#I just have to make sure not to push her too hard

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[springintosummerxx]

❀ downbad for you ❀

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.

[capsensislagamoprh]

"You know," she said as I turned the corner, "you're dangerously close to something."

"Is it your liver?" I asked, pressing my knife in deeper.

"Not quite. Good thing too. The god of medicine is a buddy, and pal, he do get mad when I show up with random holes I didn't previously have."

I admit, I was taken aback. "Say what now?"

"Oh yeah. Lives over on 3rd and Pine."

"There's a god. Living on 3rd -"

"And Pine, yeah. So anyway," she smiled, dusting off her robes. "I work for the messenger god - fabulous health care, pension, I mean how could I not? He says to watch it. You're dangerously close."

"To what?"

"Becoming one."

"I'm going to need clarity." Perhaps demanding was a strong word, but it was heavily implied I should put away my knife as she pushed her rather pointed boot into my groin in the most unpleasant manner.

"That should help."

By the time I recovered enough for the letter she'd dumped on me to stop swimming through my vision, she and her burgundy trench coat were gone.

Three hours latter there was a knock at my door. The sun set and so did my senses. She was back with pizza and a twelve pack. By the time I'd decided I was to intrigued not to let her in, my small apartment was full of people literally crawling in through the fire escape. Except that one guy who walked in through the closet door like it was Tuesday. There were more than a dozen of them taking over my living space, raiding my fridge. One guy pulled out things I *knew* weren't in my fridge. All I could think was 'what is happening'?

"So, you're the new kid," a particularly buff old gentleman with the sort of beard one can only describe as a cloud said as he sipped from an IPA, bright eyes taking me in. "Interesting."

I was so off put all I could say was, "What?"

"Don't mind him. He's new," said the messenger's assistant, divesting her burgundy coat. "So new he doesn't know what he's done yet."

The room stopped. Glances were exchanged. "At all?" asked one particularly colorful being, his heart shaped shades some how clashing violently with his Hawaiian shirt and cacky shorts while completing the image at the same time. She set down the six pack and grinned.

By the next morning I knew what I did. I knew what I'd done. And I knew what I was in for.

Old gods exist, sure. Saw a few myself last night. (Don't ask the guy in the loud shirt to take off his glasses. Just an F.Y.I.) But so do new ones. They exist for a thousand little things. And they have a portfolio or radius. Mine? I'm the 'generous god'. The giver. Some praise me by words. 'What a lucky day!' Some sigh in relief or look confused and pleased. But what matters is that they have started talking. And I have become.

Right now I am an urban legend. If I keep doing what I am, I will become part of the fabric of this place. And from there I can gain power, followers, more. If that's something I desire.

It comes with perks. Immortality based on gathered belief and those who warship - even if warship isn't in a structured temple thing - and the ever present stuck-at-the-age-I-am-now-forever bit. The down side? Power comes and goes. You do tend to out live everyone else. It leads to a tight net community of small gods. And they will randomly show up on your couch to crash for a few days.

But the thing they thought was great was that I came with my own built in set of moral codes. Most people have a hard time not letting power like this go to their heads. That's why they seem immortal in life but die tragic or forgotten. I'm not Robbin Hood. I'm not a saint. I'm a new god. A small player on a cosmic stage.

I think I'll grab a couple of friends and film them handing out flowers to people to make their day. You have to start your following somewhere. Might as well do with with a smile. We'll get coffee on the way.

You’re a rogue with enough gold to last ten lifetimes. But old habits die hard—you sneak through crowds, slipping coins into people’s pockets. The kingdom is buzzing about the mysterious, generous "thief."

[seishroo]

rin and marathon sex cause he's a freak like that

“make her tap out” — r. itoshi

cw. smut mdni, overstimulation, reader being pathetic as hell, rin just being yummy yum yum

rin was always a beast when it came to soccer. dominating the field, he’s intense — commanding authority without even trying.

and when it comes to sex? he’s practically a machine running off of talent, ego, and pure domination. you’d think he’d be worn out from all of his matches, but his stamina never wavers when it comes to you. not even for a split second.

he’d have you in a brutal mating press, pounding into you with relentless vigor as you struggled to even catch an intake of breath, your hands scrambling for something to ground yourself with — which happened to be those godly biceps of his.

“rinnie!”, you’d whine, tears rolling down your delicate features as he fucked you to yet another orgasm. what was it now? third, fourth, seventh? who knows at this point. you were too dazed, and it seemed like he was having zero issue taking you to peak after peak after peak.

“yeah, pretty baby?”, he’d question just to humor you, acting as if he was paying attention to anything you had to say. he didn’t need to know what you were thinking, your pussy spoke for you — fluttering around his cock frantically. he’d continue to thrust into you, hard and deep. he was clearly getting a kick out of sending you far past mere overstimulation.

he’d push down on your tummy, feeling how deep he was inside of you. “tsk, you feel that, baby?”, he’d ask between thrusts, watching exactly what it does to you. “feel me in there?”, he’d chuckle, grasping the back of your knees tighter and pushing your legs back further, folding you like a fucking beach chair. “shit, ‘s like this pussy was made just for me”, he’d mutter, hitting your sweet spot over and over with the new angle.

you could barely come up with a response, just incoherent babbles and chants of his name, your body now being a bunch of mush as he had his way with you, moans filling the room like a sweet melody.

he groaned at the way your cunt swallowed him whole, just greedy and filthy. it tightened around him like a vice, signaling your impending release yet again.

“ohmygodohmygodrinrinrin”, you’d cry out, choking on your own words as you felt yourself becoming pathetically needy for him, to soak his length in your juices again. “shhhhhiiiiittttt, ‘m gon—“, you panted before your brain short-circuited once his thumb met your throbbing clit, applying just the right amount of pressure and speed to get you there even faster.

“i know, baby”, he coos, holding your legs in place with one hand while the other abused your swollen clit. “doing so well f’me, jus’ let go, yeah?”, he’d mutter in that sexy low tone, just his voice alone could have you a mess.

in which it did, you quivered erratically as your orgasm rushed through you, back arching before your body went limp and practically melted into the bed. rin continued to fuck you through it, making sure to draw every last bit out before he spilled inside of you with a choked groan, his hot seed filling you up to the brim.

he slowly pulled out of you before pushing back in, ensuring that none of him spilled out of your hole. “you look s’pretty when you’re all messy for me”, he whispers — more so to himself given you couldn’t process jack shit at the moment, still pathetically whimpering.

he pulls out of you, flipping you onto your tummy and pushing your legs in, putting your ass in the air before burying his face in your cunt, slurping up the mixture of both of your releases and eating you out from behind. he’d chuckle at your little whines, telling him 'you can’t take anymore' and this and that. nipping at your inner thigh, he’d coo once more, “aw, you can take one more f’me, can’t you?”, before diving back into your folds.

it was in fact not one more. don’t ever believe rin when he says that shit.

an: i loved writing this tysm for the req - now i can't stop thinking abt rin LMFAOOOO

© seishroo | much love ꨄ

[meganwritesfanfics]

As It Was (Dr. Jack Abbott x Reader)

This is a companion story to The Highway Don't Care

Word Count: 2224 

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of injury, negative self-talk.

This one gets a bit spicy. I tried to make it even spicer, but I learned I am not good at it, lol.

Jack hated physical therapy. He hated the sound of the machines, the clicking and stretching. He hated the smell. He hated the obnoxiously bright lights. All of it reminded him of the countless visits he had. It brought him back to a very dark time after he lost his leg. It brought him back to the feelings of hopelessness and desperation. 

But this time, he wasn’t there for himself, this time he was there for Y/N. After multiple surgeries to repair her femur, Y/N was on a recovery track. But it was a slow and grueling one. 

He sat in a corner trying to read but he just kept reading the same sentence over and over because his focus was on Y/N as she tried her best to walk with her physical therapist. 

“Fuck,” She screamed as she crumbled her therapist catching her. “I think we are done.” 

“You still have 10 minutes…” The therapist started. 

“No I’m done!” Y/N screamed and Jack was instantly on his feet heading towards her. 

“I’ve got her.” He said and the therapist just walked off. “Baby, are you ok?” 

“I’m fine, I just want to go home.” She snapped at him. 

Jack sighed. Ever since Y/N had started physical therapy, she was constantly short with him. It felt as though she was pushing him away. He knew the pain and frustration she was feeling, and he knew that eventually she would confide in him. But Jack also didn’t want to push her too far, knowing it could break her. So he had patience, and tried to be there in whatever way he could. 

“Come on,” He said as he got her crutches and handed them to her. “Let’s get you home.” 

The whole car ride rome, Y/N remained silent, her attention focused out the window.

“Why don’t we order pizza for dinner.” Jack chimed in. 

“Sure,” She sighed but she wasn’t fully paying attention. 

“Y/N, baby, are you ok?” He said and he reached out for her hand but she pulled her hand away. 

“Jack I’m fine. I’m just tired.” She said as she ran her hand over her face. 

“Ok,” He said as he nodded. He just accepted her answer. He knew her, he knew her better than most anyone, and he knew at some point she would let him in. He knew she would breakdown and he would be there to catch her when she did. 

When they got home, Jack came over to her side of the car to help her out, but she didn’t grab his hand. “I’ve got it.” She snapped and again Jack just nodded. He stayed by her side ready to catch her if he needed. 

Ever since she had gotten out of the hospital, Jack had been by her side. He had taken off work, using all of the PTO he had built up and never used. He had also spent so much time making sure that everything in the house was set up in a way that would make it easier for Y/N to recuperate. He had set up their guest bedroom into their makeshift masters so that Y/N wouldn’t have to struggle up the stairs. Event though he offered to carry her up the stairs every night but she quickly shut that down.He had also moved her entire wardrobe down into that room. 

“I’ll order the pizza, you want your usual?” Jack called. 

“Sure,” Y/N called back as she made her way to the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. 

“I’m going to get us plates.” She said. 

“I can get them.” Jack said as he made his way towards her. 

“Jesus Christ Jack, I’m not helpless I can get the fucking plates!” Y/N screamed as she threw her crutches to the ground. 

Jack froze looking at Y/N his eyes wide. “Baby…” 

“No, I can’t fucking do it.” Her voice cracked hard as she started to take a step she let out a cry of pain and she collapsed to the ground. 

“Y/N,” Jack rushed to her side. 

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry.” Y/N cried as Jack sat down next to her. 

“What are you sorry about?” He asked.

“I’ve been such a bitch to you, for so long. And you have just been absolutely wonderful with everything. And I have been so horrible.” 

“You have not been horrible.” Jack tried to sooth. 

“No I have, I have been horrible to you and I have been horrible to everyone.” 

“I know it’s hard baby, trust me, I know.” 

Y/N let out another sob as she placed her head in her hands. 

“Baby, talk to me. What’s going on in the beautiful head of yours?” He asked as he rubbed her back. 

“I feel so guilty.” 

“Why do you feel guilty?” 

“I shouldn’t be feeling so bad about how badly my recovery is going. I’m alive, and I will be able to walk again. I should be grateful. And I hate that you have to witness all of this. After everything you have gone through, me being upset must feel so ridiculous to you.” She sobbed. 

Jack was shocked. He had never thought about the fact that Y/N may have thought he was judging her for her journey, based on what he went through. 

“Baby, I do not think you are ridiculous. What you are going through is really hard. Really hard. Just because my recovery journey looked different doesn’t mean I’m judging you for yours. How long have you been feeling like this?” 

“Since the first appointment, I could see how uncomfortable you were being back at physical therapy.And it just got me thinking about how stupid you must think I am. I didn’t lose my leg, I shouldn’t be complaining” 

He pulled her into his arms. “I would never think that, and you know it. You’re right, being at physical therapy does bring back bad memories of a very rough time in my life. But I can be a little bit uncomfortable to make sure that you are supported. You are worth it.” 

Y/N just groaned as she buried herself further into Jack’s embrace. 

“Look at me.” He said as he held her head in his hands. “I don’t want you to not talk to me because you think you don’t deserve to complain. Physical therapy is the absolute fucking worst. And I am going to fully understand what you are feeling and going through. Hell I am a wealth of knowledge when it comes to surviving the recovery journey. I just want to help you. You know I hate seeing you like this. It tears me up inside. I just wish I could fix it for you instantly so you wouldn’t have to go through this.” Jack’s voice cracked slightly. 

“I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that I can’t work. I hate that I don’t feel like I’m making any progress. And I hate how I feel like I am such a burden to you, and I…” She hesitated her eyes looking into Jack’s. “I hate that I feel like you would have been better off if I died in the crash.” 

Jack’s heart stopped. He hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten with Y/N. He felt horrible that he hadn’t recognized the signs, and hadn’t done more to help her. 

“Y/N.” He said firmly. “Don’t you dare say that. I was an absolute mess when I thought I was going to lose you. You are my life. If I lost you I wouldn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize things were this bad.” 

“I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to pretend I was ok, and pretend I wasn’t a hot fucking mess.” Y/N sighed. 

“Baby,” Jack pulled her in for a kiss. “You are not a hot fucking mess. You are just hot.” He teased and she cracked a smile. “There is that beautiful smile I have been missing.” 

“Have I told you how wonderful you are lately?” Y/N sighed burying her face in Jack’s chest again. 

“I know I’m a fucking catch.” Jack replied and Y/N laughed. 

They sat for a while before Jack scooped her up and carried her back to the couch. He sat down holding her tightly in his lap. 

“I love you.” Y/N said as she ran her fingers through his hair. “I love you so much. You are the best part of my life.” 

“I love you too. Will you promise to let me know when you are getting overwhelmed or feeling guilty. I want to be there to tell you how much I love you and how proud of you I am.” Jack said.

“You are proud of me?” Y/N said her eyes watering again.

“I am always proud of you, my girl.” Jack replied as he pulled her in for another long kiss. “You are a badass doctor who is absolutely brilliant  and so unbelievably kind.

The sweet kisses suddenly turned passionate as Y/N began kissing Jack’s neck. 

“Y/N,” He moaned. 

“Take me to bed Jack.” She purred in his ear. 

He quickly scooped her up and started towards the guest bedroom. 

“No, I want you to make love to me in our bed.” She insisted as she sucked on the spot right below his ear she knew drove him wild. 

“We aren’t going to make it there if you keep doing that.” Jack growled as he started to carry her up the stairs. 

Y/N giggled. “I thought you pride yourself on your patience. Dr Abbott.” 

“You make being patient a struggle darling.” 

He walked them into the bedroom and he dropped Y/N on the bed gently and then he was on her in an instant. 

His lips kissed down her throat as his hands roamed her body causing her to moan. 

“Jack,” She moaned as his hands wandered under her shirt. 

“You are far too dressed.” He said as he instantly pulled her shirt off over her head. 

Y/N blushed a little bit remembering what outfit she was wearing. Her sweatset, sports bra, and least flattering pair of underwear. 

Instantly Jack could feel the mood change and he pulled back. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

“I just look super sexy in my outfit right now.” She said trying to make a joke out of it, but he could hear the sadness in her voice.

“Y/N, I would find you sexy in whatever you wore. Hell I think you are sexy in scrubs.” 

Y/N smiled. “That must be really hard for you at work.” She teased. 

“Oh it’s impossible. I constantly want to pull you into a room and fuck you senseless.” He growled. 

“Jack!” Y/N gasped but Jack’s mouth was instantly back on hers. 

*********

Y/N woke to the sound of whimpering. She groaned sleepily trying to find the source of the sound. She instantly sat up when she saw Jack thrashing in his sleep. 

“No, please, no.” He mumbled in his sleep. 

Y/N was no stranger to Jack’s nightmares. While they had gotten better since he started going to therapy, ever since the wreck, they had become more frequent. 

“Y/N no,” He broke and she could tears falling down his cheek 

“Jack, honey.” She said as she gently placed her hands on his chest. “Honey, you need to wake up.” 

“Please I can’t lose you, please.” He sobbed. 

“Jack, wake up, it’s just a nightmare.” She shook him a little. 

“No, no, no.” He just kept repeating as his body started to tremble. 

“Jack!” She said a bit more forcefully as she grabbed his face with her hands. 

His eyes snapped open and his brown eyes frantically searched hers. 

“Are you ok?” He asked terrified. 

“Jack I’m fine, everything is fine, you were having a nightmare.” Y/N said running her fingers through his curls trying to calm him down. 

“I thought… you were…” He started his breathing becoming erratic. 

“Baby, Jack, I need you to breathe ok. Look at me, look at me.” Y/N quickly grabbed his hand and placed it on her throat so he could feel her pulse. “You feel that, I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. I’m here. You saved me.” 

Jack took deep breaths, as he hand shifted from her throat to her cheek as he ran his thumb gently over her cheek. 

“You are ok,” He said mostly to himself as he pulled Y/N into his embrace. 

“I am ok.” She comforted as she felt him kiss the top of her head. Her head was resting on his chest and she could feel how rapidly his heart was beating. 

They just lay together in silence as Jack tried to calm down. 

“Clearly you aren’t the only one in this relationship who is a hot fucking mess.” Jack sighed. 

Y/N playfully gasped. “You said I wasn’t a hot fucking mess.” She teased. 

Jack laughed. “We can be hot fucking messes together.” 

“I love you Jack.” Y/N said as she snuggled into his embrace. 

