doesn’t think he’d fit in well within this world, but he sure as hell would try, just for you. God, he misses you.

—-

Steve drops a pile of files on Javi’s desk.

“New case. Have some fun. So, how’s DC treating you?” Steve asks, casually leaning against his desk.

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. Trying to hide the sadness that consumes him. “It’s different from Laredo, that’s for sure.”

Steve laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Yeah, I bet. Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime. Connie would love to see you. I’ll invite the usual group.”

Javier’s heart skips a beat as he tries to keep his face neutral. “Yeah, maybe,” he says noncommittally. “Been busy settling in, you know how it is.”

“Well, find time, Peña.”

The guilt, a constant companion these days, gnaws at him as he watches Steve leave.

—-

The early spring evening is warm. His heart beats faster as he gets out of his car and walks up the pathway to Steve’s front porch.

He steps through the front door, breathing in the scent of a happy home, feeling so out of place among the marital bliss and designer furniture.

“Javi,” Connie breezes over, looking like the perfect hostess she always is. She pulls him in for a hug. He’s always liked her, felt comfortable around her.

"Hey, Connie," he says, returning her hug. "Thanks for having me."

"Of course! I’m so happy to see you," she beams. "Come on, everyone’s outside.”

Everyone. Does that include you? He's never been this nervous, not even when he saw Lorraine after all those years.

He follows Connie through the house, his eyes scanning for any sign of you. His heart races as they step out onto the back patio. Steve's at the grill, chatting with a few friends. There are kids running around the yard, couples mingling with drinks in hand. But no sign of you.

It’s as familiar as all those months ago. He felt like an outsider… until he met you. He still searches for you. Still no sign.

"Beer?" Connie offers, already reaching into a cooler.

"Thanks," he nods, taking the cold bottle from her. He takes a long swig, trying to calm his nerves.

"Peña!" Steve calls out, waving him over. "Get over here, man!"

He makes his way across the patio, overhearing a snippet of conversation. He hears your name and slows his pace, straining to hear more.

“She’ll be a little late. Rehearsals for the play ran long.”

The play. You got the part. In a perfect world, he’d be there on opening night, sitting in the front row with a bouquet of flowers for you. He’d watch you, so proud and in awe of your talent. After the show, he’d wait for you backstage, hold you close, and whisper in your ear how amazing you were.

Pride swells in his chest… until the guilt creeps back in.

“Hey, man,” Steve’s voice breaks through his daydream. “Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry. What?”

"I said, glad you could make it," Steve repeats.

“Oh, yeah, me too.”

“A couple of guys from work are here. I’m sure they’d love to get to know you. I’m tired of answering all of their questions about you.”

He lets out a tense chuckle. The last thing he thinks he can do is pretend to care about a group of rookie agents wanting to get to know the Javier Peña.

He really hates these parties.

—-

An hour passes. The sun begins to set, casting everything in Steve’s picturesque backyard in long shadows. Javi goes through the motions. He makes small talk with his new coworkers and Steve's friends, laughing at jokes he barely hears. His eyes keep darting to the gate, waiting for you to arrive.

He remembers the first time he saw you. You walked through the gate, your flannel shirt tucked haphazardly into your ripped jeans. He couldn’t look away from you. Maybe he knew he needed someone like you in his life–honest, bright, funny, and too cool for him.

He hears the click of the gate latch. His breath catches as he turns.

And there you are.

You look so beautiful. A plaid skirt sits just above your knees, paired with a simple white tank top under a soft, oversized cardigan. His heart hurts as he takes in your beauty, trying not to stare. You look happy, relaxed, glowing. He wonders if you know he’d be here tonight.

His rapidly beating heart sinks when you turn to say something to a man following you through the gate.

The man’s wavy chestnut hair falls perfectly in place, and thick-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, framing bright green eyes. He’s wearing a vintage t-shirt underneath a well-worn brown leather jacket. Everything about him screams, ‘hip theatre guy.’ The exact opposite of an old, grizzled DEA agent haunted by his past.

He envies the man with everything in his entire being. The way he gets to look at you–a wide smile, soft eyes that get to follow your every movement.

Javi’s jaw clenches as he watches you and your handsome stranger approach a group. Your eyes also scan the backyard, and for too quick of a moment, they meet with his… until you look away and laugh at something your companion just said. The sound feels like a knife twisting into his chest.

He’s hyper-aware of your presence all night, watching you from the corner of his eyes, each sight of you a blessing and a curse.

He tries to focus on his conversations, on Steve, on his coworkers–on anything but you. But his eyes keep drifting back. The man who came with you never strays from your side, his hand often resting on the small of your back or brushing against your arm.

He wants nothing more than to cross the patio, pull you aside, and explain everything. To beg for forgiveness, to tell you how much he misses you. But he stays rooted in place, trapped by his own choices and the consequences that followed.

The gathering begins to thin out as the night goes on. He watches as you say goodbye to a few guests, hugging them warmly. Your eyes sweep across the yard again, and for a moment, he thinks you might look his way. But you turn, whispering something to your companion before heading towards the house alone.

Before he can second-guess himself, he sets down his beer and follows you. He slips through the patio doors and can just make out the soft pad of your footsteps heading upstairs.

He follows you as if you’re a perp, softly ascending the stairs–just like that morning after he first met you. The light escapes under the door of the guest bathroom. He takes a breath, steeling himself as he waits for you to come out.

The knob turns, and his heart races as the door opens, revealing you in the soft light of the bathroom. Your eyes widen in surprise.

"Can I... can I apologize?" Javi asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. "No, Jav. You can't."

Jav. Fuck. Hearing you say his name makes his heart drop. His hand taps against his thigh, fighting the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms.

"You hurt me," your voice trembles. Each word feels like a dagger in his heart. "I'm... I'm trying to let time pass by. To move on."

“Please, I never meant to—”

His plea is cut short by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.

Connie appears, her keen eyes taking in the scene before her. She reaches for your hand while shooting Javi a glance. She understands without a single word spoken.

“Go on, love, go back to the party. Elliott is waiting for you,” Connie softly says to you.

He watches as you nod and quickly leave, not even sparing a glance back at him.

“Javier,” Connie says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She’s happy.” 

He swallows, his brown eyes rounding with the guilt he too often has to hide.

Connie's eyes soften as she looks at him, her hand still resting on his shoulder. She leads him to the guest room where he spent that first night with you.

She closes the door and motions for him to sit on the bed. The same bed he held you close on.

"Javier," she begins, her voice gentle but firm. "I know what happened. I know you care about her. And I know she cares about you. She told me.”

He looks up at her, surprised by her words. "She told you? About us?"

Connie nods, a sad smile on her lips. "She was heartbroken. That first month after you told her not to call, she was a wreck. She tried to hide it, but Steve mentioned you while she was here for dinner one night, and she… she quickly got up and made an excuse. I found her crying in this room. She told me everything.”

“Steve?” he asks, feeling even more guilt wash over him, the weight of his choices crushing his chest.

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t know. I promised not to tell him.”

“I had to let her go–for her, for Steve, for everyone." He hangs his head, staring at his clasped hands. He squeezes them harder, needing to let the pressure out somehow. He searches for the right words. "She’s happy now? With him?"

Connie nods. "Elliott is a good guy," she says gently. "He treats her well. But..." She pauses and then sighs. “But I don’t think he’s you.”

A flicker of hope ignites in his chest. “How do I fix this?”

“I don’t know. If you really want to make things right, you need to tell her how you truly feel."

He nods slowly. “I can't stop thinking about her. About what could have been."

"If you really care for her–if you're willing to face whatever might come from being with her–then you need to let her know. But if you're going to run away again at the first sign of trouble, then you have to let her go. For good this time."

“And Steve?”

“Listen, he’s a big softy underneath it all. Might take him a bit to come around to it, but I’ll hide his gun for you. I know that, in the end, as long as she’s happy, he’ll be happy.”

He nods. He knows you’re the one. “Thanks, Connie.”

She stands, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just think about it, okay? And whatever you decide, be sure. She deserves that much."

Connie leaves him alone in the bedroom. He runs his hand along the comforter, closing his eyes, and can almost feel the warmth of your body curled against his. He wishes he could hold you again.

He takes a deep breath, his decision made.

—-

The house lights dim, the audience hushes, and the stage lights brighten. The curtain draws back, and there you are, center stage, glowing like an ethereal being.

His heart soars with pride as he watches you mesmerize the crowd with your talent. You embody your character completely, and he’s in awe of you even from his seat in the back row.

He hears the familiar lines of the end monologue–the same lines he heard you recite over and over months ago. They transport him back to those nights spent on the phone with you. The familiar ache in his chest gets tighter, squeezing his heart harder. A lone tear wells in his eye as he mouths the final line with you.

“I’d rather be alone than a stranger.”

The crowd erupts into applause as the curtain closes. You were flawless. He knew you’d be amazing.

You return to the stage, a wide smile on your face, the stage lights glinting off unshed tears in your eyes.

Now’s his chance. He slips out the stage door, walking down a side hallway marked "Authorized Personnel Only." In this hand, he clutches a bouquet of bright flowers and the day’s newspaper.