“I love you too Y/N.” He sighed happily, and it wasn’t long before sleep found them once again.  

Tag List: @pear-1206 @frazie99 @brnesblogposts

[lila-lou]

✨The night you gave in✨

Summary: You resisted Soldier Boy for weeks. One night, you stopped—and he made sure you’d never forget what giving in felt like.

-requested-

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language

Word Count: 8290

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

The mansion was alive with chaos. Bodies tangled in hedonistic pleasure, music pulsing through the walls, the air thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something darker. You had no business being here, really. This wasn’t your scene. It never was. But Soldier Boy had insisted.

“Come on, sweetheart. You’re my assistant, aren’t you? Fucking assist me”.

So here you were, navigating through the mess of superheroes indulging in excess. You had done a damn good job of keeping your distance all these weeks, resisting his persistent advances with nothing more than a scoff, a roll of your eyes, or a sharp retort.

But tonight? Tonight, something was different. Maybe it was the way he looked-his cocky grin a little less smug, his eyes a little darker, as if even he was getting tired of the chase. Or maybe it was the way the liquor burned in your throat, loosening the grip of your stubborn resolve.

You felt him before you saw him. His presence thick in the air, radiating heat and power. A heavy hand landed on your hip, pulling you back against something solid, unmovable.

“You been runnin’ from me all this time”, Soldier Boy murmured into your ear, his voice rough and edged with amusement. “But you still came when I called”.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering as his fingers trailed lower. You could still walk away. You should walk away. But when you turned, meeting those deep green eyes filled with something dark and knowing, you realized, you didn’t want to. Not today.

Still, you pushed against his chest, your hands pressing against the hard armor, but he barely moved. Just stood there, smirking down at you like he had you right where he wanted.

“It’s my damn job”, you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than him.

Ben let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through your body with how close he was. “That why you’re pressed up against me right now, sweetheart?”. His grip on your hip tightened just slightly, enough to make your breath hitch.

Your eyes darted around the room. The debauchery continued, grunts, moans, laughter, but you felt the weight of a few stares. A handful of supes had noticed you. And you were only human.

Even if Soldier Boy was an arrogant bastard, you’d rather deal with him than be left to navigate this place alone.

One of the supes, a woman with glowing violet eyes, licked her lips as she trailed her gaze down your body. Another, some muscle-bound asshole with obsidian-black skin, was already making his way closer. You weren’t naïve. You knew what this night was about. And you knew exactly what happened to people who weren’t careful here.

Soldier Boy noticed too. His fingers flexed on your hip before sliding lower, possessive, a silent warning to anyone watching.

“That’s what I thought”, he muttered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re safer with me, doll. Always have been”.

You should have hated how much that statement felt true in this moment.

“Fine”, you breathed, forcing yourself to relax into his grip.

His grin was smug, but there was something else in his eyes, something darker. He was enjoying this way too much. “Atta girl”, he murmured, guiding you through the room like he owned you.

It wasn’t that you didn’t find Ben attractive, because shit, you did.

The sharp jawline, the unruly hair, the broad shoulders that looked like they could take a missile and not budge. And the way he carried himself, cocky and self-assured, like the whole world was a joke and he was the only one in on it. It was irritating as hell, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you smirk sometimes.

You actually thought he was funny too, in that asshole kind of way. The kind that made you roll your eyes but secretly bite back a laugh.

But attraction wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Ben wasn’t just some guy. He was a supe. And you’d never been with a supe before.

Deep down, that was what really stopped you. Not his arrogance, not his persistence, not even the fact that he was a walking, talking pain in your ass. No, it was the fear,the quiet, gnawing fear that if he didn’t pay attention, if he got too into it, if he lost control even for a second, you wouldn’t be walking out of that room in one piece.

You’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Supes who got too rough, who didn’t know their own strength, who crushed ribs with a single thrust or snapped necks just trying to chase their own pleasure. The kind of stories that got whispered behind closed doors and covered up by Vought’s PR team before the public ever got a whiff of them.

And Soldier Boy? He was worse than most.

You’d seen him fight. You’d seen what he did to people without even trying. And if he got carried away, if he forgot for even a second that you were just huma… A shiver ran down your spine, and Ben must have felt it because his grip on you shifted, steady but firm. His lips were still close to your ear, his breath warm as he spoke.

“You’re thinking too much”, he muttered.

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice even. “No. I’m just not stupid”.

He let out a low chuckle, his hand sliding to the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. The other supes had lost interest now, either picking up new playthings or getting distracted by the chaos around them. But Ben didn’t let you go.

“You really think I’d break you?”. His voice was quieter now, more serious than you expected.

You hesitated. Yes. Maybe. I don’t fucking know.

“I think you don’t always know your own strength”, you admitted finally.

That made him pause. Just for a second.

Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Geez, sweetheart. Give me a little credit”. His grip on you tightened—deliberate, controlled. “I might be a lot of things, but I don’t fuckin’ break my toys”.

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be reassuring. But the way his hand lingered on your hip, firm and grounding, made it hard to care.

The noise of the party faded as Ben guided you upstairs, his grip never loosening. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was leading. The hallway was dimly lit, the muffled sounds of pleasure and chaos still vibrating through the walls, but up here, it was quieter. More intentional.

He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. A private room, untouched by the mess below. Dark wood furniture, a massive bed, and a bar cart stocked with top-shelf liquor. This wasn’t some random guest room. It was his.

The door shut with a firm click.

You turned to face him, pulse thrumming in your ears. He stood in front of the door, watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that always made your stomach tighten.

“This your way of getting me alone?”, you asked, keeping your tone light, though your body was wound tight.

Ben smirked. “Worked, didn’t it?”.

He moved past you, grabbing a bottle from the bar, pouring himself a drink like he had all the time in the world. Like he hadn’t spent weeks chasing you down just for this moment.

You crossed your arms. “So, what now? You finally got me here. What’s the grand plan?”.

He took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of the glass. “That depends, sweetheart. You still think I’m gonna snap you in half?”.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t look away. “I think you’re reckless”.

His tongue flicked over his lower lip as he set the glass down with a soft clink. “I can be”. He took a step closer. “But not with you”.

You didn’t know if you believed that. Not fully. But the way he was looking at you now, like he was waiting for you to make the call, sent a different kind of shiver down your spine.

For weeks, he’d been pushing, teasing, hunting you down with that relentless charm. And now? Now he was giving you the choice.

Maybe it was the heat of the night, the tension that had been building between you, or maybe it was the fact that, deep down, you wanted to believe him.

Either way, when you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you intended.

“Then show me”.

Ben’s smirk deepened, but his eyes darkened with something else entirely.

Ben let out a low chuckle, sitting down and leaning back against the couch, his legs spread wide, making himself comfortable. The dim lighting cast deep shadows across his face, but his eyes, those dark green eyes, never left you.

He took another slow sip from his glass, swirling the liquid before tilting his head toward the massive mirror wall in front of him.

“Strip”, he muttered, like it was nothing. Like he was asking you to pass the remote instead of something that made heat coil low in your stomach.

You let out a dry laugh, arms still crossed. “Are you fucking kidding?”.

Ben exhaled, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, do I look like I’m kidding?”.

You glanced at the mirror. It reflected everything—the couch, the bar, the massive bed in the background. And him. Relaxed, confident, waiting.

Your heartbeat kicked up a notch.

“This what you do?”, you asked, narrowing your eyes. “Make girls put on a show while you sit there like a king?”.

Ben just smirked. “No. You’re special”.

You scoffed, but the way he said it, low and easy, sent a shiver through you. He was playing a game, pushing to see if you’d bite.

And the worst part? You kind of wanted to.

“Come on”, he coaxed, voice smooth as honey. “You been running from me for weeks. I finally get you alone, and you’re just gonna stand there?”. His gaze dropped, lazily dragging over your body like he could see through your clothes. “That’s a damn shame”.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

It wasn’t the stripping that made your breath catch—it was the watching. The fact that he wanted to sit there and just look, to make you stand in front of that mirror and see yourself the way he saw you.

Your skin burned at the thought.

Ben arched a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Scared?”.

That did it. Your chin lifted. Fuck it.

You reached for the hem of your top, gripping it tight before slowly pulling it over your head. The cool air hit your skin, but the heat in Ben’s gaze made up for it.

He didn’t say a word. Just sat there, watching. Waiting.

You swallowed hard, fingers trailing to the button of your jeans. The mirror reflected everything back at you. The rise and fall of your chest, the tension in your shoulders, the way Ben’s gaze darkened with every inch of skin you revealed.

The denim slid down your legs, pooling at your feet. You stood there, breath unsteady, heart hammering, waiting for him to say something.

Ben took his time. Finished his drink. Set the glass aside with deliberate ease. Then, finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes locking onto yours in the mirror. “There she is”, he murmured.

A startled gasp left your lips as he grabbed the waistband of your panties and yanked you back toward him. The force knocked you off balance, sending you tumbling against his lap.

“Ben—”.

The sharp sound of fabric tearing filled the air. Your breath caught. The cool air brushed against newly exposed skin, and for a split second, all you could do was stare at yourself in the mirror, eyes wide, lips parted, heart pounding.

Ben let out a low, satisfied hum, his fingers grazing over your hip where the ruined material used to be. “These were in my way”, he muttered, completely unapologetic.

Your pulse thrummed under your skin, every nerve buzzing with anticipation.

He didn’t let you go. Instead, his hands splayed wide over your waist, rough and warm, grounding you against him. The heat of his body burned through the fabric of his suit, every inch of him solid and dangerous.

Your throat went dry.

“You should see yourself”, Ben murmured, his voice dark with amusement.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He was watching you, studying the way your breath quickened, the way your skin flushed under his touch.

Cocky bastard.

“I swear, if you just ripped my underwear for no reason—”.

Ben let out a sharp laugh, fingers tightening on your waist. “For no reason?”. His grip shifted, guiding your hips down just enough for you to feel the evidence of exactly why he did it.

A small, involuntary noise caught in your throat.

“Yeah”, Ben murmured, dragging his lips against your bare shoulder, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “That’s what I thought”.

Your back was still pressed to his chest, your breath unsteady as you watched the scene play out in the mirror. His hands roamed, slow, teasing, trailing over your thighs, your waist, before moving up to the clasp of your bra.

His fingers hooked around the band, ready to undo it. But you stopped him. Your hands flew to his wrists, gripping tight.

Ben froze.

You didn’t say anything right away, just sat there, keeping his hands at bay. Your nails pressed lightly into his skin, and for the first time tonight, he actually hesitated. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His breath was warm against your shoulder. He didn’t ask why. Not at first.

Instead, he loosened his grip, his voice dropping low. “What’s wrong?”.

Your chest felt tight. You hated this. Hated that after everything, after weeks of pushing him away and finally giving in, this was the thing stopping you. But you couldn’t shake the feeling.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what kind of women Ben was used to—bombshells with perfect curves, the kind who walked into a room and commanded attention with just a glance. Women who didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink, didn’t sit here second-guessing themselves while wearing nothing but scraps of torn lace.

And you? You’d never felt like enough.

You kept your eyes on the mirror, avoiding his gaze. “It’s nothing”, you muttered, trying to shift out of his grip. “Forget it”.

Ben didn’t let you go.

His hands didn’t force, didn’t push, just stayed, steady and unyielding. “Nah”, he said, voice quieter now, rougher. “Not how this works”.

You swallowed hard. “It’s stupid”.

“I’ll be the judge of that”.

His reflection stared you down, his gaze dark, unreadable. The weight of his hands, the warmth of his body against yours, it was too much, but not enough.

You inhaled sharply, forcing the words out. “I just… I don’t exactly have a lot going on up top”. You let out a humorless laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Sorry if that’s disappointing”.

Ben was silent.

For a long, agonizing moment, you thought maybe he’d agree, maybe he’d laugh, brush it off, confirm every stupid insecurity that had ever sat heavy in your chest.

But then he exhaled sharply, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly, grounding you against him. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath warm as he let out a low, almost disbelieving chuckle. “That’s what you’re worried about?”.

You stiffened. “Forget it—”.

His hands moved, firm and slow, dragging up your sides, fingertips teasing the edge of your bra. Not pushing, just there, like he wanted you to feel how much he wasn’t letting this go.

Ben leaned in, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Sweetheart, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you since the day you rolled your eyes at me”. His fingers flexed, his palms spreading over your ribs, his touch hot against your bare skin. “You think I give a shit about size?”.

Your breath caught as his hands moved again, trailing higher, stopping just beneath your chest. Waiting.

“Y’know what I like?”, he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “That I can do this”.

His palms slid up fully, fingers spanning over your chest, covering you entirely. A low, pleased hum rumbled from his throat as he squeezed just enough to make your stomach tighten.

Your face burned.

“You fit perfectly in my hands”, he muttered, almost to himself, his thumbs stroking over sensitive skin. “Bet you never thought about that, huh?”.

Your fingers curled into his forearms, not pushing him away, but not quite pulling him closer either. “Ben—”.

“I love this”, he cut you off, his voice rough with something dark and sincere. He wasn’t teasing anymore. He wasn’t just trying to get under your skin. This was real.

He let his grip linger, let you feel how much he meant it before he finally leaned back slightly, meeting your gaze in the mirror. His hands still held you, his fingers splayed like he wanted to memorize every inch of your skin.

“Don’t ever say that shit again”, he murmured, lips curling into something wicked. “Or I’ll have to remind you every damn time”.

Your breath was unsteady, your heart pounding, but this time, when he reached for your bra clasp, you didn’t stop him. You let him.

The clasp of your bra gave way with a soft snap, the fabric slipping down your arms. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the way Ben inhaled sharply behind you.

His hands didn’t move right away. He just looked. The mirror reflected everything. The slow rise and fall of your chest, the way his rough palms framed you, the heat in his darkened gaze.

“Fuck”, he muttered under his breath, his fingers flexing over your ribs.

Your body tensed on instinct, but Ben only smirked, his lips ghosting over your shoulder. “You really thought this was a problem?”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into his wrists. “Ben—”.

He cut you off with a slow, deliberate squeeze, his thumbs brushing teasing circles over soft skin. His touch was warm, reverent, obsessive. “This?”, he muttered, dragging his lips down your neck, his hands still palming over you, like he was committing you to memory. “This is perfect”.

You exhaled shakily, heat blooming low in your stomach.

“Y’know what I like about small tits?”. Ben murmured, his voice dark and amused. He squeezed again, just enough to make your breath hitch. “They fit in my hands just right”.

Your skin burned.

“Doesn’t matter where I am”. His smirk deepened, his fingers kneading you slowly, possessively. “Like ‘em in my hands…”. He flicked his thumbs over your nipples, making your breath catch. “…in my mouth…”. His teeth grazed your neck, his tongue flicking out to soothe the bite.

A shudder wracked your spine.

Ben chuckled against your skin, smug as hell. “See? Perfect”.

Your head fell back against his shoulder, your body melting into his. His hands never left you, mapping over your skin like he was proving a damn point. And maybe he was. Maybe he was trying to erase every doubt, every insecurity, every stupid thought that had ever made you hesitate.

Because when Ben wanted something, he made damn sure it knew it belonged to him. And right now? You were his favorite fucking thing in the world.

Ben’s fingers pinched at your nipples just right. A slow, deliberate roll that sent a sharp jolt of pleasure straight down your spine. You gasped, your fingers tightening around his wrists, but you didn’t push him away. Didn’t want to.

He felt it. Knew it. And the bastard smirked.

“Now”, he muttered, his voice thick with amusement, his breath hot against your ear, “tell me again you’re fucking insecure”. His grip tightened, just enough to make you shudder. “Or that you think I don’t know my own damn strength”.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

His hands moved again, slow and confident, teasing and claiming all at once. He played you like he knew exactly what you liked, like he had all the time in the world to pull every little reaction out of you.

“You feel fragile to me?”, he pressed, his voice lower now, rougher. “You think I don’t know how to handle something precious?”.

Your heart pounded in your chest.

Ben huffed out a low, knowing laugh, his mouth brushing along the curve of your jaw. “You’re mine right now”, he murmured. “And you’re still breathing, aren’t you?”.

Your breath hitched.

“Still in one piece?”. His thumbs flicked over sensitive skin again, sending another wave of heat rolling through your body. “Still sitting pretty in my lap, letting me touch you however the fuck I want?”.

Your body answered before your mouth did, melting back against him, your hands trembling where they gripped his arms.

Ben felt it. Felt the way you caved, the way your insecurities crumbled beneath his touch, beneath the way he made you feel. He smirked against your skin, voice dark and satisfied. “Yeah”, he muttered, his lips trailing down your throat. “That’s what I thought”.

Ben let his hands linger a moment longer, squeezing just enough to make you shudder before he suddenly let go.

“Up”. His voice was rough, commanding.

Your dazed mind barely had time to process before his hands gripped your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing, setting you on your feet in front of him. Your knees wobbled slightly, the loss of his warmth making you unsteady.

Ben leaned back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the top as he looked up at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Your turn”, he muttered. He nodded toward his suit, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Undress me”.

Your pulse kicked up.

He just sat there, watching, completely at ease, like he wasn’t the one who had been chasing you down for weeks. Like this was your game to play now.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Ben huffed out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “You had all that attitude before”, he mused. “What happened to it?”. His gaze dropped, flickering over your body, slow and deliberate. “You scared to touch me?”.