He pauses at each door, reading the names scrawled on makeshift placards. He finally finds yours, glancing over his shoulder before gently turning the doorknob.

He’s never been in a space of yours before. He knows he has to be quick, but he takes a moment to breathe in the scent of your perfume.

He places the bouquet and newspaper on the vanity, before quickly exiting and slipping out the stage door.

—-

Javi paces in his apartment, unable to sit still. He can still hear your voice and picture how you looked under the stage lights.

It’s been hours since he left the flowers in your dressing room. Did you find them? Did you read his note? Has enough time passed?

He pours himself a glass of whiskey, hoping it might calm him.

As he raises the glass to his lips, the shrill ring of his phone cuts through the quiet. He sets down his drink and reaches for the phone.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself before answering. "Hello?"

"Javi." Your voice is soft and hesitant. He closes his eyes, smiling at the sound he's missed so much.

“Hey,” he says, a relieved smile lighting his face. “Congratulations. You were incredible.”

“Thank you. The flowers are beautiful… and the newspaper?"

His heart speeds in his chest. “I-I was hoping we could read the news together like old times?”

Silence hangs between the two of you as he waits for your response.

“I’d… I’d like that. What’s your address?”

[thatbitchery]

Soooooo children , you remember how I've built this entire Tumblr thing on debunking myths and giving you the truth? Let's do some of that today. While finally answering - okay if your ADHD is that bad how do you get things done.

First, again, if you don't know what minors to take in uni or as a side class or online class or whatever consider evolutionary psychology and human Intelligence. It's the manual to human beings. It's the bad bitch code.

You know how *find your WhY* doesn't work. How finding why you're doing something works for a week then just, drops?? Yeah because that's not how it works. At all. Human beings don't work on purpose we work on urgency. It doesn't matter what you want to do it matters what you need to do. Urgency >> want. Survival species, my love . Survival. Adaptation. You see it. You see it, you see what I'm saying? Exactly. We work on pressure and stress you can not actually have a 'soft life' it'll literally kill you. Why doesn't matter, it's what has the most urgency at this moment?? EVERYONE works best under pressure it's nature. I'm saying, apply pressure.

Problem with that is psychologically speaking it's exhausting because it's a Fight / Flight response and it cant be permanent. Eventually the stressor will run out and you will crash again. Also do you really want to always be under pressure? Obviously not. This is where we automate. Then pressure or no pressure you perform. But this isn't about that this is about the sister to - find your why. It's called :-

Find your what.

Remember like a week ago when I said your problem is you want beef but you're eating the chicken so you have no space left for beef and you're full but not satisfied. You're full yes. Both is meat. But are you satisfied?

The beef is the what.

Here is the thing- you want beef. That's what you want , you want to have beef. Sometimes you're in a vegans house and you can't have beef that's okay you say thanks for the greens gobble them down. Sometimes you get some lamb chops you thank heaven and have them. That doesn't take away the fact that you wanted beef. They could make you full, yes. And even maybe taste great. But. But. Did they satisfy you? Nope. It's not what you wanted. Sometimes you have beef say okay I'll go for some duck for now I've had too much beef. I like it but I'll take duck. Have your duck. Does that mean it's not beef you want? Even when you have consciously chosen to not have beef when it was RIGHT THERE? exactly.

The beef is the what. When I say find your what I'm saying find your beef. I'm saying find the thing you will keep going back to, that you want.

So. Music is your thing. You wanted to be a performer. Mom said look you have to do medicine. Alright that's duck right there. Will you ever regret studying medicine? Of course not. Which has a higher stability and safety option ? Yes medicine. So obviously as someone with a working brain you say thanks mom and go to med school. Med school is duck. It's good. You like it. You chose it. Or it's broccoli- you didn't choose it. Matter of fact you'd have rather not had it but you didn't want to be rude. Still, you will be having it. But what do you want?? You want to be a performer. So we accept with a career in medicine if you even want a foot in the vicinity you have to have a super clean image, and most people performing is low level shit and you will get bullied. This IS an either or kind of situation. It's one or the other you can't be both Tyla and House. What do we do?

We get a guitar and pull a rhianne in our rooms . We get Bandlab and those podcast mics that are so accessible and that keyboard looking thing and we pull and Aryan Shah or whatever his name is. Make your music, faceless, put it on whatever platforms and make your money and get your med school.

See how you are still having your beef alongside the duck ) broccolli?? See how you can have it all? See how you can- I'll study these chapters then when I'm done I'll make a song and upload a masked version? I'll dance in my room with a mask on? Or cap? Or- do you see it? See how that works?

When you come to me my one and only question is - WHAT DO YOU WANT. not what's right. Not what's noble. Not what's acceptable. Not what that morality police in your head is saying you should do. Not what your shame says- I don't caree. What I care is. WHAT DO YOU WANT. that's all I need to know. We are the new kids we can have it all don't worry I'll find a way around it. What. Find your what. Not WHY. WHAT.

Because one way or the other your body will rush to the what that it picks urgency from. And until you fulfil that Nothing, NOTHING else will get done. If watching that BTS live is what you want I promise you you won't be able to focus in class. Because shame and responsibilities are superficial and unnatural and your body is natural it will go where it wants you will digest Nothing, NOTHING until you watch that one MV. You will do Nothing else until whatever your body WANTS and deems urgent is done so. WHAT DO YOU WANT.

That's how you get shit done. Get the want taken care of then we can do needs. First get that beef and have like three bites THEN you can get the veggies in. Or know there's beef at home so have your two bites of duck then head home. The beef . That beef. What's your beef? What do you want?? Work from that. Plan your entire life from that point. Because it's whats urgent to your body and until it gets done or considering everything else will fail.

Automation requires power dynamics and reward / punishment model. You can not automate by yourself. You can't do it with your bestie mom BLA BLA you need fear and the reward has to be normality. Go pay someone a weird amount of money to bully you into it.

Get the WHAT first. Then everything else will follow. No nobility or shame or responsibility or morality or guilt or willpower or discipline or whatever will not hold long term and you know thissssss you know thisss you've been here before. Before you are a person- you are an animal. Whether you want to or not you will function like one no amount of anything will take this away. You are hedonistic by nature you will chase desire & also surviving by nature you will prioritize urgency no you can't David Goggins your way out of this. Have you been able to?? How old are you? In all your life have you been able to????????????

I know what your mom said. And teachers. And that one YouTuber you go to for SeLf iMprOveMenT as if you're some project said yes I know it sounds true I know but. But. Listen to me .mother , mother knows best. :)

[bonedo-enthusiast]

special delivery 𐂐◯𓇋 (lrw)

desc: drug-delivery-man!riwoo brings a package for reader.

warnings: nsfw, mdni!, drug use (weed), sub!riwoo x dom!reader, praise, reader is a tease and very flirtatious, oral (both receiving), p in v, no protection used (but pls do!), riwoo has a small but thick dick, reader uses nicknames for riwoo (ri, baby), (slight) breeding kink if you squint, afab!reader but no pnouns used, + lmk if i missed anything!

wc: 1,841

“um, e-excuse me.”

you turn around to see a small nervous-looking man underneath the strobe lights. “yes sweetie?”

his cheeks turn a shade of red. “i was told to–um–deliver this to ‘red bunny.’”

“then you’re in the right place. i’m red bunny.” you look down at the box that the man is holding. “why don’t we take this elsewhere?”

the man gulped and nodded, his eyes shifting left and right. you let out a laugh and beckoned for him to follow you. “relax, honey. it’s my club, not a mafia warehouse.”

“s-sorry, i didn’t mean–”

“shh. it’s okay.” you lead him to a back room at a far corner of the club, making your way through the sea of bodies. once you reach the door, the bodyguard there opens it for you and you enter with the man following. “say, what’s your name, cutie?”

“my name? riwoo.” he says, avoiding your eyes. 

“and what brings you to a line of work like this, riwoo?” you ask, sitting down behind a desk and gesturing for him to sit in the other chair. 

“just needed some extra money.” 

“you can get extra money from uber.” you grin, amused. “come on. what’s the real story?” 

“i… i come here on business, ma’am.” riwoo says, his voice a little shaky. “i’d prefer for it to stay that way.”

“ma’am?” you scoff. “we look about the same age. no need for formalities. as a matter of fact, you can call me y/n.” 

“y-y/n?” riwoo asks, eyes wide. “why would you tell me your real name?”

you lean forward, eyeing him. “maybe i like you.”

he lets out a strained laugh. “so um… would you like to see the package?” 

“oh, sure.” you rest your head on your hand.

riwoo opens the box, showing you its contents of fifty grams of flower. 

“perfect. just what i ordered. you are amazing, riwoo.” you reach into your desk to pull out the appropriate amount of money, handing it to him. he slides it into his pocket and stands up. “wait.” 

riwoo freezes, his eyes on you. “yes?” 

you open the bag of flower and pull a roll out of your desk. “why don’t you stay for a while and smoke some of this with me?”

“oh, i don’t think–”

“come on. i don’t bite. unless you want me to.” 

riwoo’s cheeks turn pink. “uh… well, okay. you are my last delivery today.”

“see? it’s a sign. you deserve to relax… i’m sure you’ve had such a long day.” you coo, gesturing for him to sit back down. “just hold on while i pack this.” 

riwoo sits back down and watches you roll some flower into a blunt. you giggle at the way he stares at it. “have you never smoked before, sweetie?” 

“um…” he slowly shook his head, biting his lip.

“well, you’re in good hands. i’ll teach you.” you light the blunt. “alright, you’re going to want to inhale. not too much though, or else you’ll have a coughing fit. like this.” you demonstrate, allowing the smoke to expand in your lungs before blowing it out. “see? now why don’t you try?” you pass the blunt to him, who does as you instructed. he too blows out the smoke without coughing. “wow, i’m impressed. you’re a natural.”

"oh, thank you." he gives you a shy smile and you take another hit, passing it to him. you two pass it back and forth for a while until riwoo starts giggling.

"what are you laughing about, ri?"

"i... i don't know." riwoo responds with a dopey smile.

"it sounds to me like someone's getting high." you lean back in your chair. "how does it feel?"

"like nothing i've ever experienced before. i like it."

"i'm glad. bet you feel so good, yeah?"

riwoo nods. "thank you."

"awe, no need to thank me. you deserve it, after all. being so good, delivering me my package."

"um... it might just be the weed, but... are you flirting with me?"

you let out a laugh. "i have been flirting with you this whole time, ri. have you only just now noticed?"

"oh." riwoo blushes again.

you stand up and walk around the desk, leaning against it and looking down at him. "you're just so cute. so sweet and oblivious." you card a hand through his hair.

"it's not fair that it's not affecting you yet." riwoo murmurs, noticeably leaning into your touch.

"it will soon. i have a bit of a tolerance." you finish off the blunt before crashing your lips against riwoo's.

he lets out a soft moan as you hold onto the back of his head, deepening the kiss. when you pull away to breathe, you see how wide his pupils have gotten. "w-why did you kiss me?"

"you didn't like it?" you ask, tilting your head.

"well no. i mean yes, but that's not--mmph."

you resume kissing him, effectively cutting him off. you start to feel more effects from the weed as your tongue swirls around his, the feeling a bit hazy. you pull away just long enough to catch your breath again. "riwoo, wanna eat me out?"

riwoo bites his lip and nods feverishly.

"i'm going to need to hear your clear consent."

"y-yes. i... i want to eat you out." riwoo's eyes are focused solely on you, wide with lust.

"good boy." you coo, caressing his cheek with your thumb before leaning back.

riwoo licks his lips nervously and sinks down in his chair, leaning forward so that he is face-to-face with your clothed cunt. he hikes your short dress up, his warm breath fanning against your skin causing you to shiver. riwoo places a kiss against your pussy, licking you through the fabric.

"mm, riwoo... need to take off my panties."

riwoo shakes his head. "i need you now. need you so bad..." he pushes your panties to the side, pressing his face into your already wet cunt.

"fuck!" you throw your head back, your hands finding their way into riwoo's hair, tugging on it a little.

he moans into you, his tongue darting between your folds. "taste so good."

your legs shake as he makes out with your pussy, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. "riwoo, i won't last long if you--fuck!--if you keep this up."

your words only cause him to eat you out more intensely, sucking and nipping on your folds. you grab a handful of his air, rutting your hips into his face causing him to moan. "feel so good, ri... making me feel so good!"

as you continue fucking his face, you feel riwoo slowly pull down your panties. you gasp when you feel your bare cunt against his lips. "sh-shit, baby!"

"want you to cum in my mouth, y/n." riwoo says, his voice a bit hoarse and desperate. "need to taste you."

he grabs your hips, his tongue pushing inside your cunt more and more with every one of your thrusts. his nose bumps against your clit, the stimulation causing the knot inside you to tighten. when riwoo adds a finger inside you alongside his tongue, you feel yourself coming undone. a white-hot heat consumes you as you cum, letting out a loud moan. riwoo quickly licks up your juices, moaning with you as he tastes you.

when you pull away, you look at the dazed riwoo below you, his chin glistening with your wetness. you blink repeatedly until you feel yourself being grounded once more, your high having made the orgasm ten times better.

"that was amazing, ri." you say, bending down to kiss him.

riwoo kisses you back, a pitiful moan falling on your lips. you smile at him when you pull away. "poor baby... that must hurt, huh?" you ask, palming his erection.

riwoo lets out a shaky breath. "y-yes..."

"need some help?" you ask. "wanna be inside me, ri?

riwoo moans wantonly at your words. "god, yes, please."

you help him slide his pants and underwear down. you look at his cock, smiling at how cute it is and marveling at its thickness.

"it's small i know." riwoo murmurs.

"nothing wrong with that. it's so cute, like you." you say, riwoo blushing at your words. you sit down on his lap, straddling his thighs and lining your entrance up with his dick. "ready baby?"

riwoo nods. "yes."

you sink down onto his cock, bottoming out with riwoo letting out a deep moan. you giggle and smirk at him. "feel good, baby?"

"s-so good..." riwoo throws his head back as you ride him, gliding up and down on his cock. you let out soft moans as he stretches you out.

"c-can i um...r-rub your um..." riwoo trails off, his cheeks turning red.

"my clit?" you ask with an endearing smile. this boy is just too cute.

"um...y-yeah."

"of course, baby. i'll guide you." you halt your riding momentarily to grab riwoo's hand, placing his fingers against your clit. "right here, ri."

riwoo starts rubbing your clit, hesitantly at first, but he then starts using more pressure when he hears you moan more loudly. you resume riding him, the sound of skin against skin filling the room.

"f-fuck, ri!" you moan loudly. you reach up to your dress off your shoulder, rolling your nipple in between your fingers. you watch riwoo's eyes widen as he watches you, biting his lip. as though you can read his mind, you use one hand to grab the back of his head and gently push his face into your tits. riwoo immediately attaches his lips to your nipple, sucking and nipping at the bud.

"riwoo, i'm--shit!--i'm about to cum!" you moan, holding his head in place against your chest. riwoo lets out a moan in response and rubs your clit faster. you stop on his cock, your eyes rolling back as you cum around it. soon after you, riwoo pops off of your nipple with a high-pitched whine as he cums inside of you. you shiver as he cums hard, feeling him filling you up. you both pant loudly in the otherwise silent room, trying to catch your breaths.

"you're so hot." riwoo says, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your boobs.

you run your fingers through his hair. "thank you baby. you too."

after a while, he lets go of you and you shakily get out of his lap, his dick popping out of you and his cum trailing down your thigh.

"fuck..." riwoo breathes, his voice full of lust. you notice that his cock is already getting hard again.

you giggle, your movements slow as you come to kneel between his legs. "i've never fucked someone as cute as you. might have to keep you around..."

you look him in the eyes as you lick a stripe up the side of his cock, and riwoo squeezes his eyes shut. his mind being hazy, he's only able to have coherent thoughts about you as you start sucking him off.

a/n: this has literally been in my drafts for like two months iafoufuagf 😭 so glad that it's finally made it out of the dungeon!!

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

"Look at me in the eye and tell me you don't have feelings for Benjy"

There it was. Sirius avoided Remus's eyes when he was asked the question. After almost three years of relationship, Remus knew his boyfriend very well.

"You are going to start with your insecurities and jealousy again?" Sirius tusked, looking at the floor. "Give me a break, Remus"

It wasn't fair. Because Remus knew very well what was going on. He knew Sirius fancied Benjy because of the way he looked at him. Not quite like the eyes of love the he used to look at Remus with, but quite similar. The way he talked about him all the time. The way he smiled to himself when Benjy said something nice about him. The way he blushed when Benjy gave him a kiss on the cheek. Their complicity. Their love for art. Their similar chaotic persolities. Their love for partying.

Benjy Fenwick was Sirius’s classmate in Art School. After traveling across the world for two years, he had decided to stay in London and try with Art. Just because. Just because he was an asshole with luck and money.

Remus never liked him. Nor James or Lily. He didn't get along with the rest of their friends. It was as if he was obsessed with Sirius. He acted like Sirius’s long time best friend, which pissed James off. And like Sirius’s lover which pissed off Remus.

It didn't matter what Sirius said and how many times he denied it. He had a crush on Benjy.

At Hogwarts Remus had bared Sirius’s girls because he hadn't figured out he was queer and he was trying to hide it. But this was different.

It wasn't that their relationship was dying and Sirius didn't love Remus anymore. But Remus knew his Padfoot was enamored with the thrilling life that Benjy offered him. He wanted to feel young and pretty, and have fun. He wanted attention and adrenaline. He wanted adventure and trying new things.

Remus with his poor librarian salary and his calm routine, his introvertion and his shyness, could never give him that.

"Don't tell me I'm being crazy because it is not fair"

Right now, after months and months of playing dumb, telling friends he didn't mind and crying in his room while Sirius was out at some party without him, Remus had decided he couldn't take it anymore.

"I know you are angry because I overreacted last night... And the other night when I got drunk..."