Bastard.

Your fingers curled into fists before you exhaled, stepping closer, standing between his open legs. You met his gaze, refusing to let him see how much he was getting to you.

He was testing you. Fine. Two could play that game.

Your hands moved to the zipper of his suit, pulling it down slowly, savoring the way his chest rose and fell beneath your touch. You pushed the fabric aside, your palms skimming over his shoulders, dragging the heavy material down his arms.

Ben let you.

Didn’t move, didn’t help, just sat there, watching you with that smug, knowing smirk, like he was waiting to see how far you’d take it.

You tossed the suit jacket aside, your fingers moving to the hem of his undershirt next. You hesitated for half a second before gripping the fabric and peeling it upward, revealing warm, scarred skin, hard muscle that tensed beneath your touch.

His breath deepened as you pulled the shirt over his head, exposing all of him.

Your hands ghosted lower, trailing toward his belt, but before you could reach it, his fingers snapped around your wrist.

Your breath hitched. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. Deliberate. You met his gaze, heat pooling in your stomach at the way he looked up at you now, less smug, more hungry.

“You like what you see, sweetheart?”, he murmured, voice low and rough.

Your throat went dry.

Ben smirked, his grip on your wrist tightening just slightly before he pulled your hand lower, pressing it against the buckle of his belt. “Then keep going”.

Your fingers hesitated at his belt, brushing over the thick leather and cold metal buckle.

Ben’s suit was heavier than you expected, the material thick and damn near impenetrable. It had been designed for war, built to withstand anything, and right now, it felt like it was snatching him in, trapping all that raw power beneath reinforced fabric.

And you? You were about to unleash it. The thought sent a shiver through you.

Your fingers worked the belt, struggling slightly against the reinforced metal clasp. The damn thing was a box of fucking Pandora. A maze of loops, heavy-duty straps, and fastenings designed to keep everything locked in.

Ben let out a low chuckle, his voice deep and rough. “You need help, sweetheart?”.

You shot him a glare. “Shut up”.

His smirk deepened. “Cute”.

You bit your lip, focusing. With a final tug, the buckle finally gave, the belt coming undone with a satisfying snap. The weight of it made it drop heavily to the floor, the thick leather coiling at his feet.

Ben let out a slow exhale, his body relaxing slightly as the last restriction came undone.

But you weren’t finished. Your fingers moved lower, tugging at the zipper of his pants, working them open inch by inch.

You peeled the last layers away, revealing all of him, the raw strength he’d been holding back.

Ben exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders, finally free. Then, in one swift motion, his hands shot out, gripping your hips and pulling you back onto his lap. You gasped, hands bracing against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles flexed beneath your fingers.

Ben smirked up at you, his grip firm, possessive. “Now”, he murmured, voice thick with something dark and starving, “let’s see if you can handle what you just let out”.

Ben’s grip on your hips was firm, unyielding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. You barely had time to process the feeling of his bare skin against yours before your eyes drifted downward. And froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

There, pressed between your bodies, was him. Thick, heavy, straining up against his stomach, the sheer size of it making your mouth go dry.

Ben felt the way you stiffened.

His smirk curled slow and lazy, amusement flickering in his dark green eyes. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”. His voice was all gravel and heat, teasing but edged with something darker. “Didn’t think that far ahead?”.

You swallowed, words refusing to form.

Ben let out a low chuckle, his fingers tightening around your hips, dragging you just slightly closer. The motion made you feel every inch of him, heat coiling low in your stomach at the pressure of him pressing right against you.

“Cat got your tongue?”, he murmured, his lips ghosting along your jaw.

Your hands curled against his chest, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “I just…”. You trailed off, not trusting your own voice.

Ben huffed out a laugh, tilting his head to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your throat. “You just what, sweetheart?”. His teeth grazed your pulse, his grip shifting, guiding you just a little more against him. “Didn’t expect me to be packing?”.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, heat flooding through you. “I—”.

Ben smirked against your skin, his hands trailing lower, tracing the curves of your body with deliberate ease. “Relax”, he murmured, voice deep and steady. “I know what I’m doing”.

Your heart pounded, your body caught between anticipation and something dangerously close to fear.

Ben felt it. And the way his grip tightened, the way his lips dragged along your jaw with slow, teasing precision, told you he liked it. Liked knowing you were teetering on the edge. Liked knowing he was the one pushing you there.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared now”, he murmured, voice like honey and sin.

"You’re gonna hurt me", you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Ben’s smirk faltered.

You didn’t even look up at him. Your wide eyes were glued to the sheer size of him, the reality of what you were about to do slamming into you like a freight train.

"Dead by dick", you whispered, voice laced with something between panic and genuine concern.

That did it.

Ben threw his head back and laughed. A deep, full-bodied sound that rumbled through his chest and shook through you, like you had just said the funniest damn thing in the world.

Meanwhile, you were still staring at the very real problem sitting between you.

Ben’s grip on your hips tightened as his laughter died down, amusement still gleaming in his eyes as he tilted his head, studying your expression. “That what you’re worried about, sweetheart?”. His voice was lower now, teasing but edged with something softer.

You finally ripped your gaze away to glare at him. “Are you looking at this?!”. You gestured wildly, still sitting in his lap, still feeling every inch of him pressed against you. “This—this is a lot to take in, Ben”.

His smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Yeah", he muttered, his hands sliding up your waist, tracing over your ribs. "You’re tellin’ me".

You smacked his shoulder. "Not funny".

Ben only chuckled, his grip shifting as he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against the curve of your jaw once more. “I ain’t gonna hurt you”. His voice was steady, the humor slipping into something deeper. "I know what I’m doin’".

His kisses trailed lower, slow and deliberate, his hands sliding down to squeeze your thighs. But none of it, not his touch, not the heat of his body, nothing, eased the nerves building in your chest.

Ben must have noticed, because he exhaled sharply before leaning back to look at you fully.

"Sweetheart", he murmured, his smirk softening just slightly, "I told you—I don’t break my toys".

Your stomach flipped.

His hands squeezed again, firm but reassuring. "You trust me?".

You swallowed, your fingers twitching where they rested against his shoulders. Did you?

Ben had been a pain in your ass for weeks, relentless and cocky and impossible. But he had never—not once—pushed you past what you were willing to give. And right now, despite the teasing, despite the arrogance, there was something solid in his eyes.

Something real.

You exhaled shakily, still very aware of what was pressing against you, but forced yourself to meet his gaze. “…Yeah”.

Ben’s smirk returned, but this time, it was different. Darker. Hunger flickered in his eyes, but it was controlled, his grip shifting, pulling you even closer.

“Good”, he muttered, his voice like a slow drag of whiskey. His lips brushed against yours, teasing, promising.

Ben’s grip tightened around your ribs, and before you could even think, he lifted you. Effortless. Like you weighed nothing.

A startled gasp left your lips as he pulled you up, his fingers digging into your sides, his strength undeniable. You barely had time to process how easy it was for him before he settled you just above him, his hands keeping you steady, your legs straddling his hips.

“Fuck”, he muttered under his breath, his gaze dropping between your bodies, his tongue flicking over his lips in anticipation.

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts. This was real. This was happening.

His grip on you didn’t waver, his fingers spanning over your ribs, holding you in place—like he was savoring every second before taking what he wanted.

“C’mon, sweetheart”, he murmured, his voice low, edged with something dark and starving. “Line me up”.

Your stomach flipped, nerves tangling with something hotter, heavier.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

“You got this”, he murmured, teasing but genuine. “Ain’t gonna rush you”.

His lips dragged lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, his patience taunting.

But you felt him. Felt every inch of him straining beneath you, hot and heavy, his body coiled tight as he waited. Waited for you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached between your bodies, your fingers brushing over the heat of him. Ben sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his grip flexing on your ribs.

“There you go”, he murmured, his voice rough. His tongue flicked over his lower lip again, hunger flashing across his face.

Your fingers tightened, positioning him just right. Ben exhaled sharply, his hands tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable. “Now, sweetheart”, he murmured, his voice thick with anticipation, “take your time—but don’t make me wait too long”.

You sucked in a breath as you slowly, so slowly, sank down onto him.

Ben’s fingers dug into your ribs, his grip tightening just slightly, like he was forcing himself to stay still, to let you take your time. His chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths, but his eyes, fuck, his eyes, told a different story. Dark. Blown wide. Ravenous. He didn’t just watch, he devoured every second.

His gaze flickered between the tiny, involuntary wiggle of your breasts, the way your lips parted in a silent gasp, down to where your bodies were finally connecting.

A sharp inhale hissed through his teeth, his jaw clenching as he felt you take him in.

Fuck. Ben had almost forgotten how good a human felt. How much better it was. Way better than any supe. No unnatural strength, no engineered enhancements, just raw, real heat. Tighter. Warmer. Squeezing him in a way he hadn’t felt in decades.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, his head tilting back for just a second before his gaze snapped back to you. “Fuckin’ shit”, he muttered, his voice strained. His fingers flexed against your ribs, grounding himself, his usual cocky confidence flickering into something rougher. “You—fuck”.

Your breath hitched, your hands bracing against his chest as you took more of him, inch by inch, stretching way more than you were used to.

Ben noticed. He felt it. The way you squeezed around him, the way your body fought to adjust, the way your breath trembled against his skin.

And fuck, if that didn’t drive him insane. His eyes dragged back down, watching the way you took him in, watching himself disappear into you. His smirk wavered, his lips parting as his grip tightened.

“Takin’ me so slow”, he muttered, his voice rough. His hands flexed again, resisting the urge to help, to pull you down the rest of the way. “You scared, sweetheart?”.

Your nails bit into his skin. “You’re big, Ben—”.

A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, but there was no teasing in it—just pure satisfaction. “Yeah”, he muttered, dragging his lips against your throat. “And you’re takin’ every inch of me”.

His breath shuddered as you slid down another inch, his head falling back, his fingers twitching against your skin. His control was hanging by a damn thread.

“Goddamn”, he groaned, his voice rough and wrecked, his lips curling against your skin. “You feel so fuckin’ good”.

His hands squeezed tighter, his chest heaving, his body fighting not to move.

Your breath came in short, uneven bursts, your body trembling as you tried to take the last few inches of him. But you couldn’t. You were already shaking around him, stretched beyond anything you’d ever taken before, your thighs burning from the slow, agonizing pace.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, sweetheart”, he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Your nails pressed into his shoulders, frustration warring with pleasure. “Ben, I—”.

“I know”, he cut you off, his hands trailing higher.

And then, without warning, he moved. Not pushing you down. Instead, he shifted his grip, his warm, calloused hands cupping your breasts, fingers splaying wide as he took his time feeling every inch of you.

A deep, satisfied hum rumbled in his throat. “Fuck”, he muttered, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin, teasing just enough to make you shiver. “Look at these perfect little things”.

Heat crawled up your spine. “Ben—”.

“I fucking love ‘em”, he rasped, his lips trailing over your collarbone, dragging wet kisses along the curve of your neck. “Love how they fit in my hands”.

His thumbs flicked over your nipples, slow and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you. His mouth trailing lower, his lips ghosting over your chest. “Bet you never had someone pay ‘em enough attention, huh?”.

Your fingers curled into his hair. “Ben—”.

“Mm”. His tongue flicked over sensitive skin, teasing, savoring, worshipping. “That’s a damn shame”.

He sucked at one of your nipples, rolling the other between his fingers, a deep groan vibrating against your skin as he felt the way your body reacted.

You gasped, your thighs trembling around his hips, the sensation making your body clench tighter around him.

Ben felt it. His breath shuddered. His fingers dug into your waist. And suddenly, his patience snapped. His hands grabbed your hips, his grip firm, possessive. “No more holdin’ back”, he muttered, his voice dark with hunger. His lips curled against your skin, his eyes flickering up, dark and wild. “Let me in”.

He’d been patient. Too patient. Letting you take your time, letting you adjust. But now? Now he knew you were ready. And Ben didn’t wait for permission when he already had what he wanted.

He pulled you down the rest of the way.

A strangled gasp left your lips as the last few inches finally stretched you fully, your body molding around him, taking all of him.

Ben groaned against your skin, his hands flexing on your waist, holding you still for a moment, forcing you to feel every inch of him, completely buried inside you. “Fuck”, he muttered, his voice strained, head tilting back, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ it”.

Your nails bit into his shoulders, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as your body struggled to adjust, full in a way that made your head spin.

Ben felt it. Felt the way your body squeezed him, hot and tight and fucking perfect. He gritted his teeth, his cocky smirk wavering as he exhaled sharply, his restraint snapping like a thread stretched too thin.

His hands moved. One slid up your back, gripping the nape of your neck, tilting your head just enough for him to claim your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss, his other hand still holding your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His hips rolled up, slow at first, teasing, taunting.

Your body shook, your fingers fisting in his hair as he pulled you down harder, making you take all of it.

Ben groaned, his smirk returning, dark and wicked against your lips. “Knew you could take it”, he muttered, his voice gravelly, dripping with satisfaction.

“You’re mine now, sweetheart”, he growled, his lips trailing down your throat, his teeth grazing over sensitive skin. “And I’m gonna ruin you”.

He gripped you tighter, and before you could react, he moved. In one fluid motion, he rolled you onto your back, pressing you into the couch, his body towering over you. He settled between your legs, his weight pinning you in place, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

He caught your chin between his fingers, his grip firm, commanding. “Look”, he muttered, his voice dark and rough as he turned your head toward the massive mirror against the wall.

Your dazed reflection stared back at you—your body flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, your thighs spread wide with Ben’s body pressing between them.

And him.

His broad chest, the way his muscles flexed with every movement, the raw, unrestrained power in the way he hovered over you, owning every inch of your body.

Ben grinned at the sight, his gaze flickering between the mirror and you, watching as realization dawned in your wide, lust-drunk eyes. “That’s a fuckin’ view”, he muttered, licking his lips, his grip on your jaw tightening just slightly. “See how good you look wrapped around me?”.

You swallowed hard, your breath shuddering, your body still adjusting to the fullness of him.

His hand trailed from your jaw, gliding down your throat, his fingers grazing your collarbone before finally settling over your chest. His smirk deepened.

Ben's lips trailed down your throat before settling on your chest. He took his time there, worshiping every inch of you. Kissing, sucking, dragging his tongue over sensitive skin, as though this was what he’d been chasing all along.

His hips didn’t stop.

The deep, rolling rhythm he set was unrelenting. Slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, deep enough to knock the air from your lungs. Your legs trembled, spread wide beneath his body, your fingers tangled in his hair as he moved lower, his mouth catching one of your nipples between his lips.

Your back arched off the couch. “Ben—”.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as his hips rolled again, hitting a spot that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“Yeah”, he muttered, pulling back just enough to drag his teeth lightly across your skin. “That’s it. That’s what I want”. He wanted your shaking thighs, your gasps, your complete surrender. And he got it.

Your body began to coil, tension building so fast it was nearly unbearable. Every thrust, every flick of his tongue, every growled praise in your ear pushed you closer to the edge.

The mirror reflected all of it. His broad body moving above yours, the sweat-slick curve of your stomach, your eyes half-lidded in bliss and disbelief.

You weren’t running from him anymore. You were falling into him. “Ben—oh my—”.

Your whole body locked up beneath him as the pressure finally snapped. Your climax hit hard, a wave that rocked through you with such intensity you couldn’t even find your voice. Just breathless, broken gasps as your body writhed beneath his.

Ben didn’t slow. He watched you fall apart in the mirror, his mouth still dragging hot kisses across your chest, his voice low and rough.

“Just like that, sweetheart”, he murmured, dragging his lips across your collarbone, hips still grinding deep. “You feel that?”. He thrust once, deep and slow, sending aftershocks rolling through you. “That’s what you were made for”.

Ben didn’t stop. Not after your first climax. Not after the second. He kept going. His stamina was inhuman—because, well, he was. And for the next hour… then another… he had you beneath him, stretched out across that damn couch like his personal plaything.

You lost track of time somewhere between the heat of his skin and the way he never let you fully recover. Every time your body started to come down, he found a new angle, a new rhythm, a new way to push you higher.

By the time your body started to shake from exhaustion, your mind fogged, your limbs barely responding, you could barely form words. Your head lolled to the side, cheek pressed against the warm cushion, lips parted as you tried to catch a breath that never fully came.

Ben was still above you, chest gleaming with sweat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

He leaned down, dragging his mouth along your collarbone before whispering against your ear with that low, cocky rumble: “Shit, sweetheart… didn’t think you’d last this long”.

You tried to glare at him, but it came out more like a whimper.

“Two hours”, he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “And you’re still here, all fucked out and twitchy under me”.

His hand moved slowly over your chest again, he never seemed to get tired of that. Fingers splaying, palm covering one breast completely like it was molded to fit him.

He let out a low, satisfied hum. “Look at this”, he muttered, mostly to himself, brushing his thumb over your nipple, now too sensitive to do more than make your breath catch. “Fuck, I don’t know how anyone looks at these little tits and doesn’t lose their fuckin’ mind”.

You groaned softly, too tired to push him away, too drunk on the feeling to really want to.

“These days, girls always got these big, overinflated knockers”, Ben said with a lazy grin, clearly riding a post-orgasm high of his own. “Fake, heavy… all show, no fun”.