"Yeah you were very mean with Benjy" Sirius whispered "You always treat him like shit..."

"Sirius..." Remus interrupted, his eyes filling up with tears "I need for you to be honest with me. I swear I can take the truth... But please be honest"

Sirius shook his head and shrugged "I'm being honest you just don't believe me"

Remus ignored him.

"You and I, we used to be inseparable..." Remus cried. And he could see tears on Sirius’s eyes as well. His lovely gray eyes "And we were really in love, weren't we?" Remus showed him his wrist tattoo. A little star with a P for Padfoot. "This is one proof" Sirius unconsciously touched his. A little moon with a M for Moony.

Remus shook away the memory of how happy Sirius was when he convinced Remus to get them.

"Our flat..." Remus said, looking around "Our things that we gathered together... There is a lot of proof that we loved each other..."

"Why do you use past tense?" Sirius intervened with tears falling through his cheeks "I still love you"

"I know" Remus said "But now Benjy is in your life..."

Sirius got uncomfortable.

"Benjy with his adventures and exciting plans each week... With his knowledge of bars and pubs and his funny stories about other times he's been there..."

"I don't know why that bothers you so much..."

"Pads... Sirius" Remus took a deep breath and wiped away his tears "Maybe it is all me and my crazy thoughts in my stupid head... But maybe it is you as well..."

Remus looked into Sirius’s eyes. At least tried. When he couldn't, he forced him to look at him by grabbing his chin. Delicately of course.

When Sirius’s eyes fixed on his, they were covered with tears once more.

"Please tell me what you feel. What is going on with you" Remus said "The truth"

Sirius pushed Remus away to compose himself. He cleaned the tears away and sniffed. Then he was quiet for a while.

Remus let him think without crying or pressuring him. He waited patiently for his response. In the meantime he prepared himself for the pain. For whatever Sirius would tell him.

Then Sirius looked up ready.

"You are right, Remus" Remus was surprised how sure he sounded. It meant he was going to say the truth not get nervous and hesitant while lying "I have feelings for Benjy... What I feel for him..." a pause in which Remus didn't even breathe "Is something that I can't control"

Remus felt as if someone was sticking a knife through his heart. Even if he already knew this. He had been preparing himself for this. It still hurt. It hurt like nothing else had hurt him. He felt the tears coming but he swallowed them and tried to be strong. He couldn't crumble down. That would be pathetic. That's what Lily had told him at least. "Have some dignity, Remus! You can live blindly like this forever"

"It's alright" Remus said, voice breaking "I understand. That's what I wanted to know"

"But I love you" Sirius tried grabbing his hands "I still love you..."

Remus dropped his hands.

"I never have and never will cheat on you, though"

"I know" Remus nodded and cried.

"Benjy just makes me feel alive..."

Please stop! Remus thought. But it wouldn't be fair because he had asked for the truth, hadn't he?

"He makes me feel young and pretty" Sirius continued "And I love you but I feel stuck with you and your jealousy and insecurities.. I don't want to explain everything I do. I just want to live!"

Sirius used to love Remus with his boring life, and bad posture, and books and cigarettes. It was Sirius who pushed him to do crazy things. That was how it worked. Or it used to work before Benjy.

"If that's the case," Remus replied "We know what we need to do"

"Remus... Are you breaking up with me?"

Seeing Sirius cry broke Remus's heart even more.

"I cannot share you. I can't and I don't want to"

As selfish as it sounded. Sirius used to be his, now it hurt not having all to himself anymore.

"Okay then" Sirius looked away to hide his tears.

Now Sirius was the one who was hurt? How ironic.

Remus was dying inside.

"I'm gonna pack my things then"

"You don't have to go" Sirius whispered under his breath.

"This is your flat anyway, your Uncle gave it to you"

Sirius didn't stop him. He hid his face between his knees.

Remus thought that he wasn't able to comfort Sirius anymore. He wasn’t able to touch him, kiss him, hug him. Never again.

His own body even ached in pain at the thought of it.

Remus got up from the spot he was sitting on the floor, and ran to the room. Their room.

He won't be sleeping in that bed anymore. He won't see Sirius waking up so beautiful in the morning.

And seeing all their things mixed up together, with not even a difference between Sirius’s things and Remus's things, made Remus crumble down.

How the hell he was going to pack now?

Instead he started crying, then sobbing, then yelling in pain. And he didn't care anymore if Sirius was in the other room. He didn't care about his dignity and honor.

And Sirius had noticed Remus's desperate cries. But he reckoned he couldn't do anything about it anymore.

Beg him to stay together? For what? The memory and nostalgia of what they used to be? How much they had loved each other?

Sirius silently cried as well.

[shmowder]

The depressed teen to enthusiastic adult pipeline is far too real

[mila-carat]

I was watching this Chinese variety show just to see Ricky and Zhang Hao but then I saw one of the hosts was Zhang Zhenyuan and now I want to cry… 😭💔

[kerosene-saint]

i kinda don't want to go back to camp but some of my stuff is still there

[anonymusbosch]

really truly Feelings about coming back to my hometown and seeing it as an outsider (I only knew it as a child with my motion constrained by school and parents and being under 18) and an outsider (it's changed since I've been away these last 8 years) and an outsider (showing it to my partner and finding it both familiar and unfamiliar, and special and inadequate) and an outsider (my parents and sister have all moved and my childhood home is no longer mine - staying in a building with a door code to learn and furniture still being moved in) and an outsider (my favorite places have changed, moved, closed, repainted) and an outsider (new murals! new buildings! new bike lanes) and an outsider (how the Fuck do the bike lanes on the east bank connect) and an outsider (it's changed [you can never step in the same river twice] and I have too)

[vinceaddams]

It applies to packaging too, not just ads. Like, if I'm in the grocery store and I see the same food product from 2 different brands and one of them has a cute little drawing of a farmhouse surrounded by green hills, I'm probably going to feel more positively towards that one even if logically I know they both came from the same kind of factory.

"advertising doesn't work" the increase in scentbird ads and people talking about a "personal signature scent" directly correlates with my family's interest in perfumes. Even if they're not using scentbird, something probably changed to make them want perfumes more, right?

[giantkillerjack]

So many New Years posts are like "this year, no more survival mode!"

"This year, I'm going to stop being afraid of the world!"

And I also hope you get to exit survival mode, neighbor. But like, you know you can't like, make a resolution to stop having PTSD, right?

Like, the reason you haven't healed yet is not a result of your lack of resolve, and your post makes it unclear if you know that, and that makes me worry.

I deeply hope you get to access the time and resources you need to heal because it is possible and beautiful for people to heal, and you deserve that.

But the folks who will not be able to exit survival mode this year are not at fault for that. That's not how it works.

If you are not stable and secure by the end of the year, it isn't because you failed. It's because healing is hard, and capitalism often makes the circumstances necessary for healing impossible to access. -- That doesn't mean it can't happen in the future, but the way these posts are phrased always makes me a little nervous. Maybe this year we can all try to give ourselves a little more grace.

[fazcinatingblog]

No YOU ran out of paper towel and then opened the fridge to see if there were any new rolls in there

[seenthisepisode]

.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

[suiana]

yandere! golden boy who is your loving boyfriend and... surprisingly loves listening to you talk about your interests! yes darling, talk about your games and novels and silly plushies! he loves seeing how interested you can get about things you're passionate about and it just makes him feel so warm on the inside.

you might even go as far to say he ENCOURAGES your interests. buying you plushies, taking you to exhibitions/places you want... you don't even have to ask, just one look with your eyes and he's taking out his card. yeah, it doesn't matter if you have an unhealthy attachment to that fat cat pusheen or whatever. you seem to really like it so he's buying that 400 dollar plushie for you.

on the same note... he can't help but get jealous when you're gushing over attractive fictional characters. SPECIFICALLY that ONE dude that you seem to have EVERYWHERE. on the wall, on your phone cover, lock screen, profile picture, fuck, even on your bed as a plushie! and all he gets is a meager nickname on his contact?!

"sweetie, must you... really have all these... THINGs of HIM?"

"he's my first husband, you're my second. of course i have merch of him. plus I'm not gonna just throw all these away, i spent big money on these ya know 💀"

he knows it's petty! he knows that it's just a fictional character and that he shouldn't be jealous but dude! you don't even have him in your wallet! it's that freaking guy!

so he does what evey sane boyfriend does and replaces some (not all just some!) of your merchandise with pictures of him and you. how adorable, right?

no.

"bro where is the portrait of my MAN🤬🤬🤬"

"i replaced it with a nice picture of us together darling☺️ look at how cute-"

oh. and you...you just put another photo of that guy again... oh... and you're ranting on reddit/instagram about how he's being mean... you also removed him from your close friends list... oh you... you also decided to kick him off the bed and onto the sofa... oh...

well no biggie! he has lots of patience and he will sneak in his presence into your stuff. he's determined.

"best friend I'm going to need you to cosplay as my favorite character please ☺️"

damn!

why didn't he think of that sooner? if you can't win the normal way, you should do it another way, right? he can just get you to see how much better he is and you'll eventually replace that fictional man for HIM!