His other hand moved in, cupping the other breast, giving both the kind of reverent attention that made your overstimulated body spark again despite the exhaustion.

“But you?”, he said, voice dipping low, rough with affection wrapped in his usual arrogance. “You fit right in my hands. Cute, soft, fuckin’ perfect”.

You whimpered, cheeks burning, eyes barely able to stay open, but your body still arched for him, still craved the contact.

He chuckled darkly, leaning down again to brush a kiss between your breasts, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. “Tiny tits”, he murmured, “but you took me like a fuckin’ warrior”.

His eyes met yours, lazy and smug but with something real beneath the heat. “You got no idea what you do to me, do you?”.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice had long since given out.

Ben just smirked. Pressed another kiss to your chest. Then one to your jaw. And pulled you tighter against him like you were the prize he’d been fighting for.

Ben let you rest against him for a while. Your body wrecked, boneless, your skin slick and glowing from every place he’d touched. His breathing was calm. Yours was ragged.

Eventually, you stirred just enough to shift, your cheek brushing against his shoulder. For a second, the silence between you almost felt… peaceful.

But Ben wasn’t built for peace. “Damn”, he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t think you had that in you”.

His hand slipped from your waist and dragged through his hair, still damp with sweat. He looked down at you. Not with softness, but with a kind of impressed detachment. Like a soldier admiring the aftermath of a well-executed mission. “Guess you’re more than just a mouthy little assistant after all”.

There it was—him.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. You were half-asleep, still trying to figure out if your legs remembered how to work.

Ben stood, stretching with a grunt, his muscles rolling beneath his skin. He didn’t help you up. Didn’t ask how you were feeling. He just grabbed the nearest towel from the dresser, wiped himself down like he’d just finished a workout, then reached for what was left of his gear.

“You’ll be fine”, he said, voice flat now, all business. “Just don’t pass out here. That’d be embarrassing for both of us”.

You rolled your eyes, dragging in a shaky breath as you tried to push yourself upright. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest, your legs barely responding, like they weren’t entirely convinced the night was over.

“Yeah, yeah…”, you muttered, voice hoarse. “I’ll be out of your way in a sec”.

You stood—or tried to. Your knees buckled almost immediately, the room tilting on its axis as your balance gave out.

Before you could hit the floor, his strong arm snapped out and caught you by the waist, hauling you up with the same ease he’d thrown you around for the last two hours.

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief.

Ben just raised an eyebrow, smirking down at you like it was all part of the show. “Geez”, he muttered. “Didn’t think I actually rearranged your spine”.

You glared, weakly. “Asshole”.

He helped you steady yourself, but only just long enough to make sure you weren’t about to faceplant into the carpet, then let go like it never happened.

Ben grabbed his last piece of gear and headed for the door. But just before he stepped out, he turned slightly, looking at you over his shoulder. “That mouth of yours better be just as sharp tomorrow”, he said, the corner of his lip curling. “Wouldn’t want you getting soft on me now”.

Then he was gone. No goodbye. No look back.

Just the silence of the room, the ache in your bones, and the echo of his boots down the hall, leaving you with nothing but a ruined couch, shaky legs, and the knowledge that whatever just happened?

It was very Soldier Boy. And it was never happening again…Probably.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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[kerosenee-kisses]

Friend You Can Keep | Zayne

summary: while preparing for final exams, you ask Zayne if you can study his anatomy lol

cw: 18+, mdni, college au, afab reader, loss of virginity, oral sex (receiving), vaginal sex, fingering, lots of kissing, this is literally just self-indeulgent love-making

wc: 3.7k

a/n: I started playing lads a few weeks ago after a lot of resistance (I'm afraid of spending money on them!!) I started playing for Sylus but Zayne really came out of nowhere and assumed the role of my husband. I'm obsessed with him!!

In my mind, I wrote this with a five-ish year age gap between Zayne and reader (reader a freshman/sophmore in college, Zayne in the first years of med school). That isn't explicitly stated here so choose your own adventure. I'm also of the opinion that Zayne would make sweet, sweet love to you to the soundtrack of true yearner R&B. Just me?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Songs from your favorite R&B playlist emanate from your roommate’s speaker. You thought listening to the calm crooning from the nest of pillows and blankets that is your bed would help you study. But the music is more effective at lulling you to sleep, as are the sparkling fairy lights strung around the room’s perimeter. Maybe you should suck it up and turn the horrendous, overhead fluorescent lights on for this. Because the words in your textbook swim together the longer you try to focus on retaining them.  

You rub your eyes hard; flashes of color undulate in the darkness of your closed eyelids beneath the pressure of your fingertips. When you open them again, somehow, the words rearrange themselves even more chaotically. It’s like looking for a prophecy in a bowl of alphabet soup. 

“Is it possible I have late-stage dyslexia? Is that a thing?” you ask. 

Zayne chuckles from his place at your desk. “I believe that’s an indication that you need a short break. And right on time, too.” 

The timer on his phone goes off then, which he shuts off before it can complete one full blare of sound. He opens the desk drawer and takes out two candies. One for each of you.  

“A reward for our diligence,” he says as he deposits a sweet into your hand.  

“What? Where did these come from?” you ask as you unravel the foil wrapper. Candy didn’t survive in your dorm room long enough for you to have a stash to dip into for emergencies like today. 

You have two more finals to study for before you can officially begin a much-deserved winter break. Your roommate had been your study buddy up until her first and only final yesterday. She left for home immediately after she’d submitted her exam, having decided that the papers assigned could easily be completed from the comfort of her own home. And while you were so happy for her and not at all jealous, it meant you were short a study buddy.  

But Zayne, always dependable, offered to swing by and study with you when you’d met up for lunch earlier and bemoaned the fact that you would have to stay focused all by yourself. A herculean task if there ever was one.  

“I managed to hide them while you were fiddling with the speaker. Otherwise, I doubt they would have survived more than ten minutes had you seen them.” 

“Don’t be a hypocrite. Your sweet tooth can be just as bad,” you say. 

You observe Zayne as he delicately pops his candy into his mouth, pushes his glasses back up, and continues to study through your break. He has some biochem final to prepare for. While he had told you he felt more than prepared for it before your complaints about being abandoned, he’s sitting here reviewing alongside you all the same. Your heart warms at how thoughtful he is. Sure, he loves to help everyone, but he always goes out of his way for you. Does he go out of his way for anyone other than you? You're too curious.  

So curious, in fact, that you ask without thinking, “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Or someone you’re kinda into?” 

Zayne blinks at you, slow and deliberate like a house cat, then shakes his head. Embarrassment and relief coalesce in your stomach. In an ideal world, you would shut the fuck up and go back to studying too. 

But like the glutton for punishment that you are, you sit up on your knees and keep talking. 

"Oh, ok. Good. Well, not good as in you should die alone but good in the sense that...well...You know what, can I ask you something without you freaking out? Like, you have to promise not to.” 

Zayne swivels in the desk chair. A gift from him to you actually. Ergonomic and expensive, he’d replaced the standard rocking chair that the room was originally furnished with since he was concerned about the health of your spine as your future primary care physician.  

Once he’s facing you completely, he says, “I would prefer not to promise something if I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to follow through. That would not be fair to you.” 

“You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. You're always calm anyway so I have nothing to worry about. I think.” 

Zayne watches you expectantly as you reach for a plushie to hold. Your mouth feels dry now that his attention’s on you. You’re not sure why you feel so nervous, he normally goes along with your schemes. This won’t be so different, right?” 

“So, I was wondering if maybe you’d be...willing to have sex with me?” The words leave you in one breath. 

Zayne stares at you blankly. You might have successfully broken the most collected person you know.  

“Zayne? Did you hear me? I said would you–” 

“I heard you the first time,” he says. His expression hardly betrays anything, but color spreads across his face, up his ears. If he didn’t have a turtleneck on you imagine his neck would be just as pink. “I apologize. I’m a bit taken aback. I certainly didn’t expect that to be your question.” 

“It’s just feels like everyone my age has lost their virginity already. Obviously, I don’t need to have sex, but I’m intrigued, I guess.  And I don’t want to do it with just anyone. And you’re not just anyone so–” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I want to make absolute sure I’m understanding you correctly.” He clears his throat before asking, “You want me to take your virginity?” 

You hug the plushie for dear life. “Well, yeah. You would be my first.”  

Zayne takes a deep breath. You begin to worry about the state of his heart the longer you sit in silence. Because your own is pumping so hard you fear you’ll succumb to cardiac arrest if you’re lucky. Or maybe the earth will miraculously swallow you whole before that happens. You’ll even accept death by wanderer if it means escaping this conversation. 

“May I ask why you wish to lose your virginity to me?”  

Not a flat-out rejection. You can shelf the death wishes for now. 

“Since you’re basically a doctor you know all about anatomy; safe to assume you know how it goes. And you’re hot so...why not?” 

Zayne averts his gaze at your blunt assessment, and you can’t help but tease him a little.  

“I thought we were working on accepting compliments.” 

Zayne smiles faintly but still refuses to face you, “I have to say when it comes to accepting compliments, I’m not very good in front of you. But I suppose there’s a chance for you to teach me.” 

“First lesson starts now. All you have to do is say ‘thank you’ or something.” 

Your breath hitches when his eyes meet yours again. He’s caught you in his gentle yet captivating green gaze. In it, you see acknowledgment of what your relationship to each other could be. A desire to explore a new dimension of intimacy, one that goes beyond childhood friendship. 

“I accept your compliment,” Zayne murmurs. His eyes drift to your slightly parted lips and you feel your skin prickle. 

“This will be an opportunity to learn each other’s bodies together,” he says, almost distracted. He plucks the plushie from your grasp and carefully places it on the back-killing rocking chair beside your desk. “I only hope I can measure up to your expectations." 

“Oh. Ok,” you manage to whisper. You didn’t think he would say no per say, but considering his immediate response you expected a little more resistance to the idea than this. And now you feel nervous, more than you had anticipated. This was your idea after all. 

You go to remove your pajama bottoms, a seemingly imperceptible shake in your hands. But of course, nothing gets past Zayne. He stops you with a reassuring squeeze on your thigh.  

“There’s no rush. This requires ample preparation. I would never want to hurt you,” he says, caresses the hinge of your knee. “Just, let me kiss you for a bit. Like this.” 

Zayne brings the chair up to the edge of your twin xl and gives you a sweet peck. He gives you a few more before he brushes his lips against yours. You follow his lead, revel in the plush feel of his mouth as he kisses you. He rubs his palms along your thighs, squeezing them every so often. His tender touches embolden you as much as they relax you. You hesitantly touch your tongue to his bottom lip and Zayne moans into your mouth. The vibrations of such a gentle yet erotic sound travel through your whole body. You cup his cheeks to pull him closer, and Zayne gladly follows. He rises to his feet and crowds you into the corner of the bed until you’re on your back. He kisses you so thoroughly that you can taste the lingering sweetness of candy on his tongue when he licks into your mouth.  

You slip one hand under his sweater, trace the ridges of his tight abdomen, no doubt the result of all those pull ups he does on the rare occasion you work out together. Zayne’s breath shudders against your mouth and you shiver in response. His receptiveness to your touch makes you desperate to feel even more of him. You grab the hem of his turtleneck and yank it upwards. He pulls away, reluctantly you think, grabs the shirt from between his shoulder blades and tugs it off. The action leaves his glasses askew and you remove them from his face with a giggle. 

“I hope they’re not messed up now,” you say as you carefully put the lenses on yourself. They blur your vision some, but you clearly see Zayne swallow thickly when you smile up at him.  

“I have an extra pair,” he says breathlessly before he removes them and goes right back to kiss you. More of his warmth seeps into you now that he removed his sweater. He presses his thundering chest against yours, and the delicious weight of him renders you pliant beneath him. You smooth your hands along the muscled plains of his back and moan. You can’t think straight in the face of such overwhelming affection. He hasn’t even touched you yet, really, and you already feel so ready for more.  

But for some reason, a pang of guilt lances through your gut. Did you pressure Zayne into this? Are you taking advantage of his goodness, his kindness? You said it yourself, he goes above and beyond for you in all things. You would never forgive yourself if you ever made him do something he didn’t want to.  

“Wait,” you say, and weakly push at his chest.  A gossamer thread of your saliva stretches between both your lips, and your thoughts empty out of your head for a moment. Zayne’s eyes are as unfocused as yours as he looks down at you, cushioned in your fluffy pillows. 

“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” you ask quietly. 

Zayne takes hold of one of your wrists to drop a kiss to your palm that you feel in your clit. Does he want to kill you? 

“Why don’t you touch me and find out.” 

He most certainly does.  

You gasp when he guides your hand to his hardened length. The fact that you could do this to him with just a few kisses turns you on immensely, makes you feel powerful. You squeeze him gently and he groans. You flick the button of his pants free, but he stops your second attempt at undressing before you can even yank his zipper down. 

“Let me take what I desire first,” he says.  

Zayne carefully unbuttons your pajama top, until your chest is fully exposed to him. You sit up slightly to remove it, and no sooner is it off than Zayne starts to knead and kiss at your breasts. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and you arch into him, mewling at the spike of pleasure that zings through you. He licks and teases it into a stiffened peak while he pinches and rolls the other between his fingers.  

Once your nipples are wet and taut from his ministrations, Zayne trails deep kisses down the center of your spasming stomach. He grasps the waistband of your pants and tugs them down along with your underwear.  

While most guys would look at you with lust clouding their gaze, Zayne looks at your naked body like he loves it. It’s enough to make you feel sheepish.  

Zayne fits his broad shoulders beneath your slightly spread thighs and puts his mouth to your dripping core. You’re so stunned by the sight of his head between your legs that your brain goes fuzzy. Obviously, no one has kissed you here before. But you’d still be inclined to say that even if the opposite were true. Zayne full on makes out with your pussy. He licks and sucks at your clit with the sole purpose of making you cum hard. And your entire body sings with ecstasy.  

He eases his index finger inside of your wet heat and you whimper at the intrusion. He searches for that spongy patch inside of you that has your back surging upward. Zayne coaxes more of your arousal out of you with his tongue on your clit and his finger massaging the soft walls of your cunt. You feel strange, like you need release, but you’re almost terrified. Your thighs close around Zayne’s head and he groans into your sex. The sound vibrates through you until you’re a quivering mess. 

Zayne blindly reaches for one of your hands and squeezes. He licks and kisses you as you cum on his beautiful face with a loud cry of his name. He laps up as much of your essence as he can, and you twitch and whine all the while. 

Your back falls onto the mattress once you come down from your high, the first orgasm that someone else has ever given you. You lift yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him. He kisses your thighs, your hip bones, back up along your stomach so earnestly. 

 Zayne settles himself over you again and now pumps two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. They curl against your sweet spot with the skill and precision of a surgeon, and you moan his name. When his thumb swipes at your clit you cum for him again, still so sensitive from your last climax. He kisses you through it. The taste of yourself is a little strange, but you don’t hate it. You deepen the kiss as you cum around his fingers. You didn’t think you could cum again so quickly, but Zayne is nothing if not efficient.  

He removes his fingers from you so he can lay in between your twitching thighs. He rolls his clothed hips into your bare ones, and you meet his thrusts readily. The friction of his pants against your clit makes you feel delirious. Enough to remember what you had first asked of him.  

“Zayne,” you sigh as he moves to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Do you have a condom?” 

He exhales against your ear; you just barely hold in a whimper. 

“No, unfortunately. I haven’t had a need for them before now…I suppose we’ll have to reschedule,” he says, but makes no move to pull away from you.  

“No! It’s ok!” You wince at your frantic tone. Way to go, Desperate. “I, um, grabbed a handful from the resource center before you came here. They’re in my bag.” 

While he had thoughtfully replenished your stash of candy, you had shoveled way too many condoms into your backpack only an hour after your lunch date with him. Now he’ll probably think you're some sex-crazed degenerate or something. How embarrassing. 

Regardless, you feel a teeny, tiny thrill at the knowledge that he doesn’t have any on him.  

Zayne nods, presses one lingering kiss to your lips and goes to retrieve a condom from your backpack. You feel even more embarrassed when he returns with one embossed with a heart and the words ‘wrap it before you tap it.’ He doesn’t seem to pay much attention to that, however. Zayne removes his pants and his boxer briefs. His hard cock springs up against his abs and your mouth waters at the sight of it. Long and flushed and too pretty, you think. He settles back into bed, kneels in between your spread legs and tears the wrapper open.  

You watch, wide eyed, as he rolls the latex over the glistening head and down the length of his cock. He lines himself up with your stretched entrance and makes eye contact with you. Despite the heat pulsing through your veins, you shiver. This does not go unnoticed.  

“Anxious?” Zayne asks. He runs his fingers up and down your arm. Slow touches that soothe your frayed nerves. A reassurance, a reminder that he won’t let you feel anything you wouldn’t absolutely enjoy.   

“Only a little,” you admit, “but I trust you more than anyone, so I think I’m more excited than anything.” 

Zayne smiles down at you, small and sweet. You feel even more shy now.  

“You know we can stop at any time,” he says even though his cock is straining against the condom. “You need only tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” 

You place a hand on his smooth cheek and smile up at him. His breath leaves him on a shaky exhale.  

“I know that Zayne. Thank you. But I think I’m ready now.”  

There’s a slight discomfort. A foreign pressure, a pinch, that he lets you acclimate to. There’s so much tension in his body as a result. You can’t help but feel endeared by how considerate he is of you always. Especially now.  

He places his palm on your belly, and you jolt.  

“Try to relax your muscles,” he says. 

You slow your breaths, try to do as he says until the fullness of his cock feels less invasive, almost comforting. You focus on the intimacy of this moment, of your bodies connecting. Of him being the first person to ever give you pleasure of any kind.  

“Mmm, good, just like that,” he groans. Who knew a voice could get you so hot. And not just his voice, those green eyes of his. He stares down at you so intensely you feel like you’ll melt into a puddle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask meekly.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.  

You hide your face behind your hands and whine for him to stop. Zayne laughs lowly and pulls your hands away. 

“You helped me accept a compliment earlier,” he says, kisses one wrist. “And even teased me for being nervous.” A kiss to the other. He rests them on the back of his neck and regards you with an almost mischievous smile. 

“Now it’s my turn to return the favor. Say ‘thank you’.” 

Your chest is heaving. You can’t believe how seductive he’s being. And so effortlessly, too. Where did this side of him come from?  

He lowers his face into your neck and all the air in the room vanishes when he kisses it.   

“Won’t you accept my compliment? Or should I continue to tell you how lovely I find you? Say that your beauty is beyond measure? That you are my greatest treasure.”  

Zayne lightly sucks on your pulse point. How does he expect you to speak? You can hardly function as is. 

“I’m not as patient as you think I am.” He nips at your neck, and you tense up.  

“Thank you!” you yelp. 

You feel his lips pull into a grin. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Or should I give you more compliments so you can practice?” 

“Y-you can move now!”  

Zayne kisses under your ear before he pulls his hips back and slowly grinds into you. His pelvis meets your sticky clit every time your bodies meet. He thrusts into you until your moans and sighs fill the humid air between you both. 

You experimentally squeeze around his cock as he pulls away from you and he moans in concert with you.  

“Did you want to see my like this?” he asks, voice hoarse as his cock pushes deeper into you. You arch up against him, your nipples grazing his chest. Zayne dips his head to take one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth again, sucking and biting at it affectionately. You wrap your legs around his trim waist and try to pull him even closer to you. He’s making you feel so good that you can hardly stand it. All you can focus on is Zayne. The way he fits so perfectly between your legs, the feel of his biceps under your hands. His crisp, clean scent sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You want even more of him.  

You bury your hands in his hair, thick silk between your fingers, and tug. Zayne pulls off your breast with a wet pop and kisses you. He plasters his chest to yours as he rolls his hips into you. Your walls tighten up around him and he grits out your name. He wraps his arms around your waist tight and fucks into you so deep that you swear you see stars. So bright that you clench your eyes shut as pleasure takes hold of your whole body. It’s an ecstasy like no other.  

“I love you, Zayne. I love you,” you babble mindlessly as you cum harder than before. 

Zayne moans and ruts into your body erratically, desperately, until he seizes up and cums with you. Maybe you’re too caught up in the romantic atmosphere you accidentally created– sultry love ballads and low lighting–but you almost wish he had painted your walls instead of the condom.  

He looks ethereal as pleasure contorts and relaxes his features, his muscles. Zayne takes your face between his hands and kisses you hungrily. Like he’ll never have another opportunity to. You’ll make damn sure that’s not the case.  

"I adore you,” he says before he steals another kiss and your breath along with it. You both grip and pull at the other as if you could get any closer. You want to nestle in the marrow of his bones, dwell in the cavern of his heart. 

“I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you whisper between kisses. 

“I have always been yours. Only ever yours.” 

[angelsuecult]

the captain | s. crosby

warnings: sexual content, strong language, MDNI, 18+, NSFW, minors please do no interact, smut.

summary: Sid is given a hard time by his gf about his very stoic interactions with the media. he's not going to let you off so easy.

request: Younger reader and Sidney are already dating, but she can’t help but roll her eyes at his impeccable media training and family friendly personality in the media he does for the league, so she makes fun of him and takes a strong interest in pushing his limits 👀 (aka ends in smut)

word count: 6.3k

a/n: sorry for the extended hiatus guys! i should be back to regular uploads at this point in time and i am currently working through the request list! more to come to keep your eyes peeled guys! thank you for your patience with me! angelsuecult returns!! also to the original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if i completely missed the mark on this and you want me to retry! and requests are still open and update so dont forget to check that out!

--

You’re pretty sure Valentine’s Day games are a scam. Some cruel cosmic joke designed to make girlfriends sit through 60 minutes of freezing cold air and overpriced concessions just to watch their man play his heart out in a sport that could, at any moment, take all his teeth and potentially a limb.  

Not that you minded. Much.  

Sidney had played his ass off tonight—like he had something to prove. Not that he ever really didn’t, because the man didn’t know how to do anything half-assed. Especially not when it came to hockey. Or you, for that matter.  

But of course, it just had to be Valentine’s Day.

You stood now in the tunnel by the player’s exit, phone in hand, watching as Penguins fans in Crosby jerseys flooded toward the concourse, buzzing about the win. Your fingers flew over your screen.  

You: You know I was going to blow you when you got home, but I’m reconsidering because you just had to make it about you tonight.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then vanished. Then nothing.  

You rolled your eyes and snorted. “Coward.”  

The man had just been named first fucking star of the game. Of course he had. Two goals, one assist, and a faceoff win percentage so sexy it made you squirm a little. You knew his media obligations were kicking off soon—he was probably just peeling his sweaty gear off now, miserable about the idea of answering questions about “how it felt” and “what went right tonight.”  

Sid: Can’t believe you’re texting me shit like that while I have to sit half dressed with 5 cameras pointed at me.

You bit your lip and grinned.  

You: I can. 

You: You looked good tonight. Real good. Like I’d let you put it in my ass kind of good.  

You: Kidding. Kind of.  

Another pause. He was slow replying, which you’d expected, and it only made you smirk more knowing he was probably trying not to react in front of his teammates or, worse, the media guys. You could practically see his jaw tightening as he tried to suppress a smile, annoyed but secretly delighted.  

You could picture him already—still in his gear, slumped at his stall with his towel around his neck and that half-annoyed, half-resigned expression on his face. Someone probably tossed a mic in his face already. He was probably giving them that polite nod, the “Sure, go ahead” look, all while internally screaming. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Too private for his own good.

Sid: Go to my place. I’ll be done soon.

Sid: Stop texting me this shit.

You laughed out loud, drawing a glance from a nearby couple as you stepped out into the cold Pittsburgh night.

You: Oh baby, I haven’t even started.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your bed.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your shower.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in that stupid jersey you “don’t like me wearing because you take it seriously.”  

You could practically hear him groaning through the screen.

Sid: You’re an asshole.

Sid: Say the same shit every time anyway.

Sid: “Good team effort, got the bounces, lucky to come out on top.”

Sid: Happy now?

You: You forgot “credit to the guys” and “just trying to play the right way”

You: Gotta hit all the NHL buzzword bingo squares.

You: And don’t forget to smile like a humble Canadian virgin!

No reply. You let that one simmer. He was either suffering or plotting. Maybe both. Probably both.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in front of your face as you made your way to your car. The wind cut through your jeans, but your smile stayed in place. There was something so satisfying about teasing him after a big win—especially when he hated the attention but couldn’t stop being the best guy on the ice. You just couldn’t help yourself.

You got in the car and cranked the heat while pulling up the radio broadcast. They were still recapping the game, gushing over Sid like he wasn’t just a man who’d once tripped over his own shoe in the hallway.

“…and of course, Crosby with a textbook finish. You can see why he’s still one of the most consistent players in the league…”

You rolled your eyes, mimicking the voice in the car. “Oh yes, Sidney. So clean. So polished. Such a gentleman. Definitely didn’t say he was going to fuck me through the headboard if he scored tonight.”

Traffic cleared slowly as you went to his place, a familiar route etched into your brain. His street was quiet when you pulled in—classic Sid, all understated wealth and privacy. It took you forty five minutes to get from the arena to his house, another five to park and kick off your shoes inside the door.  It smelled like him—like clean laundry, cedarwood, and that subtle vanilla scent of his shampoo you’d teased him for using but secretly loved.

You wandered through his halls, turning on a few lights, getting cozy. It always felt familiar here, even though it was very clearly his space—clean, functional. Like a guy who didn’t like clutter but had more money than he knew what to do with.

You padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Full of ingredients. Not a single thing you could just grab and go.

“Romantic,” you muttered under your breath, pulling out a container of strawberries instead and wandering toward the couch.

The rest of the house was dark except for the hallway light, left on for you, and your socked feet were silent on the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The hallway was chilly as you padded toward the bedroom in your socks, carrying the half-eaten strawberries and your phone tucked beneath your arm. Sid’s place had that always-too-clean look to it. Like he tried to live in it, but barely spent enough time home for it to actually look lived in. You made a note to mess it up later. Nothing too dramatic—just a sweatshirt on the floor, maybe a bra hanging off the couch cushion, leave a cup on the counter. Domestic terrorism.

You tossed your phone on the nightstand and peeled off your jacket, fingers brushing over the remote on the dresser.  

TV on.  

Pants off.  

You were in his bed now, wearing his shirt—an old Penguins one that smelled like his laundry detergent and game day nerves—and absolutely nothing underneath.  

Just as God intended.  

The analysts were falling over themselves about his performance.

“…you know what you’re getting with Sid. Every single night. Discipline. Poise. He’s just got it.” You snorted.

“Yeah, discipline until he’s got me pinned under him telling me I’m not going anywhere until I apologize for teasing him about his ‘media voice.’”

Another buzz from your phone.  

Sid: About to start media. They’re dragging it out tonight.  

Sid: You’re lucky I like you.  

Sid: And that I want to fuck you stupid.  

You choked on your laugh, clutching your phone tighter as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers onto his shirt. You stretched dramatically across the bed and typed.  

You: Wow. Romantic.  

You: Just like I dreamed when I was 10.  

You: “One day I’ll date a hockey player who talks to me like a caveman on Valentine’s Day.”

Sid: Don’t act like you don’t like it. You’re already naked, aren’t you?

You: You’re not even here yet and you already think you know everything.  

Sid: I do know everything. And I know you’re wearing my shirt. And that’s it.  

Sid: Because you’re predictable. And a little slutty.

You covered your face with one hand and laughed out loud into the empty room. Your heart fluttered like a fucking schoolgirl even as you cursed him out in your mind.  

There was something wildly unfair about the duality of Sidney Crosby. The version the world knew—stoic, polite, humble to the point of parody. And then the real version. The one who texted you filthy things from the dressing room and called you a brat with that low rasp in his voice that promised you wouldn’t be walking straight the next day.

He was such a damn con artist.

You: You’re the one who’s gonna cry when I leave you with blue balls tonight.  

You: “Sorry Sid, I got tired waiting for you.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I used all my energy climbing your stairs.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I found your toothbrush and that did it for me.”

Sid: You’re such an asshole.

Sid: You’re lucky I’ve been horny for you since warmups. 

Sid: You knew what you were doing, sitting that close.

You had known.  

You always knew.  

And he always played better when he knew you were there watching.  

You yawned, stretched your legs beneath his sheets, and flopped dramatically on the bed, taking up all the space just to be a brat. You could already hear it: his sigh of fake annoyance when he got home, the shake of his head, the way he’d peel your shirt up with one hand and drag your body down with the other.  

You rolled to your stomach, phone buzzing again beside you.  

Sid: I’ll be home soon. You better be exactly where I think you are.

Sid: And if you’re not, you’re done. Actually done. I’ll find a Valentine who respects me.

You: You?  

You: Wanting respect?  

You: I’m sorry. I thought this was Sidney “I’ll fuck you on the bench if no one’s around” Crosby.

No reply. Which told you all you needed to know.  

He was already doing media.  

Probably giving his same bland ass answers.  

Probably planning what he was going to do the second he walked through that door.  

You looked around, debated getting up to light a candle or make the bed look a little less like a war zone. Then shrugged.  

Let him deal with the chaos he caused.  

You flipped onto your back and sighed happily, smirking at the ceiling.  

The remote was still in your hand when the screen switched from the postgame panel to the locker room feed. You didn’t even bother turning up the volume—didn’t need to. You could already hear it in your head.  

Sidney Crosby, media-trained robot, coming to life in hi-def.

You sighed and settled deeper into his bed, still cocooned in his shirt, bare legs tangled in his sheets. The duvet smelled like him. So did the pillow you were shamelessly half-lying on, half-straddling. Your phone sat close, a loaded weapon in the war of flirtation, but for now, you watched.  

There he was, perched in his stall, sweat-slick hair hidden under a black team hat, compression long sleeve clinging to his chest and arms like it was painted on. No jersey. No pads. Just muscle, all angles and sharp focus, like the game hadn’t even left his bloodstream yet. Cue Captain Canada.

The reporter asked about the team’s energy tonight, and you muttered out loud to no one, “We played a full sixty, stuck to our game, did the little things right—blah, blah, blah.”  

And then, right on cue:  

“Yeah, I thought we played a full sixty tonight… stuck to our game, did the little things right…”  

You cackled.

“Fucking called it.”  

He looked half dead behind the eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodding as another reporter threw a question at him. You didn't even bother listening this time. You just watched his face. That twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say. That calm, serious voice he used like a shield. That stupid, safe, polished version of himself that made you want to throw something at the screen.  

Because you knew the real Sid.  

The one who talked absolute filth into your ear with that same mouth.  

The one who made fun of his teammates the second the cameras were off.  

The one who said “fuck” more than he said “I.”  

And then—then—it happened.  

The reporter asked:  

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Sid. You played a great game. Got any plans tonight?”  

You sat up a little. That one actually surprised you. When did the reporters get so bold?

He gave them that laugh—that stupid, breathy chuckle he only used when he didn’t want to give too much away. Then he smiled, eyes low, lips pressed together like he was fighting off the real answer.  

“No,” he said. “Just recover. Get ready for the next one.”  

That was it. That was all.  

You stared at the TV, jaw slightly open.  

“Recover?” you muttered. “That’s your answer? No wink? No cute little nod? Not even a fucking smirk? You lying sack of shit, Sidney Patrick.”  You looked absolutely nuts talking to yourself.

You picked up your phone and unleashed.  

You: “Just recover,” he says.  

You: Wow. My pussy just dried up.  

You: Say hello to celibacy apparently.  

Still no reply. You fired off another.  

You: You are such a fucking fraud.  

You: There is literally a naked woman in your bed. Right now. At your house.  

You: On Valentine’s Day.  

You: But nooo, he’s gonna “recover.”  

You: Go ahead, Sid. Recover. I’ll just be here. Thinking about life. My choices. The fact I could’ve fucked a dentist. Or literally anyone else but hey.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, watching him wrap the interview up, nodding politely, face locked in full Captain Mode. You could practically feel the tension buzzing under his skin. The itch to get the hell out of there and back to you.  

One more for good measure:  

You: When they say “Crosby keeps his private life quiet,”  

You: They don’t know it’s because he talks so much shit in bed the FCC would fine him.

That did it.

Your phone lit up almost the second he stood from his stall.  

Sid: You need to be stopped.

Sid: You need help.

Sid: I’m not even out of the building yet and I’m hard.

You flopped backward against his pillows, laughing like a lunatic.  

You: I’m sorry did you forget you have a girlfriend? Did your nut brain erase me from memory just because you got first star??

You: Not even a cute little “gonna go home to the girl who’s been letting me rearrange her insides all season”???

You: Also don’t think I didn’t notice your compression shirt. You know exactly what you’re doing you manipulative little slut.

Sid: Jesus Christ

Sid: You knew what you signed up for.

You: I signed up for the hot hockey sex. The rest was a scam.

You: Don’t worry, I’ll be asleep by the time you get home.  

You: No recovering necessary. You’re off the hook.

Sid: You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow if you keep this up.  

Sid: You want recovery? I’ll give you something to recover from.

You swallowed.  

Slowly.  

Okay.  

So maybe you did like poking the bear.  

And maybe the bear knew exactly how to fuck you into next week.  

You tucked your phone under your pillow and let out a slow breath, heart thudding, a little thrill sparking low in your belly.  

Valentine’s Day.  

Just another game on the calendar.  

Until Sid got home.

And the worst part was, you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep. One second you were tucked under his sheets, limbs comfortably sprawled, phone still clutched in one hand and TV murmuring softly in the background… and the next, you were blinking against the warm glow of the bedside lamp and squinting up at a very large, very amused, very smug silhouette looming over you.

“Unbelievable,” Sidney muttered, shaking his head as he stood beside the bed. His coat was halfway off, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that fucking backwards hat still on his head. “All that mouth, and look at you now. Out cold.”

You groaned before you could speak, voice thick with sleep and low like you’d swallowed a blanket. “'M not.”

“You literally just snored,” he said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud and crouching beside the bed. “Like a full-on little cartoon snore. Tiny inhale, wheeze on the exhale. Real cute.”

“I did not snore,” you mumbled into the pillow. But your voice was gravelly, throat dry, and goddammit—your limbs were heavy with sleep, and he smelled so good, and everything was so warm.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Talked all that shit and knocked yourself out.”  