...

yeah, that didn't work out as planned. now you're even more in love with that character and you're asking him to cosplay every other day. erm... at least.. your wallpaper is a picture of him cosplaying the character??? he'll take what he can get.

"lol best friend, did you see that video i sent you. it's so stupid."

"for the last time, sweetie. we're dating, call me boyfriend. and which one? I can't watch every single one of the 99+ reels you send me."

"a real best friend would watch them all..."

being with you has singlehandedly changed this man. for the worse or for the better, he doesn't know. but what he does know is that you DON'T know how to dress.

"sweetie, no. you can't just go out in a shirt and shorts! you look like adam sandler!"

"clothes are clothes 🤬"

at least he has a fun time dressing you up. you're like, his cute little rat! his very own personal dress up rat! oh how he wants to just keep you in his pocket and pick out pretty clothes for you, making you look like the cutest thing ever! sure you might take them off and just wear what you want but... at least he's got the photos and the sight of you in a pretty outfit ingrained into the folds of his brain already ☺️ and he'll take every chance he can get to put you into another pretty outfit again. that i assure you.

he... has ALSO found out that you are living on instant noodles, sandwiches, and the occasional takeout. you don't even open the curtains! how can you see in such a dark home? and why are you sleeping until midday?! dear oh dear. you really are a rat, huh?

"darling get up! it's 12 in the afternoon already!"

"i slept at 3 just let me sleep more..."

that simply won't do. he will not be allowing you to lead such a horrid lifestyle! not if he can help it! especially because... well, he's also your boss. from part 1, remember! yeah, you guys didn't break up at the end haha! you were just joking, obviously! not like you'll ever be able to break up. it's in the contract, silly.

"come on, get up. you need to have a healthy lifestyle. I've already gotten my personal chef to cook up a healthy meal for you."

"who's gonna stop me from living like this? you? 😂😂😂"

"yes, me. in our contract, remember? i will be responsible for your health from now till we die."

don't worry. he'll be by your side every step of the way. and hey, who knows? maybe you can even teach him a thing or two about gaming or something else you like! he's open to learning about the things you like.

and he won't even have to worry about you finding another REAL person to like because... well, let's just say you don't even like going out for dinner. we'll keep it at that ☺️

[mintmatcha]

tiktok reader universe

contains mentions of sexual assault. cisfem reader.

.

There's still times when Bakugo can tell your mind wanders during sex. The focus drains from your eyes, your grip goes limp, and your smile slips just a bit. You always come back to him if he says something, but... sometimes he lets it happen, lets you drift away. Maybe the distance is needed.

Even after all this time, you still never sleep over after sex. Tonight, you're a bit more impatient than usual, fixing your hair and wiping your brow right after he pulls away.

"I was offered a job today," you say casually.

"Yeah?" Bakugo loops an arm around the empty pillow that could be yours, if only you'd lean back into it. "With who?"

Instead, he's left to study the curve of your spine as you throw your legs over the side of the bed. He loves the story your body tells, with its scars and marks. Even the acne pocks are a reminder you were once just a teenager, just like he was. His own scars have puckered with age, still the same raging pink they were when they first healed.

"Someone with way too much money-" you say. -"who likes what I've done for your image and thinks I can fix theirs."

"And can you?"

You shoot him a grin from over your shoulder. "Is that even a question?"

Truthfully, Bakugo thinks you could do anything if you wanted to. You could lean over and rip his heart from his chest with just your fucking teeth-- and you'd make it look easy. He'd maybe even thank you. He'd definitely let it happen again.

Bakugo gives up on luring you back. "Well, when do you start?"

Your head tilts.

"I don't," you say."I didn't take the job."

Bakugo sits up straighter.

"I didn't want to leave you."

The statement sits warm in his chest, then quickly cools.

"Well, maybe you should have."

That makes you turn. You cock your head the other way, expression neutral, but still gracing him with a closed lip grin. The stare lasts for a long while before you crawl back under the covers and return to his side. Your lips find the side of his neck and your hands grip back to him, hot, heavy, breathless in that way you think he likes. A hum builds in your throat, a rolling, performative sound.

"Pull your cock out," you demand, right into the shell of his ear. "If this is the last time, I want another round."

"What?"

He doesn't have time to react before you're gripping his half hard cock, jerking it up gently. It's still wet with you and buzzing with sensitivity, so much so that he can't help but enjoy it, enjoy you-

"If you're about to break up with me, I want to at least cum one more time."

He loses the remnants of his erection.

"That's not what I fucking meant." Bakugo tries to meet your eye, but you just keep kissing at him, gripping at him. "Just-- stop stroking my cock for a second and be fucking serious."

You freeze, but keep your hand on him.

"I don't wanna work together," Bakugo reaches for your hand. The free one. "I just want to date."

You don't respond.

"I want to take you places and have you meet my parents and-"

God. this is so unlike him. When did he lose his teeth? Did you pull them straight from his skull and hang them from your neck like jewels?

"I want you to sleep over." He means it. "Like a real fucking couple."

The ceiling fan hums with an uneven hitch, catching in the same spot each time. It's an easy fix, but he's been ignoring it for so long that it's almost blended into the tapestry of his home. Click-click-click-click-click: now it's deafening, overwhelming the silence you're choosing to sit in. Just as he's about to open his mouth, you look away from his body and meet his eye. There's no sharp edge to your eyes.

"'tsuki."

You say it like a mother about to comfort a child, with a rounded curve to your tone that he's never heard before. You're trying to dull the blow, but it does nothing. It's a fucking knife to the gut.

"I'm serious. I'm really serious." He points with his whole arm towards the bathroom. "I've had a fucking toothbrush ready for you for weeks now. It's right there, in the fucking package."

You withdraw, smile long gone. The air between you two, trapped under the covers, goes cold.

"The girlfriend thing." You are unrecognizable without your Mona Lisa grin and he's obsessed with it. He wants to consume these rare moments, chew on them until he's full of you and only you, despite how it makes his stomach turn. "It was never real. You know that."

You cover your bare tits with one arm, but leave your pussy exposed. It feels like a reflex more than an actual concern.

"I'm not meant to be a girlfriend. You don't want me as a girlfriend."

Bakugo's quick to close the distance between you, but he pauses when you full body flinch. Your quirk activates for a moment - you glitter out of existence and then immediately back in- like it's unwittingly done. It's another incredibly un-you moment, but one that he doesn't want to drink in.

"I do." He keeps his voice as delicate as he can. "I do. I fucking do."

"I don't know how to do the things you need. I don't know how to be a girlfriend," you say. The corners of your smile return and he can see the wall coming back up. The arch of your back, the way your hand suddenly cups your tit: you turn yourself into someone else, someone's who's happy to be here, in an instant. "I can make myself girlfriend shaped. I can open my mouth and let you fuck it. I can pose for a picture. I can make your friends jealous."

Oh, and that distant look comes back to your face. The dilation of your eye is just... wrong, even as you smile.

"But I'm just something that's girlfriend shaped," you say. "I'm an illusion, a creature, a tool, a hole-"

"Don't ever say that shit again."

It rips out of him too roughly. "A hole? That's-- why would you say that?"

It all seems to hit you slowly, as if you're processing your own words. Like it never occured to you that you were saying something foul.

"Because-" you try to explain yourself.

"You're just a girl," Bakugo doesn't let you finish the thought. He can't. Not when you're above him like that, so guarded and yet so vulnerable, neither predator nor prey. "I hate to break your fucking illusion or whatever, but you aren't this fucking lumbering beast or huntress or, or, or, I dunno, whatever the commission has tricked you into believing."

He tries to meet your eye, but you're ducking away from it.

"You're just a girl." He lets his hands fall back to his lap. The pinky that doesn't work twitches, kicking with it's old muscle memory. The scar tissue itches under it's own tautness. "Underneath it all. You're just a girl."

The mattress creaks under your weight as you shift back. Now, your eyes are incredibly focused, almost pinpricks. You watch him with an unreadable expression, one slowly inching more towards horror with every moment.

"You think I can't see you, but I can." Bakugo stays where he is. "And I think you want to be seen."

Everything moves slowly. You blink a couple times, with this meek nod, swallowing thickly as you listen. Then, you get off of the bed and head towards the door. All of your clothes are still scattered on the bedroom floor, your panties at the foot of the bed.

"Wait." Bakugo scrambles to get to his feet. "Don't- fucking wait."

He says your name, once, twice, three times, and gets no response. Panic and regret swirl in his skull, so violent he almost goes lightheaded. By the time he reaches the hall, you're gone, and he thinks you've activated your quirk to escape him. It's the nightmare he's always had around you, the one where you disappear into the night the second he gets too close.

And then the bathroom light flicks on. With a careful trepidation, Bakugo inches down towards the door, afraid the break the illusion. Maybe, if he moves too fast, you'll really scatter off into the night, a deer under his headlights.

But when he slides into the frame, you're just standing there, holding a familiar little tube.

"This it?" You hold the package in your hand. "My toothbrush?"

"Yeah."

With your thumbs, you crack into the packaging and carefully peel the toothbrush out. You run the head under the faucet, then turn it off.

"Toothpaste?"

Bakugo pulls out the top drawer. With a sullen nod, you take the toothpaste and unscrew the top. Bakugo watches you, both of you completely naked, both of you completely silent. It surprises him how unsexual it feels to be here, postcoital, still sweaty, watching you brush your teeth. After the moment settles, he steps over and grabs his own brush.

You're just a girl, he thinks as he brushes his teeth next to you. He likes that you're just a girl next to him.

The both of you finish up, then you silently pad back to the room. Bakugo follows, a healthy distance, but close enough the he watches you shrug on his sweatshirt before dipping under the covers. Your head rests on your pillow.

Bakugo finds his space on the other side of the bed and you lay there, in the dim overhead lighting.

"It's hard for me," you say.

"Sleeping?"

"Yeah."

Bakugo turns on to his side and almost reaches out. Almost. Instead, he goes back and turns off the light. When he returns, you're nothing but a dark lump beside him.

"That's okay," he says, "You can sleep however the hell you want."

Your silhouette stays still.

"Sometimes I wake up crying," you say. "Or kicking, or just remembering something I shouldn't."

"Remembering what?"

The click of the fan overtakes everything again as you lay there, pulling in even breaths. A moment passes, then another and another. You're silent for too long, long enough that he thinks you've fallen asleep. Just as he's about to give up, you sigh out a winding breath.

"He was a hero," you whisper. "I felt special when he paid attention to me."

A chill he can't place creeps up his spine. He wants to ask what that means, why you're telling him this, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. He has to swallow, then cleae his throat.

"Did-?" His voice crackles. "Did someone hurt you?"

Again, you're silent.

"Who?" This time, when you don't respond, he presses. "Fucking who?"

"Someone who retired a long, long time ago."

"Give me a name and I'll fucking-"

"Katsuki."

"Someone raped you."

He had to say it out loud and dispel the mystery behind it. It's selfish, brash, but he needed it- just as he needs this hand around you, holding, cradling-

"That's what happens when you're just a girl." You clutch at his forearm with a want that isn't present in your voice. "People hurt you."

The bite of your nails surprises him.

"It's safer to be something else."

It's his turn to be quiet.

[rafelandia]

Two Babies (dad!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader)

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: angst, mentions of smut, pregnancy

Summary: Y/N is pregnant again before she’s ready.

Author's Note: Hello! Please enjoy my first Rafe one shot. I would love to expand on this couple so if you have any requests or any blurbs you'd like me to explore, please send me a message! As always, likes and reblogs are much appreciated - it helps more than you know. Happy reading :)

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite tiny human,” the pediatrician chimed as she kicked the door to the small examination room shut with her sneaker.

“You must say that to all of the parents that you see,” Y/N blushed, unable to hide the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips.

“I do, but this is one of the rare times when I actually mean it. Those blonde curls! Are you freakin' kidding me?”

She padded over to the miniature exam table to get a better look at the infant that was lying contently on her back and chewing on her pudgy albeit still tiny fingers. 

“Let’s take a look at how you’re doing, sweet pea.”

The doctor, Melanie, lifted the stethoscope that was looped around her neck and placed it into her ears. Listening to the baby’s heartbeat to check for any abnormalities, she couldn’t help but give a sympathetic frown when the tiny girl under her tensed up from the cool touch of the metal.

“Nurse’s notes say she’s put on quite a bit. She’s finally caught up to her age group in weight. I’m assuming breastfeeding is going better for you both now?”

Melanie lovingly squeezed the extra chub around the baby girl's thighs.

“Yeah. We don’t really use bottles anymore. Finally got her to latch on and now it seems like all she wants to do it eat,” Y/N chuckled.

“Good! That’s good. There’s nothing wrong with formula like we talked about, so don't overexert yourself if becomes too demanding. Breastfeeding is cheaper though," Melanie chucked, though in her head she was kicking herself. As if this family is in any need to save money. "Is she hitting the milestones? Rolling over? Propping her head up? Babbling a bit?” she continued.

“Babbling, definitely. She keeps us up sometimes because we can hear her talking to herself through the monitor at night,” Y/N poked her tongue out at her daughter in an attempt to get her to smile.

“Having a bit of trouble propping herself up though. She can only do it for a little bit and then she’ll give up. She’s got Rafe's big head, so I’m sure it’s a bit of a struggle.”

Melanie laughed loudly at the mention of her patient’s father, admiring Y/N's wittiness even in the absence of her husband. Given the reputation of the Cameron family, others might think the couple were all work and no play, but Melanie had the privilege of getting to know them behind closed doors. While they took doctor's visits seriously, always paying close attention to what the doctors and nurses had to say regarding the health of their firstborn, her experience with the Cameron's changed her outlook completely. Y/N and Rafe were warm, welcoming, and quite funny sometimes - always making jests at each other or sharing little tid-bits of what their life is like at home. She wished everyone could see them this way. Melanie really wasn't lying when she doted on the little girl, they were the best.

“She’ll get to it eventually. All babies are different. She seems to be coming along quite nicely, though. Nothing abnormal or anything to fuss about. A perfectly healthy six-month-old in my book.”

Y/N sighed in relief, though she knew there was nothing to worry over to begin with.

“How’s mum doing? You taking care of yourself, too? You’re just as important as baby.”

“When I can. Rafe's really good with her. He’ll take over when he sees me struggling, but it seems like she only wants me these days. Think I might be coming down with something, though. I’ve been feeling awful for a few weeks. Like I got hit by a train. I keep reminding myself to go get checked out, but I always get distracted taking care of her,” Y/N gestured to her daughter that was now drooling onto the parchment liner and staring up at the ceiling as if there was something ornately interesting about the popcorn texture that had been stippled onto it.

“When you say, ‘hit by a train,’ what do you mean? I can examine you here if you’d like. As long as it’s nothing serious, I can send you something off to the pharmacy.”

Melanie re-fastened the snaps on the infant’s onesie, making sure not to pinch her chunky legs and placed her back into her mother’s lap.

“Ummm,” Y/N began, “Just extra drained, I guess? Kinda nauseous. I’ve been getting migraines a lot and even when I do get a good night’s rest, I still feel like I could go back to bed for the rest of the day. Maybe I’m just exhausted, I don’t really know. But it just feels a bit different than being worn out like I have been before.”

She could see the wheels in Melanie's head turning, noting each of her symptoms and trying to align them in a path that would lead her to the root of the problem.

“Can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”

Y/N nodded, rubbing her fingers absentmindedly along the bridge of her daughter’s socked foot.

“Have you and Rafe been intimate since she was born?”

She was taken aback by the question, not understanding where Melanie was going with this or why it was relevant.

“Umm,” Y/N stuttered, feeling a static-y surge of embarrassment travel up her neck and onto the sides of her face, “Yeah. We have.”

A whole fucking lot ever since I’ve been cleared for it, Y/N thought, but kept to herself.

“And can you tell me when your last menstrual cycle ended?”

Then it clicked. She genuinely couldn’t recall her most recent period and even the thought of what Melanie was alluding to made her stomach twist into thousands of tiny knots.

“I- I don’t know. I’ve been so busy with her I don’t even really think about what’s going on with me half of the time.”

Y/N tried to make excuses, anything to avoid the obvious, but judging from the quizzical look on her daughter’s pediatrician’s face, she knew exactly where this was going.

“There’s no way,” she whispered, “I can’t be.”

Melanie's face dropped, now tender and apologetic when she realized that this was news Y/N was not ecstatic to hear.

“I know I’m a pediatrician, so that’s obviously the first thing my mind goes to, but can we at least get you to take a blood test? That way we’ll know for sure?”

//

Rafe came home to a quiet house. It wasn’t unusual, but seeing as it was well after six o’clock in the evening and his wife wasn’t in the kitchen making the pasta dish she'd been dying for all week was. Their grocery store had been out of her favorite canned tomatoes for over a week and she’d nearly tackled Rafe to the ground out of excitement when he’d come home from the grocery store with them the night before. Had he not seen her car in the driveway, he probably wouldn’t have even suspected her to be home.

He checked the living room first, and it was desolate apart from the baby pink, quilted playmat on the floor that was littered with a few of his daughter’s favorite rattles and teethers. Y/N's coat and purse were abandoned haphazardly on the couch, almost as if she tossed it aside in a hurry to get somewhere.

“Baby?” Rafe called out.

Nothing.

His head peaked into the nursery, stealthily and quietly in preparation to walk in on his daughter taking her scheduled nap before her actual bedtime. He’d gotten good at hushing his footfalls to almost complete silence as to not wake her, having made that mistake more than a handful of times. 

And he was right. There she was, sprawled out in her crib with her arms outstretched over her head like a tiny starfish. Her chubby cheeks were smushed against her bicep, drawing her lips open the tiniest bit so that Rafe could see the tops of her fleshy, pink gums and the barely-there nub of her first tooth peeking through. More than anything, he wanted to wake her up - lift her from the plush mattress and cuddle her close, shower her with kisses and tickle her with his scruff to hear those baby squeals he adored so much, but he needed to find Y/N first.