You shifted slightly, nose scrunching, a quiet little groan escaping your throat.

“Mmph.”  

He grinned. Leaned in close to your ear.  

“Babe.”  

Nothing.  

“Babe.” He kissed your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”  

You grunted, rolling slightly. “M’tired…”  

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, barely lifting your head from the pillow.

“…What time is it?”

“Late. Or early. Depends who you ask.” He pressed a kiss to your hair. “You passed out. Didn’t even make it to Valentine’s Day sex.”

You groaned again, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to. Your bed is criminally warm. I got cozy. My body betrayed me.”

“You talked a lot of shit.”

“Yeah well, I thought you were gonna be faster.”

He laughed low in his chest, slipping his hand beneath the covers to grab your hip and give it a squeeze. He climbed onto the bed with all the smug grace of a man who had absolutely earned this moment of superiority. He leaned down, one knee pressing into the bed right between your legs, and shoved at the covers just enough to catch a glimpse of your legs tangled beneath his sheets.

“You look real cozy for someone who was talking an awful lot of shit about how boring I am,” he said, tone low and teasing.

You squinted at him, your voice a gravelly whisper.

“You are boring. You literally said, ‘recover.’ Who says that on Valentine’s Day? Recover from what, Sidney? Being 37?”

He let out a sharp laugh and pushed your hair back from your face, warm fingers brushing your cheek.

“You’re a little shit,” he murmured.

“And you’re a liar.” You poked a finger into his chest. “You lied to the media. There was an actual naked girl waiting for you in your bed and you gave them the ‘I’m gonna rest up’ speech like a fucking priest.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

“You know I can’t give them anything,” he said. “They’ve been trained like bloodhounds. If I so much as hint at having plans, I’ll have a fucking headline on every sports page tomorrow.”

“God forbid people find out you’re not a virgin,” you deadpanned.

“Watch it,” he warned playfully. “I am a role model.”

You burst out laughing, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Oh my god, you are so full of shit. You talk like you’re running for office, but then you come home and say things like, ‘c’mere, baby, I’ve been thinking about fucking you against the kitchen counter since warmups.’”

He grinned. “Still true, by the way.”

You hummed and looped your arms around his neck lazily.

“You missed your shot then, Captain Celibate. Shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”

Sid smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Didn’t realize the threat of dick was the only thing keeping you awake.”

“You should’ve. It’s your strongest feature.”

He laughed again, breath warm against your cheek, before ducking his head to kiss you properly—slow and deep and good, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into it, arms tightening around his neck, legs shifting beneath the covers until you hooked one behind his bent knee, dragging him closer.

Then he nuzzled into your neck again and added, low and dirty:  

“You wanna go back to sleep, or you want me to give you something real to recover from?”  

You groaned dramatically. “You are such a whore, oh my god.”  

“And yet, here you are. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Wet for me in your sleep, probably.”  

“Shut up—”  

“You were,” he said smugly, dragging his hand up your thigh. “I checked. You twitched.”  

You covered your face with both hands. “You’re disgusting.”  

“You’re worse,” he said, kissing down your throat. “And when you wake up tomorrow sore as hell, I want you to remember who was ready when the moment came, and who—” he nipped your collarbone— “took a nap.”  

“Sidney.”  

“Y/n.”  

You sighed, dropped your hands, and stared up at him.  

“You gonna fuck me or give another locker room interview?”  

He grinned. And with that, he kissed you again, deep and slow and fucking smug. You could feel the smile on his mouth, even as he pressed you back into the mattress like you were the only thing worth coming home to.  

"Holy shit," you said, breathless as he tugged your shirt up over your hips, revealing those barely there red panties you wore when you knew he’d be seeing them. Lacy. Dark. A tiny bow on the waistband.

Sid looked smug. “I’m so obsessed with you, it’s disgusting.”

“You're disgusting,” you corrected, but you were already arching up, letting him pull the shirt over your head. 

He laughed low, all pleased with himself. "You love it."

His hand slipped a little higher, fingertips grazing the side of your hip where your underwear were just barely clinging to your curves.

You sucked in a breath you tried to pretend was casual. "Sid," you warned.

"What?" he drawled, blinking down at you like he hadn’t just started setting your entire nervous system on fucking fire. You lifted your head, giving him a look. "You’re fucking pushing it."

Sid grinned, so goddamn starved it made your toes curl. "You need me to spell it out, Y/N Y/LN?" he teased, voice dropping into that dangerous gravel. "Need me to tell you how bad I wanna fuck you?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands like that could somehow save you. "Jesus Christ, Sidney."

He pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles like a fucking gentleman, even while his other hand kept creeping higher up your thigh.

"Could just be gentle," he murmured, kissing the inside of your wrist now, right over your pulse. "Real slow, babe. Let you sit on my cock nice and easy. You barely gotta do anything. I'll do all the fuckin' work."

You whimpered, and he fucking heard it.

He grinned harder, absolutely predatory now, shifting to hover over you more fully, careful not to press too much weight onto you.

"Bet you miss it," he murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin. You literally had sex in his bed this morning but you hated that he was right, you did miss it.

"Sid," you gasped, arching your back automatically, and fuck, he hadn't even touched you properly yet.

He chuckled low and mean, dragging his mouth along your throat, nipping lightly. "Tell me, baby," he rasped. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You shoved at his chest weakly, more for show than anything else. "I hate you," you breathed. "I fucking hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, grinning into your hair. "You love this dick though."

You burst out laughing, half-horrified and half-scorched alive. "You are so fucking nasty," you managed between giggles, pinching his arm lightly.

He caught your hand easily, pressing it down above your head, pinning you with almost no effort. "And you're so fuckin' wet for me right now, I can feel it through your goddamn panties," he grunted, pressing his hips into yours just enough to make you feel the thick, heavy line of him behind his dress pants.

You whimpered again, biting your lip. "Sid," you whispered desperately.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Say it," he ordered softly. "Say you want me."

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing hard.

It was so unfair, how good he was at this. How easily he turned you into this trembling, needy thing even when you thought you had the upper hand for most of the day

But he looked at you like you were the best part of his night. Like he couldn’t wait to ruin you in the best goddamn way.

You cracked your eyes open, meeting his gaze. "I want you," you whispered. "You asshole."

Sid’s grin turned downright feral.

"Yeah?" he rasped, nuzzling into your jaw, his hand finally — finally — sliding under your panties, the rough pads of his fingers skimming where you were already slick and throbbing for him. "Good," he murmured. "‘Cause you're not gettin' away from me, princess. Not tonight."

You gasped as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing, and you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle there.

"Sid," you panted. "Bed’s gonna break if you fuck me the way you're lookin' at me right now."

He laughed low, dirty, and thrilled. "Then we'll buy a new one," he said, voice rough as he sank two fingers into you slowly and deep. "Hell, babe, we'll break every goddamn bed from here to fuckin' Canada if it means I get to feel you come around me again."

You moaned helplessly, arching into him.

And when he bent down, kissed you— really kissed you, slow and filthy and possessive — it felt like a promise burned into your skin.

Sid could’ve fucked you stupid in under thirty seconds if he wanted. The way you were already whimpering under him, writhing in his hands, he knew it wouldn’t take much.

But tonight — tonight he wanted to be slow. He wanted to wreck you proper. Melt every bone in your goddamn body.

He slipped his fingers out of you with a slow, slick sound that made you whimper again. He fucking loved that sound. Loved everything about you like this — messy and needy and all his.

"You gotta relax, baby," Sid murmured, dropping kisses along the flushed line of your throat, working his way lower. "Can't be tense on me. Gotta stay nice and easy for me."

Sid pulled back from your body just enough to catch you breathless— just enough to see you, all flushed and desperate, lips swollen, hair a wild halo against the pillows. His heart punched hard against his ribs.

"Fuckin' hell, Y/N," he muttered, staring at you like he couldn’t decide whether to devour you whole or build a shrine at your feet. "Look at you."

You whimpered and tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, begging him wordlessly to keep going.

Sid huffed a soft, broken laugh, dragging your panties slowly — so slowly — down your thighs, baring you completely to him. He didn’t just toss them. No. He pocketed them. Smirked while he was doing it. Like the absolute sex demon he was.

And he was hard. So hard it was actually starting to hurt. He was damn near grinding in his pants for some kind of friction.

He pressed a kiss right between your breasts, trailing down your belly. You shivered so hard it made the mattress creak.

Sid grinned against your skin. "You already taste so fuckin' sweet," he muttered, nosing at your core, not even touching you properly yet, just letting the heat of his breath drive you crazy. "Bet you could get me drunk off your pussy right now, baby. All thick and fuckin' sweet just for me."

"Oh my god, Sidney," You gasped, tossing your head back. "You're fucking filthy."

"Yeah, well," he said, voice low and smug. "You like it, baby. You like havin' me mouth off about how sweet your pussy is when you’re desperate."

You made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Sid finally gave you what you needed — flattening his tongue and dragging it up through your folds, slow and deep.

Your entire body jerked.

"Jesus fuck, Sid," you gasped, arching off the bed, thighs trembling.

He groaned into you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up even closer to his mouth. "You’re fuckin’ drippin', babe," he muttered, voice vibrating against your soaked skin. "Beggin' for it. Haven’t even touched my cock yet and you’re already so fuckin' close, huh?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, trying to close your thighs around his head — he loved when you did that, so desperate you wanted to trap him there.

Sid laughed low, all smug satisfaction, and stiffened his tongue to shove into your leaky entrance, bobbing in and out like he was starving. Every little whimper, every twitch of your hips, just made him harder, his cock aching in his dress pants.

He shifted one hand, dragging two fingers back inside you, pumping slow, gentle strokes in and out while he circled your clit with his tongue, slow and deliberate. His fingers moved slow between your legs, curling deep, working that perfect rhythm only he knew. Your thighs quivered, trying to clamp shut, but he squared his shoulder and pushed them open lazily. "None a' that," he said, smirking. "You’re taking it, baby. Not hidin’ from me now. Not after all that shit you talked on my phone."

You clawed at the dress shirt he was still wearing, trying to yank him back up. "You’re such a fucking dick," you gasped. "Coulda just got me some flowers and left me the fuck alone—"

Sid grinned, slow and greedy, dragging the how tongue down your slick folds, circling your clit just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "And miss this?" he murmured. "Babe, you’re better than Christmas. Better than a fuckin’ playoff win."

He pushed your shirt up higher until your breasts were exposed, beautiful and tender. He palmed one carefully, thumb brushing across your hardening nipple, and you gasped, your legs falling further open for him.

"Sensitive, huh, baby?" he whispered, watching you squirm. "Bet you could come just from my mouth on you right now, no hands, nothing."

"You’re fucking killing me," you moaned, lifting your hips helplessly, trying to get more friction.

He laughed again — slow, dangerous — and dipped his head to take your clit back into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, pulling a desperate, broken sound from your throat.

You fisted his hair, hips rocking mindlessly against his face, your whole body tightening.

"Sid, fuck," you gasped, "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He lifted his head, grinning at your flushed, wrecked face. "You gonna come for me already, baby? Just from my fuckin' fingers?" he teased, pumping them harder now, twisting his wrist so his palm rubbed against your clit perfectly. "Fuck, that's hot. Goddamn, you're perfect. So fuckin' good for me,Y/N."

"Jesus–Fuck–Sidney." you cried out, arching hard off the bed as you came, gripping his wrist as if to tell him not to stop, body shuddering, your pussy clenched down so hard around his fingers it almost hurt, soaking his hand and mouth with a gush that made Sid groan into you.

He kept working you through it, slow and patient, until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly wrecked.

He kissed you again, deep and slow, until you went boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.

He pulled his fingers out finally, dragging them slow between your thighs, teasing your slit just to hear you whimper again. Then he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning low like you were the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted.

You slapped his chest weakly. "You're disgusting," you muttered, still breathless, half-dazed.

Sid grinned and grabbed your hand, pressing it to the bulge straining against the front of his now wrinkled pants. "Yeah? Feel how bad you got me, baby?" he rasped. "’M about two seconds away from blowin' my load like a fuckin' teenager over here."

You laughed, exhausted and glowing and a little feral around the edges. "Good," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Now fucking do something about it, Crosby."

He stripped his shirt off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him, before finally, finally undoing his jeans.

His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and you made a broken, desperate sound that made Sid’s heart squeeze. Your mouth actually watered.

“Baby… fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he guided your hands above your head, he tapped his tip against your slick folds, nudging your clit teasing the both of you, you instinctively moved forward, preparing for more stimulation, “You ready for me, huh?”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the warmth of the head pressing against your entrance, so close yet so far. You could barely form words, the need building inside you too overwhelming, and all you could do was let out a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly against him. “Mhmmm,” you murmured, your voice trembling with anticipation. “need you.”

With a groan, Sidney shifted above you, his hands holding your hips as he slowly pushed his length into you, slowly, inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—your heat, your tightness, the way you stretched around him as he filled you. He couldn’t hold back the curse that slipped from his lips as he bottomed out inside you, his breath ragged as he held you close.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your neck, "tightest fuckin' thing, swear to god...made for me."

Sid stayed still for a moment, just breathing, letting you adjust, feeling your soft, fluttering muscles pulsing around him.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back further into the pillow as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, and the slow, steady throb of him buried deep inside made your pulse race. You could feel every inch of him, the way he fit perfectly against that gummy spot inside you, and it made you dizzy with need.

It took every ounce of control he had not to just start pounding into you like a goddamn animal.

Instead, he pulled out slow, almost all the way, and slid back in with one long, careful thrust that made you whimper and dig your heels into the mattress.

"That’s it," he murmured against your temple. "Just like that, princess. Let me take care of you."

He fucked you slowly—long, hard, deep strokes,  savoring every twitch and gasp and curse. You arched under him, hips pushing up, body moving with his like you’d been built just for this.

The sound of his hips hitting the back of your thighs filled the room. He kept a first grip on your hips as he continued a consistent pace. At some point your brain just melted. Your eyes could no longer focus on him above you and your mouth hung open, moans no longer falling from your lips. The only thing you could do was tighten around him.

Sid could feel you getting close. He dropped down, his chest pressing right up to yours stopping his thrusts. But in your cockdrunk you started to grind upwards when Sidney wouldn’t move. Caught between needing the break but also wanting him to continue.He wanted this to last though. 

And just like that, he was sitting back, pulling you up with him. Chest to chest, you were now on top. His lips catching yours in something deeper now—hotter, messier. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, maneuvering with muscle memory and intention, letting you sink down completely onto his cock.

“I got you,” he murmured, one hand on the small of your back, the other moving down to stroke your thigh. “Just move how you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

You couldn’t answer — too full, too overwhelmed, too in love — so you just sat on your knees and began rocking your hips in desperation. He knew you were getting impatient. It was in the way your hips started moving impatiently against his aching cock. He knew you needed to come and that you were close. It was in the way you took everything he gave you, every rough upward thrust, every whispered praise.

You leaned forward, one hand braced on his broad shoulder, the other tangled in his hair as you rode him slowly — hips rolling in little waves, the angle hitting all the right places, making your whole body quake.

“‘M close Sid,” you whispered, gasping when his thumb found your swollen clit again.

“Good,” he said hoarsely, “You need it. Look at you. All needy and swollen. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that?”

“Don’t stop ohmygodohgodfuck-” you whined, burying your face in his neck.

Sidney couldn’t stop even if he tried to. You’re too damn addicting.

He starts to thrust upward, matching the pace in which you're riding him. He desperate to watch you fall apart on top of him. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, you instinctively start sucking on them as if they’re his cock.

“There she is,” he whispers, rough and low.

You clamp down around his cock, coming hard and fast. It rolled through you in heavy, pulsing waves–warm and all consuming–pulling a wrecked cry from your lips.

“Fucking–Jesus–I’m–Goddammit Sid–”

Sidney came with a deep, desperate groan, burning his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside of your pussy. He emptied himself inside, thrusting up lazily a few times, fucking his come deep inside of you, even as you writhe above him in overstimulation. He watches as his cock drags in and out of you, a circle of your cream circling the base as his come leaks down his length and down to his balls. 

Sid pressed you back onto the mattress, unintentionally thrusting his softened cock into you. You whine softly, already spent and tired and ready for bed. He presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” You mumble softly, already drifting off.

You had all the time in the world now. Sid had made damn sure of that.

--

[mirrored-muse]

How about this req?

You want to break up things with Shauna but she won't let you. Or you do break up but she legit make your life a hell so you have no other choice but to come back to her. Love abuser Strapman.

Can you make something with it?

ᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ | ꜱ.ꜱ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1076

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛ; ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ ɪꜱ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ ꜱʜɪᴘᴍᴀɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴛᴡ: ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛᴏxɪᴄ-ɪꜱʜ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ, ɪꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪʀʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ᴀꜱᴀᴘ.

The breakup doesn’t happen quietly.

You’re in the middle of your shared hut, words loud and messy, your voice shaking more from exhaustion than fear. Shauna stands like a statue while you say it. “It’s over, I can’t do this anymore.” for a second, it almost feels like she understands, like it worked like maybe she’ll let you go.

She doesn’t and she won’t.