She had to be in their bedroom, he thought to himself. Maybe she was taking advantage of their baby girl napping to also get some rest. She had been rather exhausted lately. Maybe she’d had a rough day and was relaxing in the clawfoot, porcelain bathtub that had been the selling point of the home they now lived in. The houses on Figure Eight were lavish, but not all of the bathtubs were - at least that's what Y/N told Rafe. Who was he to question his bride?

Turns out he was right again. Like he had done with the nursery, he held the metal doorknob tightly in his grip to keep the hinges from creeking and pressed it open gently. The room was completely dark, but he could make out the lump underneath the duvet on their king-sized bed as his wife. 

Good. She was sleeping. 

He padded across the hardwood floor, still being as quiet as he could until he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. There, he rid himself of the uncomfortable clothes he’d been wearing all day. Curse these professional business meetings that forced him to dress nicely. 

All throughout the meetings, he wanted nothing more than to be home with his wife and baby, cuddling the afternoon away and watching shitty reality television while his daughter cooed and grunted and gurgled in her baby voice that he loved so much and could listen to all day. He wasn't always this way - he used to love this shit, but something inside him changed indefinitely when his daughter was born. Rafe was a softy now and he wasn't afraid to admit it. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been having to partake in these boring work meetings a lot more lately, which caused him to miss even the smallest aspects of his everyday life like changing diapers or checking the baby monitor eight hundred times throughout the day to make sure his daughter was still breathing. Perhaps he’d just been getting sentimental because she was growing so much these days, but it was an unpleasant feeling nonetheless.

His thoughts were interrupted when he deposited his heavy watch into the dish he kept on the counter and he heard a quiet yet still prominent sniffle among the clattering of metal against the glass dish.

“Baby? You awake?” Rafe peaked his head out from beyond the bathroom door. 

He saw her body shift under the covers, but she gave no response. So he called out again.

“You sick or something? Can hear you sniffling."

Nothing.

Pivoting back around to the inside of the bathroom, he quickly shut off the light and carried himself over to her side of the bed where he could see her properly. Her face was tucked into her chin and all that was visible to him was the top of her head.

“Hey,” Rafe cooed, petting what he could reach of her hair and speaking even gentler than he had been, “What’s wrong?”

And that’s when he heard it - an almost inaudible choking sound of Y/N trying to catch her breath that immediately let him know she wasn’t sick. She had been crying.

“Whoa, baby,” he was already pulling the covers back with force, honestly not caring whether or not she minded the intrusion.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

She was emotionless when he saw what little he could her face, her puffy, bloodshot eyes and swollen lips illuminated by the hallway light being the only indicator that she was upset. She didn’t even react to Rafe tugging her head out from where it had been buried in the covers, simply rolling onto her back to stare idly at the ceiling.

“Y/N,” he called for his wife again, this time much more stern, “You’ve got to talk to me.”

She took several deep breaths through her nose, allowing her lungs to fill to their maximum capacity before exhaling with a sigh. Rafe could have sworn she was sucking all of the oxygen out of the room along with his patience each time she did so. 

After what felt like ages, she parted her lips to speak.

“I went to the doctor today.” 

“Yeah? For the six-month check up, right?” Rafe asked, not seeing why that was important but his mind quickly went to the worst scenario possible despite having just seen his daughter sleeping peacefully in her crib. He cut his eyes towards the hallway in the direction of her nursery before looking back to Y/N.

“Is she alright?” his voice now demanding urgency in the delivery of her response.

“She’s fine,” she quickly dismissed him, internally kicking herself for making Rafe worry.

“I was telling Melanie about how sick I’ve been lately and she -,” Y/N gulped and rubbed her knuckles against her tired eyes, bracing herself for whatever events unfolded after she said what she was about to say.

“She, umm. She made me take a pregnancy test.”

Now it was Rafe turn to be speechless. He stared at her with furrowed brows and his mouth slightly agape. His palms suddenly felt clammy against the white sheets that they rested on and his stomach felt like it had turned in on itself from how badly it was churning. Of all of the things he had expected to be wrong with her, this was certainly the last on the list. 

“And?” he asked after what felt like an eternity of staring at her and saying absolutely nothing, though he already knew the answer.

“Ten weeks.”

Silent tears now spilled over her eyes and down past her temples. She couldn’t even be bothered to wipe them, instead letting them dampen a small patch of hair on either side of her head. Pregnancies weren’t supposed to be sad, but somehow, she had barely been able to stop crying since she left the pediatrician’s office.

“How,” Rafe whispered, moreso to himself than to her.

“I think you know how babies are made, Rafe” Y/N quipped.

“That's not what I meant,” Rafe fired back just as quickly, “It’s just...She’s still so little.”

He thought of his daughter asleep in the next room. She was the most perfect thing he’s ever seen and on the day that she was born, he knew he wanted nothing more than to fill his and Y/N’s house with as many blonde, chubby babies as he could fit beds in each room. He just hadn’t expected that his only child’s first birthday present would be the gift of being a big sister. 

It was all too sudden.

“I just don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. I mean,” Y/N raised her arms above her head before huffing and letting them fall to her sides, “I guess I was just so caught up with the baby that I hadn’t even had a second to think about what’s going on with me. It’s like I don’t even matter anymore and I-”

“Hey, hey now. Don't do that,” Rafe shushed her and curled up next to her frame as she began to sob.

He tucked her head into his neck, hugging her chest tightly as if he was trying to hold the pieces of her together before she shattered. His mind was running a mile per minute. It killed him to see her like this, killed him to be in this situation. The last time they had found out this news, there were happy tears - tears of shock and excitement about taking the next step in building a family. Never had he imagined that the next time they were presented with the very same news, that there would be tears of sadness.

Her voice was muffled against his now wrinkled button-down, but he could still make out what she was saying beneath her blubbers.

“I can’t do this.”

“What do you mean, honey? Of course you can. I can take more time off work like last time and let the boys handle everything for a bit. I know it's not ideal, but we’ll be alright,” he ran his hand up and down her arm in an attempt to soothe her.

“That’s the problem, Rafe.”

He lifted his chin from here it was resting on the top of her head to look down at her.

“What?”

“It's not ideal. You've only just now gotten back to work full time. You said everything almost fell apart while you were gone. It would fuck everything up. Plus, she's only six months old, Rafe. I can't go through that again so soon."

Rafe paused to break away from her and sit up straight against the headboard, “Are you serious? Of course I can take more time off work. You are more important than anything that could possibly be going on at the office.” He was a bit stunned by her words. She almost sounded annoyed, which didn't sit quite right with Rafe.

“But do you see what’s happening? Everything is fucked.”

His voice wasn’t so calm anymore.

“No, Y/N. I honestly don’t. I mean I know this is all happening much earlier than we expected, but what else is there to do? Will you please tell me what you're getting at, because I’m starting to get upset.” 

Rafe's lips were pressed in a thin, straight line and his nostrils flared with every breath. Why was she being like this? 

“I don’t know what I’m fucking getting at. I’m just overwhelmed."

“And you think I’m not? I'm trying my best to keep it together for your sake if you haven’t noticed,” it almost condescending the way the words rolled off his tongue.

“Oh, excuse me,” Y/N laughed sarcastically.

“Didn’t realize you were the one that's pregnant. Didn’t realize you’re the one that has to grow all big and gross and swollen and be in pain every fucking day to the point where walking to the bathroom feels like a fucking marathon. Didn’t realize you’re the one that has to feel like you're burning alive from the inside out for hours and then just have to lay there while a doctor you’ve never seen before stitches you up because it literally tore your insides apart. Didn’t realize you-”

“For fuck’s sake, I get it!” Rafe was yelling now. They hadn't argued like this since they were much younger, and he absolutely hated it.

“It’s not the same and I’m sorry for suggesting that it was. I'm not sure what you want me to say though. I’m sorry? Is that it? Sorry for getting you pregnant? Sorry for having a job that helps us get anything we want for ourselves and our family? Sorry that I do everything I possibly can to keep you and the baby and everyone else on the fucking planet happy?”

“You’re being an asshole, Rafe,” she was just as angry as he was, scowl evident on her face even in their dimly lit bedroom.

“And you’re not making any fucking sense! Are you telling me you don’t want to keep it? Because I never fucking said that you have to.”

The thought had crossed her mind on the drive home from the doctor’s office, but the feeling left as quickly as it approached. She’d taken one look at her daughter in her car seat through the rear view mirror happily sucking on her teether and knew without a doubt that she couldn’t.

She felt a tidal wave of fresh, salty tears peaking and about to crash over her.

“I don’t want - fuck,” she put her head in her hands. 

“I just-,” and then she broke.

Sobs wracked her body, making her shoulders shake up and down. She wasn’t even sure how she had any more left to get out, but it just kept coming. Over and over and over again until it felt like she was being suffocated and that no one was going to save her. She felt Rafe's hands move to rest on her shoulder blades and heard gentle, cooing-like sounds coming out of his mouth, but she couldn’t make out what he had said over the sounds of her own wailing.

“Baby, it’s okay. Just breathe. It’s alri-”

His attempt at subduing her was cut short by shrill cries coming from the digital monitor that sat on their nightstand. Rafe peeked over his shoulder at the screen, seeing that their daughter had woken from her nap and was now demanding the attention of her parents. He couldn’t help but wince as he watched her socked feet flail around in the crib; it was without a doubt that the screaming match they’d just had that stirred her from her sleep, and that hurt him just as much as it did to see his wife crying right in front of him.

Y/N heard it too, somehow. Perhaps it was because she’d been trained to react to every minute sound that she made and could recognize her cries from a mile away in the paralyzing fear that something was wrong with her or maybe it was because she looking for any and every excuse to get Rafe's hands off of her so she could get away from him and escape the argument they’d just had without making the situation any worse than it already was. Regardless, she turned her own neck to peer at the monitor and sighed heavily.

“I’ll go, Y/N. Just stay here.”

“No. I got it. It’s after seven. She’s probably hungry.”

She shrugged Rafe's hands away from her shoulders like his touch physically pained her and climbed over his body and off the bed without another word, not even giving Rafe the chance to take her hand and help her over the edge of the mattress. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere but down the hall and into the nursery, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was walking away from everything.

//

Y/N stared her daughter while she nursed. She started from the top of her head that was riddled with sandy blonde curls and worked her way down to the tips of her toes that would occasionally flex themselves out of habit. Her hair? Undoubtedly Rafe's. Her eyes? A perfect, entrancing shade of blue akin to Rafe's. Her lips? The same almost inhuman shade of fleshy pink, just like Rafe's. Surprisingly, the only physical trait she’d inherited from her mother was her nose, which was funny considering that Y/N had always hated hers.

She was content, suckling away at Y/N’s breast - her cries of hunger long forgotten. The infant hadn’t even flinched when a few more of Y/N’s silent, cold tears spilled over and left small wet spots where her onesie rested over her belly. She had no idea that her parents were upset with each other and she had no idea that in a little more than six months time, she’d be a big sister and there would be two babies fighting for their attention. Y/N was also clueless, but only as to how she was going to take care of a newborn and a one-year-old simultaneously. She’d always thought she’d have more time than this - more time to spend with just her daughter and Rafe before they decided to have another, but just like her eyes, things always had a funny way of never working out in her favor.

Three soft knocks on the wall withdrew her from her thoughts and she was greeted by her husband idling in the doorway like he needed permission before entering a room in his own house. It was off seeing Rafe Cameron this way - being the one with his tail tucked beneath his legs. It was usually the opposite. He had changed out of his work clothes and was now clad in his favorite pair of sweats that were permanently stained with spit-up. Y/N had tried everything under the sun to get the spots out, but he’d been persistent on not throwing them out.

“Can I come in?”

His voice was barely above a whisper and much calmer than when he’d been yelling at her about twenty minutes ago. He still hesitated crossing the threshold even after Y/N had given him a skeptical nod, but allowed his bare feet to pad over the plush carpet as he joined her on the loveseat in the far corner of the nursery.

He watched their daughter just as Y/N had, taking in her tranquil state as her fingers brushed reflexively against the underside of Y/N’s breast. He’d never been able to pry his eyes away every time he watched her nurse. There were no ulterior motives behind it whatsoever. It amazed him each and every time, how Y/N was able to provide their child with everything that they needed to grow with only her body. At first, Y/N hated that Rafe loved sitting in on her feedings, feeling exposed and unattractive despite Rafe's continuous affirmations that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever had the privilege of witnessing, but over time she’d grown fond of it.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you,” Rafe started.

“It was uncalled for,” she quipped.

Y/N sniffled, rubbing her swollen eyes with the back of her free hand that wasn’t supporting her daughter’s back as she held her.

“It’s okay. It was a lot to take in. I’m sorry for yelling at you too.”

She couldn’t quite look him in the eye just yet, but she was slowy but surely getting there.

“It's not okay, actually. You’re right. I’m not the one having the baby. It’s you that’s got to do all the hard stuff and I know how scary it was last time. I should've been more considerate before jumping the gun.”

He shifted towards her on the cushions, afraid to touch her just yet but still yearning to be closer to her.

The best Y/N could muster was a quiet, “Thank you,” before she busied herself by attempting to run her fingers through her baby’s hair and untangle the mess she’d created while she was sleeping.

“Can I hold you? Please?” his voice was quiet and pleading.

Now was when she turned to face him and she was met with eyes that were just as red-rimmed as hers. She had heard the bathroom sink running for an abnormally long amount of time and a hard, frustrated pounding against the wall shortly after she’d gone off in the nursery to feed the baby, which meant he must have been trying to muffle the sounds of his own crying when she left their bedroom.

Y/N didn’t say anything, only shifting her weight onto one side so Rafe could easily lift her onto his lap in one swift movement without disturbing their daughter. He tucked her shoulder into his neck and softly kissed her skin and his hands moved to mimic hers so they were both holding the baby that was nodding off again in their arms. She found herself relaxing into his loose grip, her head tilting to the side to rest against his. 

“I love you so much. You know that? I’d drop everything for you if I had to. I don't care about any of it anymore.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she refuted, but there was no malice in her tone.

“I wouldn’t let you. You try to play it cool and I know that things are different now, but I also know that deep down you really like what you do.” The corner of Rafe's lips turned upwards, suppressing a chuckle at the fact that she really does know him that well.

“Well, just know that I would if you wanted me to. I’ve thought about it a thousand times. I want to be here for you. For her. Don’t want to miss anything. I finally got my shot at being normal when I met you and I hate myself sometimes when I think about all of the bullshit I've put you through.”

“Don’t,” Y/N paused to press a chaste kiss to Rafe's cheek.

“You’re a good person, Rafe's. A good dad. A good husband. Please don’t ever think that you’re not.”

She felt moisture pool in the dips of her collarbones where Rafe's chin lied, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“I’ll be okay. Sorry if I freaked you out earlier. Think I just need some time to get used to it all. Just wasn’t expecting Melanie to drop the ball that I was pregnant when all I was expecting was for her to tell me that our kid is in the 99th percentile for weight and then send me on my way.”

This got a chuckle out of him, almost causing him to choke on his tears. He quickly rubbed the sleeves of his sweatshirt against his eyes to dry up any remaining wet spots on his face. 

“She is pretty chunky, isn’t she?” Rafe jested while thumbing over his daughter’s rounded tummy.

After a moment of admiring their little chunk of a baby, with her milk-drunk eyes and puckered lips, Rafe spoke again.

“Two babies,” he huffed.

“Two babies,” she repeated.

His hands moved to caress Y/N’s stomach. She wasn’t showing yet considering that neither of them had even known Y/N was pregnant until today, but he still held her like her belly was the size of a watermelon and he was waiting anxiously to feel a hand or a foot press up against his palm.

“Might be kinda nice. They can share everything and we’ll only have to have one birthday party because they’ll be born around the same time. They’ll go to the same school and probably have the same friends. Kinda like twins.”

“Are you hearing yourself? Rafe Cameron? The party connoisseur? Suggesting his two precious babies share a birthday party?”

Rafe pursed his lips and blushed, recalling the fact that he'd already planned his daughter's first birthday in his head. Down to the tablecloth colors and dinnerware.

“Got me there,” Rafe chuckled.

Their banter was interrupted by a grueling rumbling sound coming from Y/N’s stomach that Rafe could feel throughout his entire body.

“Jesus, Y/N. You hungry too? When’s the last time you ate?”

“Uhh...this morning I think?” Y/N sighed.

“Couldn’t stomach anything when I got home.”

Rafe's heart dropped when he thought of how distraught she’d been all day while he was gone and with everything in him, he’d wished he would have postponed his meetings to go to check up with her and they could have found out together.

“Found those tomatoes at the store the other day, remember? Want me to make that pasta for you?”

“Ohh, yes please,” she immediately perked up at the thought.

“Starting to wonder if that was a craving now that I think about it. Didn’t we have it, what? Three nights in a row a while back?” she proposed.

Rafe giggled as he reluctantly removed Y/N from his lap and stood up from the sofa.

“Thought it was a bit weird that you wanted it so badly, but I know better than to question you.”

“She’s going back down. If you give me a minute, I’ll come downstairs and help you,” Y/N said, pulling up the straps of her tank top after realizing her daughter had long since forgotten about her breast and was conked out in her arms.

“I've got it, mama” Rafe quickly refuted. “Take a bath or something and I’ll bring it up when it’s done.”

“Okay.”

Y/N couldn’t fight the grin growing on her face at the nickname Rafe used that she still hadn’t gotten used to.

When she placed their daughter soundly in her crib, Y/N’s fingers stayed put from where they sat on the railing as she caught herself staring at the sleeping infant once more. Though she’d felt like her world was caving in on her just a handful of hours ago, the pieces were all coming back together now. 

Of course, she wanted more children with Rafe. And now she was getting what she wanted. Just like he’d told her back in the bedroom, it wasn’t ideal, but they’d make it work. They always did. 

With two babies.