Her jaw twitches. She doesn’t raise her voice. Just stares at you like you’ve personally insulted her with the thought of leaving. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” She steps closer, slow, like a wild animal assessing a threat. Her voice stays flat, eerily calm. “You’re tired. Or pissed off. Or trying to prove something. But this, us, you’re not walking away from it.”

“I already did,” you snap, backing away, your heel brushing the side of your shared bedroll. “I can’t be with someone who acts like I’m their property.”

Shauna’s eyes narrow. “You are mine.”

You flinch, just slightly, but she notices.

“I mean it,” you say, softer now. “We can’t be together. I need—space. Something normal.”

Shauna scoffs. “Normal? Out here?” She gestures to the woods beyond the thin walls of the hut. “You think anything about this is normal?”

“I just want peace.”

“You don’t get to have peace without me.”

You swallow hard. There’s no yelling. No dramatic blowup. Just the unbearable pressure of her presence, the certainty in her eyes that says she’s already decided this isn’t something she’s going to take seriously. That your words are something she can erase with time or pressure you into taking back.

“I’m sleeping in the storage cabin tonight,” you say, grabbing your coat.

Shauna doesn’t stop you. Not with her hands, at least. But as you push past her and step outside, she murmurs low enough that only you hear:

“You’ll come back. You always do.”

⸻

It starts the next morning.

Your boots are gone. Van claims she hasn’t seen them. Akilah avoids eye contact. When you finally find them tucked behind the meat shed, soaked and half-frozen, you know it wasn’t an accident.

Meals get portioned out without your share. Taissa “forgets” to mention the firewood schedule. Misty, always watching, gives you tight smiles but no real help.

Shauna doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

She still sleeps in your hut alone. Leaves your spot untouched, the blanket neatly folded. You see it when you sneak glances. You see her too, quiet in the mornings, scribbling in that little journal of hers with a furious intensity, gripping her pen so hard you think she might break it.

You think about confronting her. You don’t. You know what she’ll say.

You made your choice.

She’s just making sure you regret it.

⸻

The real fallout happens three days later when you speak up during dinner.

“We’re running out of dried meat,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. “We should set up another hunt.”

“We already did,” Gen says without looking up.

“Well, it’s not enough.”

Misty snorts softly. “Maybe if you were still helping Shauna, we’d have more.”

Your head snaps toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just think it’s funny,” she says, with that wide-eyed innocence she wears like a mask. “You used to be so useful.”

You’re on your feet before you realize it, your tray clattering to the floor. “Say that again.”

“Misty,” Taissa warns. “Cool it.”

But Shauna’s already standing.

She hasn’t looked at you all night, hasn’t acknowledged you in days, but now she turns, deliberate and slow. The clearing goes quiet. Even the fire seems to still.

“If you have something to say,” she murmurs, “say it to me.”

Your chest burns. “Why don’t you say it? Tell them why they’re treating me like shit. Tell them why you told them to.”

Shauna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I didn’t tell anyone to do anything.”

“You didn’t have to!”

The silence is heavy. The whole camp stares.

Shauna steps forward, and the crowd parts like they’ve been trained to move when she does. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing in front of you, too close again, like she’s testing if you’ll flinch this time.

You don’t.

“You walked away,” she says, voice quiet enough to make people lean in. “You didn’t want me anymore, remember?”

“I didn’t say I wanted everyone to turn against me.”

“But that’s what happens,” she murmurs, “when you break something important. People get… upset.”

“I broke you, is that it?”

Shauna smiles. It’s not kind. “You never had the power to break me.”

You grit your teeth. “Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me?”

“Because I trusted you,” she snaps, finally letting the anger bleed through. “And you left. Like it meant nothing.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she turns to the others.

“You all want to know why I’ve been so pissed off?” she says, addressing the group now. “Why I haven’t slept right in days?”

Everyone watches, frozen still.

She looks back at you. “Because they left me.”

You feel every set of eyes on you. But Shauna’s are the ones that hurt the most.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” she says, softer now. “You just stopped wanting me. And I’m not the one who should be ashamed of that.”

You breathe in through your nose. “You don’t get to act like the victim when you made me afraid to stay.”

Shauna leans in until her forehead nearly touches yours. Her voice drops low again, private. “And yet here you are looking at me like you want me to fix this.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that you want her anyway.

⸻

That night, you don’t sleep in the storage cabin.

You sit on the edge of your old bedroll, cold and quiet. Shauna doesn’t speak. She just passes you a spare blanket, sets her journal down, and lies beside you like nothing ever changed.

You don’t touch.

But when you finally lie down, your back to her, she whispers, “I missed you.”

You close your eyes. “You made them hate me.”

“I didn’t have to try very hard.”

Then her hand slips under the blanket, resting on your waist.

You let it.

Not because she’s won, but because fighting her feels like trying to fight gravity.

Because loving her still feels like the only thing that makes sense out here.

[helen-with-an-a]

Hot Mess

This was a request I got ages ago but I've lost the ask. The anon wanted more Captain Kimmy so here's some sister!Kim.

AWFC x Reader ; Kim Little x sister!Reader

Description: R is fed up with constantly being told she needs to be more like Kim

TW: brief talks of alcohol consumption; implied bad mental health (just vibes, nothing specific)

Arsenal was the dream. The goal. The be-all and end-all. A chance to play alongside Kim again, sharing the pitch with her just like the good ole days. It was supposed to be everything you ever wanted.

But now you found yourself stuck in a four-year contract with a team that you hated. Well, that was a bit harsh. They had certain … expectations … expectations that you just didn’t meet. They wanted a carbon copy of Kim; calm, poised, patient, a leader.

Except, you weren’t. You weren’t a hothead, not really … but you didn’t exactly have her easy-going nature either. You didn’t shy away from confrontation – if someone was in your way, you weren’t above getting in their face. You held your ground, pushing back just as hard as you were shoved. You’d fight for every inch, throw yourself into every challenge, and if that made you seem a little rough around the edges, so be it. The team admired that, that was for sure. You could feel the respect they gave you. But they were always telling you to ‘cool it’, ‘be more like your sister’, ‘relax, take a leaf out of Kim’s book’.

Maybe that was why you felt like a stranger in the changing rooms. You were good. You were nice enough. But you were never Kim. To make matters worse, you weren’t even a regular starter. Most games saw you stuck on the bench, only brought on in the final ten minutes when Arsenal needed to either hold the line or add a bit of bite. You took every second you got with grit and determination, but it was hard not to feel like a side note. Kim’s little sister. The Other Little. A no one.

Beth always said things happen for a reason. And maybe that was true. The day had been a rough one, training had been upped in preparation for the final push of the season. You were tired, running off of little sleep and mentally drained.

Twist. Pop. Snap.

You didn’t even feel the pain. Not at first. It was like you were so tired, so ready for a break, that your body was numb. It wasn’t until you took another step that the icy hot tendrils of fire wrapped itself around your knee.

“Don’t worry, kiddo.” Katie smiled down at you, crouching by your head, a head resting on your hair. “We’ve got ya,” Steph winked, although concern flooded her features. “Kim will help with everything.” Leah added.

Of course she would. Perfect Captain Kimmy. Ready to help another member of her team. Another ACL for Arsenal to work through. You didn’t want Kim. You had seen how hard the recovery process was. The last thing you wanted was Kim, smiling with too much kindness as she laid out your training schedule, your recovery programme, you diet, your appointments, which exercises you weren’t doing quite right, which weights you were allowed to you and when.

Turning to partying wasn’t the best idea you ever had. And deep down you knew it. The injury had sidelined you in more ways than one; unable to play, you could barely walk without wincing, yet each night you found yourself in a dimly lit bar, a drink in hand, the haze of alcohol blurring the frustration that had taken root in you. Kim had, without even asking, taken the reins of your recovery. She’d moved you into her place with a gentle firmness, her kind, understanding smiles only reminding you just how far you were from what you wanted – or needed.

You knew it was only because she cared. You knew it was her way of showing you love. But to you, it felt like a prison. Your every move was tracked. What time you went to bed, what time you woke up, how much water you drank, how much you ate, what you ate, when you ate, what your schedule was, when you were expected at Colney, when you were at the gym, when you were in the medical room. You were ready to scream.

A couple of friends from back home had finally made the move to London and they were more than willing to help drown your sorrows. It started out small, sneaking out your front door like you were 16 again. But soon, the occasional nights out turned into an almost nightly adventure. Yes, you were still on crutches. Yes, you could hardly move without being in some kind of pain. But there you were, sitting in one of the many London bars, downing another drink.

Drinks took the edge off; they numbed the ache in your knee and the pain in your heart. They quietened the voices in your head, ones that sounded far too similar to your sister. You couldn’t pinpoint when football had gone from the best thing in your life, the only thing you wanted to do, the thing that made your heart so full of joy, to the thing you despised most in the world. It once was your everything, your reason for being. There was nothing that could match the feeling you had when a ball was at your feet. You weren’t sure what hurt more, your knee, your head or your heart.

Now, you felt nothing but resentment. Hungover, exhausted, weighed down by the clunky crutches, everything was just too much. You hated it, you hated everything about it. The rehab, the repetitive exercises with very little to show for it, the hovering, the phone calls, the media, the fake smiles, the feeling of being an outsider.

You hated the cold, sterile physio room, the fluorescent lights and weird smell. You hated the gym that always blasted music too loudly and was slightly too cold. You hated the football pitches with their perfectly manicured grass and clean white lines. You hated it. You hated yourself.

You wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind – to walk out of Colney, of North London, of England and disappear for good. Maybe you would become a goat farmer in the remote regions of South America. Kim wouldn’t be able to micromanage you from all the way out there. Maybe … leaving it behind wasn’t a bad thing. You knew football was the cause. It had been since well before your injury. Maybe just disappearing would be best for everyone. Kim wouldn’t have to stress about you, the team wouldn’t have to deal with an angry defender who spent more time as a bench warmer than on the pitch. Sure, Arsenal Management might be angry, but they would get over it. They wouldn’t have to pay you, so they weren’t losing out financially.

You felt the tears roll down your cheek.

“And what time do you call this?” The voice was unmistakable – Kim, standing by the doorway with her arms crossed and that familiar look of disapproval etched across her face. Of course, it was her. She’d made your schedule, down to every exercise, every physio appointment, and every check-in. She knew the exact minute you were supposed to be here, and she knew you were late.

"Fuck off," you muttered, not even bothering to look her way as you rolled your eyes, limping slowly toward the medical office at the back of the room. You couldn’t handle her lectures today, not with your head pounding and your knee screaming with every step.

"Don't talk to me like that," Kim said, her voice steely.

"Whatever," you huffed, pushing forward, the sound of your crutches on the floor echoing loudly.

Kim’s eyes narrowed, and you could feel her studying you, taking in the bleary eyes, the tired face, and the way you swayed slightly. "Are you drunk?" she asked, her tone blunt as ever, arms folded tight against her chest, her disappointment radiating from every pore.

"No." The word came out more defensively than you’d intended, and you hated how it only made you sound guiltier.

"So just hungover, then," she said, her lips pressed into a thin line. "This isn’t what you’re here to do, you know. You think you’re helping yourself by wasting the night away at some bar?”

You wanted to fire back, to tell her she didn’t understand, but the words seemed trapped in your throat. You stood there, feeling small and exposed, like every flaw and frustration was laid out under Kim’s scrutiny. She looked at you as if you were nothing more than a project, a mess she had to put back together, whether you wanted it or not. And the worst part? A tiny part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she was right.

“Well, we can’t all be St. Kim now, can we?” you muttered bitterly under your breath.

“What?” She straightened, her eyes narrowing, daring you to repeat it.

“Nothing,” you dismissed, turning away, hoping she’d let it slide.

But she wasn’t one to back down. “No, what did you say?”

You felt your frustration bubbling over, unable to hold it back any longer. “I said we can’t all be St. Kim,” you exploded. “The perfect one with all the answers and the flawless game, the one everyone thinks I should be more like.”

Kim took a sharp breath, her expression unreadable. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I’m not you!” you spat out, feeling a strange relief in finally saying it aloud. “I know that, okay? But apparently no one else does. All anyone ever says to me is that I need to be more like perfect Captain Kimmy who has everything under control and knows exactly what to do, as if that’s so easy!”

“No one expects you–”

“Oh really?” You cut her off, the words flying out of you. “What was it Jonas said before he left? Oh, right, if I just played more like Kim, maybe we wouldn’t be losing. What did Renee say when I asked about her plan for me? Hmm, our back line is stacked, but if I wanted to try and play more like Kim, I might get more minutes. Or what about the girls, every single day with her little comments? ‘Keep going, Y/N, or I’ll tell Kim you’re slacking off’, ‘What would Kim say?’, ‘Don’t make me get Kim’. And the girls back at Scotland? They all say the same damn thing: be more like Kim, or I’ll never make captain. Like being more like you is the only way to be anything in this game. So yeah, I’m sorry if drowning my sorrows in a bit of alcohol isn’t up to the perfect Kim Little standard!”

Silence filled the room. Tears streamed down your face as you looked at your sister. For once, she didn’t look composed. For once, she wasn’t the perfect Kim Little, calm under pressure. Kim stood there, momentarily stunned, her mouth opening and closing as if she were struggling to form a response. The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged, as you braced yourself for the inevitable flood of disappointment or anger.

You were breathing like you just ran a marathon. You were in pain and terrified. Terrified that you had just fucked up the best relationship you ever had.

"You really think that’s what I want for you?” she asked quietly,

“What else would you want?” you shot back, though the sharpness in your tone had faded. "You’ve always been the standard, Kim. You’re what everyone wants me to be. Hell, even you’ve hinted at it.” She blinked, taking a slight step towards you. “Look, I know it feels like…like everyone’s comparing you to me. And maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s unfair. But it’s not what I want, okay? I just want you to be you.”

You shook your head, the bitterness still lingering. "Then why are you always pushing me, always hovering, always making sure I’m on top of every little thing? It’s like…it’s like you don’t think I’m enough on my own.”

Kim’s shoulders slumped slightly. "Because I know how hard this is for you, honey. And I know that pushing yourself to heal, to come back stronger, isn’t easy. I thought…I thought if I could help make it a little easier, then maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost.”

“I don’t need you to fix me, Kim,” you replied, feeling your voice crack. “I need…I need to figure things out on my own, in my own way. And right now, I don’t even know if this is what I want anymore.”

Her eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing her face. “You’re saying you don’t want to play?”

Did you want to play?

“I don’t know. I thought this is what I wanted. I thought Arsenal was going to be…I thought it would be us, working together, playing like we used to. But now, everything just feels…wrong. And I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.”

For a long moment, Kim didn’t respond. You’d just said out loud what you hadn’t even allowed yourself to think fully: that maybe football, the thing that had once been your life, no longer had a place in it. You heart hammered in your chest.

“Oh, honey.” Kim sighed, moving to come at stand in front of you, her hands outstretched. You blinked, another tear rolling down your cheek. Without hesitation, she pulled you to her, your head falling onto her shoulder as you let the tears fall again. “If you need to step made, then that’s what you’ll do, yeah? Everyone goes through rough patches, especially after an injury.”

“But, what if it’s not just a rough patch.” You blubbered. “What if I don’t want to come back?”

“Then you don’t,” she said with certainty.

You swallowed. “You really think I can just…step back? That I won’t be letting everyone down?”

You felt Kim press a kiss to your temple. “It’s your life. You’re the only one who gets to decide. And if that means taking a step back, then take it. If it means hanging up your boots for good. Then do it. You aren’t letting anyone down, I promise.” You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Can we go home?” You mumbled, voice tired.

“Of course we can, I want sister cuddles anyways. I haven’t had them in a long time.”

[trippinsorrows]

dreamland: faded

authors note: this is part two of the 'can you stand the rain' mini series within dreamland. make sure you've read 'the rough patch' before reading this one.

keep in mind the characterization, history, past struggles and other things while reading.

warnings: angst and violence

words: 6k

song inspo/rec listening: faded (acoustic version) by sara farell

Solana knew the minute she laid eyes on her that she would be an issue. Young, pretty, curvy, a charismatic smile that could sway even the hardest of the hard. A far cry from Alicia, also pretty and charismatic, but in a less….dangerous way. Her retirement and stepping down to move closer to her parents that were getting up in age came at no surprise. Solana sensed it coming in the past few months, though selfishly, she hoped Alicia would stick around just a little longer. So did the kids.

Her oldest set of children often referred to Roman’s long time receptionist as “Aunt Alicia.” She’s been missed, for sure, but by none more than Solana. Because if Alicia was still here, she wouldn’t be here. 

Celeste. 

Celeste Davenport.

Solana hasn’t a clue where she came from or just how she landed the job as Alicia’s replacement, just that from the day Solana Reigns walked into Bloodline Headquarters to surprise her husband for lunch, she knew there was something about the woman that she didn’t like.

Didn’t trust.

—------

Especially when Solana walked towards her husband’s office only for the twenty something to stand up and clear her throat. 

“I’m sorry, Solana.” Her voice was sugary sweet, the “kindest” smile on her pretty face. “Mr. Reigns is preparing for a meeting right now.” The lack of being properly addressed didn’t bother her as much as the overall overstepping. “I’ll have to take a message.”

Solana just looked at her, taken back by a lot of things, somewhat disturbed by how pretty and young this girl was. For reasons she didn’t understand. Not at that point, at least.

Solana cleared her throat and tightened her grip on her Birkin. “You’re the new receptionist, right?”

She nodded, pushing her jet black hair over her shoulder, providing a glimpse of the tattooed heart on her shoulder. “Celeste. Celeste Davenport.”

Normally, Solana would say something polite, something friendly and aligned with her character, but again, there was something about the woman that she couldn’t shake. “Well, Celeste, I know you’re still new here, but—”

“Ehhh,” she interrupted, shrugging casually. “Been here about a month now, so not too new.”

Solana’s smile was even as she calmly countered, lifting up her hand to show off her wedding. “I’ve got a little bit of time on you.” It didn't miss her how something flashed in Celeste’s eyes but was quickly pushed away.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” she complimented. It felt inauthentic, though. Forced, almost.

Solana didn't bother with a thank you. “You should know that when I and/or our children come to see Roman, we don’t wait.” She kept her voice and gaze even. “I don’t wait.”

The same way Solana didn’t wait for a response as she continued her trajectory over to the double doors that lead to his office, doors she placed two quiet knocks to, followed by his deep voice barking from the other side, “what?”

A small smile on her face, Solana didn't spare Celeste a glance before welcoming herself into her space with her husband. 

A husband who didn't waste any time meeting her halfway across his office, pulling her body into his and kissing her like he didn’t just see her a few hours earlier as they got the kids ready for school.

“What are you doing here?” His deep voice rumbled, hands moving to her ass, squeezing her cheeks through her fitted scrubs. 

She smiled, stroking his beard. “Figured I’d come drop in and see you before I start my shift.” It was a long one, hence her making double portions the night prior, as she’d likely be late for dinner or miss it altogether, hence him needing to handle early evening duties. “And make sure you don’t forget—”

“I gotta pick the kids up.”

“Except—”

“Lina, Leya, and Tama later because they have practice,” he finished for her, making her smile grow as his hand shifted to the small of her back. “I know, baby. I got this.”

She didn't doubt it, but she also couldn't help but to point out, “see, the family calendar is helpful.” Solana giggled, seeing the way his face instantly shifted into a scowl. 

“It’s still annoying,” he mumbled, prompting her to roll her eyes. With so many kids, several of which who were in extracurricular activities, it was pertinent that they kept a calendar to track everything. Multiple, in this instance. Hence, along with the large dry erase boards on the wall near the kitchen laying out weekly schedules, Solana started to implement digital calendars as well. She found a neat app that she put on all the kids phones, Roman’s as well, to help keep them all just a tad bit more organized.

Of course, her technologically challenged husband grumbled and struggled the most with it, needing tutorials from Koa and Kai, as well as herself, before learning how to properly use it. And, now that he got it, it seemed like it was working well. 

At least that was working.

“So….” She trialed off, hands moving up and down his chest. “The new receptionist.”

His scowl deepened. “Who?” Solana rolled her eyes as it hit him. “Oh, the new girl. Cindy.”

“Celeste,” she corrected.

“Does it matter?” She wasn't sure she’d ever seen him look so disinterested and disconnected. It comforted her in a strange sort of way. “What about her? She’s no Alicia. I know that.”

That sparked Solana's interest. “How so?”

And, with the biggest expression of disgust, he answered with a straight face, “she talks.”

Solana sighed, a small smile breaking on her face as she buried herself into his chest, once more, comforted. “You’re impossible.” He said nothing, just holding her, Solana speaking from the heart more than anything. “Just….be careful with her.”

At that, Roman pulled back to look down at her, expression speculative. “What do you mean?”

Solana considered how to word it, not wanting to offend or upset him, just truly speaking from a place of looking out for him. “She’s young and pretty—”

“Solana, you know I would never—”

“I know, I know.” She did. She really, truly did. “But, that doesn’t mean she won’t.” Because Solana knows people, knows that true intentions can often be hidden, cloaked behind a pretty, white smile. “Just…be careful.”

It wouldn’t be the first time she had to warn him.

Later that day, Solana walked into work feeling a little better, though that was a given. Being around her coworkers, being able to interact with patients, just being in her element like that, always helped in one way or another.

Walking into the staff lounge in the back of the pediatrics office, Solana found herself naturally smiling at seeing someone already present. “Hi, Dr. Garcia.”

Robert Garcia lifted his eyes from the phone in his hand, a smile falling on his face as well. “Nurse Reigns.” He hits the side button, sliding the iPhone in his back pocket. “I didn’t know you were working today.”

“Bit of a last minute thing,” she answers, walking past him to the refrigerator to set her pink Stanley covered in stickers, courtesy of her middle and youngest daughters, on the top shelf. “I thought you were at Main today?”

Dr. Garcia is on the newer side, having recently moved to the area from down South, currently operating out of both of the city’s major hospitals, Main and Central.

He gives a lazy shrug and half-hearted smile. “Bit of a last minute thing.”

Solana chuckles, “I get it.” She grabs one of the energy bars from the stack of them located on the counter when she notices his expression shift just so slightly. “Everything alright?”

He looks at her, shaking his head, smiling almost shyly now. “Would you judge me if I asked you the craziest question in the world?”

Solana smiles warmly. “I have seven children, Dr. Garcia. I’m sure your question can’t be any crazier than what I hear during family dinner.” 

He chuckles. “Fair enough.” Robert leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “What perfume do you wear?” Solana’s face gives away the surprise she wasn’t expecting to experience, forcing him to put up his arms in a defensive manner. “Crazy, I know, but my wife’s birthday is coming up, and I’ve been wrecking my brain trying to figure out what to get her, and every time I’m around you, I can’t help but notice how amazing you smell.”

Solana’s smile falters just a bit as she focuses more on the initial question rather than the explanation. “Thank you, umm—” Shaking her head, she closes her eyes and tries to retrieve the answer. “Oh my gosh, what is it called?” A question posed to herself rather than him. “And, my daughter was just asking me this morning if she could borrow it, too.” Samaria. It was Samaria, but Solana thought it a bit too grown for her, instead letting her use her Mon Paris one instead. “Baccarat something? I’m sorry, my husband got it for me—”

“Baccarat Rouge 540?” 

“Yes, that!” Solana claps from instant recognition. “I don’t think I would have guessed that.”

He, too, chuckles. “That’s quite alright.” Making a face, he nods to himself. “Maison Francis Kurkdjian, huh? Your husband has nice taste.” His eyes flit to hers. “But, that should be pretty obvious though, I suppose, no?”

At that, Solana’s smile drops a bit. Unsure. She’s unsure of how to take that. What to make of it. A genuine compliment or…something else.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have much time to think—overthink it—a knock on the door from one of her coworkers, Kim, pulling her from the conversation that felt like it’d taken a turn. 

“Patient in room 3 is asking for you, girl.” She shares, blue eyes sparkling with humor. “Sanchez kid. Wants to show you all the cool signatures he got on his cast.”

At that, the mother of seven smile returns. “Of course, he does.” An adorable little boy who reminds her a lot of Tama when he was younger. Solana offers the doctor a small smile, before walking out with her coworker, eager to start her day, strange starts aside. 

—------

The second warning came not even a month later. 

Another surprise visit at his office, this time with her girls as Solana was taking them out for a salon visit so they could all get mani-pedis. The elevator doors dinged open right as Samaria sent her mom the link for the latest purse she wanted. Something also sent to Roman, of that, Solana was certain.

Aroha was out the doors as soon as there was space for her to dart, dressed in her Tinkerbell costume, the latest to her growing collection. “Daddy!” She said prematurely, yet happily, clutching her bunny from Build-A-Bear she’d affectionately named after herself. Roro.

Samaria talking about the Marc Jacobs bag, Lina and Leya chatting among themselves as the rest of the Reigns girls’ exited the elevator, up until an interruption.

“Well, hello there,” Celeste greeted, standing up. Solana took in her bodycon dress and low neckline. A bit too low to be considered business professional, in Solana’s opinion. However, as Celeste was also top heavy, it wasn't hard for the wife of the Tribal Chief to be understanding of the dilemma that often came with finding outfits that didn't show off at least some skin. “You must be Roro.”

Aroha looked up at her, clutching her teddy bear, saying nothing. A strange reaction for her social-butterfly of a daughter.

Catalina, however, moved to stand behind her little sister, eyeing Celeste up and down. “Only some of us can call her Roro. You can call her Aroha.” There was no mistaking the skepticism—and dislike—in both Lina’s voice and expression, borderline glare. “And, just who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Lina,” both Solana and Leya scolded at the same time, though Solana could acknowledge not as much irritation with her daughter’s language as she would typically have from such an interaction. Not with that situation.

Celeste didn't break from her smile, introducing, “Celeste. I’m your dad’s new receptionist.”

Aroha’s response was quick and to the point as she hugged her stuffed animal to her chest. “I like Alicia better.”

“Same,” Lina agreed, crossing her arms over her chest, continuing to look Celeste up and down. “And, you work for the Bloodline, not my dad.”

“Girls, that’s enough,” Solana scolded. She and Roman had always taught their children to be honest, but that could be attained without being disrespectful, and right then and there, the conversation had easily drifted into the disrespectful category. She cleared her throat, offering Celeste a contrite smile that didn't really meet the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m Leya,” Cataleya introduced herself with a small wave, Aria already by Roman’s double doors, knocking, too busy to do the same. 

Not that she would. 

Even Leya’s introduction felt….off, for her little girl.

It was clear Solana wasn't not the only one not feeling Roman’s new receptionist. 

A comforting thing…but also not. 

Solana sat more on the quiet side of things, as she let her daughters bombard Roman with a variety of things. Lina asking Roman if he’d work out with her and Tama that weekend. Samaria sending him yet another link for the latest purse she wanted. Roro asking for a pet guinea pig. Leya simply asking for his opinion on an art project she’d been working on.

She left them alone, allowing them that time to bond until before she realized it, he’d sent them out and on their merry way to wait in the car.

“You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?” Roman asked, standing in front of her, hand on her back, the other behind her neck. 

Solana opened her mouth, prepared to dismiss his concern, because she knew he worried about her. Didn't like seeing her upset or bothered, and she hated that it was even impacting her that much.

“It’s silly.”

“Baby, we’ve been over this too many times,” he sighed. “If it’s impacting you, it’s not silly.”

Similar words that they told their kids all the time. She just hated having to still be on the receiving end at her big age. Especially after so many years together. 

“I just…” She trailed off, a frown falling on her pretty face as his thumb gently brushed across the nape of her neck. “There’s something about that girl, Roman.”

He also frowned. “Who?”

“Celeste,” she answered. Solana shook her head, taking a deep breath. “I don’t like her.”

“The receptionist?” He asked, looking genuinely confused, same as he did the last time she brought her up, which made her feel silly all over again. It was so obvious her husband was paying this woman no mind, so why was she? “She say something to you?”

“No.” Not really. “It’s….I don’t know. I just don’t like her.” 

Roman just looked down at her, reading between the lines. “What are you really worried about, Solana?”

A good, solid question. Fair, too. She swallowed. “I trust you, Roman.” With her life. “You know I do.”

He shifted his hand to her cheek. “Then you should know I barely interact with that damn girl. I don’t even know her name half the time, and I don’t care to know, because I don’t care about her.” He spoke truthfully, from the heart, brutally honest. The way he’d always been. It’d been a consistent thing with him since they married all those years again. Roman’s thumb brushed against her skin, ghosting over her scar. “I only see you, Sol….alright?”

He dipped his head just enough for their lips to meet, a soft kiss, a promise of sorts. She nodded quietly, letting him hold her, the act washing away her concerns.

Or, so she thought. 

—-----

Solana wanted to leave it at that. 

She planned to leave it that.

Planned to just trust that Roman could handle if and when something became an issue. 

She planned to trust her husband. 

There was nothing to be concerned about. Roman’s new receptionist being….off didn’t mean anything if her husband had no intentions on biting. For years, he always told her that he only saw her, and seven kids later, she had no reason to doubt that. 

Not at first, at least.

It started with longer days. They happened every so often, but Roman always did his best to keep them far and few in between. That started to shift, her needing to either leave work a little early to pick up the kids from school and/or practice. Or, arrange to have someone else do it, because Roman wouldn’t be home until late.

He’d make it for a portion of dinner some days. Others, she and the kids would be cleaning the kitchen, his plate cold in the microwave by the time he walked in the door.

Then, the time they actually spoke to each other seemed to be cut shorter and shorter. Mostly conversation in passing as they transported their children to and from with all their extracurricular activities. 

Then, there were other times, honest times of miscommunication or misunderstandings that caused some issues. Issues that weren’t handled in the best way. 

Tense exchanges that escalated into arguments. Unfamiliar territory. Solana hardly ever argued with her husband, but she had the past few weeks, and there was no sign of things sizzling out. If anything, the fire continued to spread, leaking over into a particularly nasty one that resulted in her emotionally disclosing something she’d been sitting on.

Not from wanting to keep it a secret from him, per se, but from her not knowing how to process, yet alone share, potentially life changing—and shattering—news. 

A spillage that she regretted exposing the way she did. Something like that…it called for a sit-down. A deep, honest, hard conversation between husband and wife as they worked together to figure out if and how they should tell the kids. 

Solana regretted it. Not just that. But, the argument as a whole. 

It stuck with her. So much so that the next day, while on the way to work, she stopped at her husband’s office. Needed to see him. Needed to apologize and ask if they could set aside time to sit down and talk. No arguing. No bickering. No snide remarks. Just clear, open, honest communication. Be the way they used to be, because truth be told, Solana just missed her husband.

And, she needed him. 

Maybe now more than ever. 

All of which she was prepared to say and was going to say, too caught up in her head to notice the strange absence of Celeste at the desk. 

But, there’s not enough being in her head to save her from the influx of emotions that course through her the minute she opens the double doors and is met with an unforgettable sight. Something that will forever be stamped into her head and tattooed onto her brain.

A deeply scowling Roman is in the midst of shoving off Celeste who was clearly straddling his lap, her dress is hiked up to her mid thigh, exposing a portion of her exposed ass. 

It’s been years since Solana has felt like this, felt like she’s been plucked out of time and placed above it, hovering, watching with horror as life and reality unfold before her. Like an outer body experience. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real.

But, the minute Roman’s equally horrified gaze lands on her, Celeste’s wide, nervous eyes glued to her, she knows. Knows that this is very real. 

And, it’s heartbreaking. 

Still struggling come to grips with what she just walked in on, Solana finds herself quietly closing the doors behind her. Her focus is on the ground, refusing to land on them, yet using that as a guide as she slowly makes her way over to them.

A bit of an automatic thing, as she’s still very much too overcome with any and all the emotions to really process what she’s doing. Not until she realizes Roman is calling her name and also reaching for her. Reaching for her because she’s no longer standing. She’s now the one straddling someone, Celeste, her fists raining down on top of the younger woman who cries out in pain, forearms covering her face. 

“Baby, stop!” His deep voice enters her hemisphere, further angering her, as she forces Celeste’s forearms out of the way, twisting her arm, trying to break it. 

“You disgusting whore!” It sounds and almost feels like someone else. Someone not herself, but it is her. Solana. And, she’s livid. “I knew it! I fucking knew it!” Anger mixes with something else, as Roman lifts her off Celeste who scrambles to run out, Solana managing a final kick to her ass before Roman has her completely restrained, allowing the other woman to flee.

The door slamming shut behind her disgraced trail signals something for Solana. Signals the most uncomfortable, awful, horrific thing she could have never conceived could happen.

He cheated on her.

Roman cheated on her.

He fucking cheated.

The rage rises once more with a new target. 

Her husband.

“Get the hell off of me!” She shouts, fists angrily slamming against his forearm as he continues to hold her. “Let me go, Roman!”

“Solana, please—”

“I said get the fuck off me!” Her voice is livid and icy, her elbow moving into his chest, a sharp intake of breath allowing her that space to escape. She breaks apart from him, moving to the opposite side of the room. Distance. She needs the distance. His office suddenly feeling much smaller than it’s ever felt before. Too small. Claustrophobic. She can’t can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t exist. 

“Oh my God,” she gasps, hands to her face, feeling wetness. Tears. She’s crying. “I can’t—”

“Solana.” Roman’s voice is surface level steady but underneath that is a sea of turmoil that’s evident in his weary gaze as he looks at her, keeping a distance but also never taking his eyes off her. “It’s not—”

“You—I told you—I told you—” She can barely get her words out, Solana crying into her hands, unable to console herself in the moment. It’s just all too much. 

“Sol—”

“What the hell, Roman?” Words finally find her. So many. All of them. Every single last one. None of them, kind or pretty, or anything she’s used to with the man who’s supposed to be her husband. Right about now, he feels like anything but. “I tell you that I may have breast cancer, and you go and do this?” Her voice breaks, as she closes her eyes, unable to stand the sight of him looking at her. Desperate and almost pleading.

Pathetic.

It’s pathetic. 

He is pathetic.

His voice is bolder, firmer, filled with a conviction that feels nothing but inauthentic. “Solana, I didn’t—”

“I saw you!”

Her eyes didn’t betray her. No, the sight she walked in on was unmistakable, and him trying to shove that little girl off his lap doesn’t make a goddamn difference to her. Not one. Because, it was saving face. It was being caught in the act and trying to make it less a betrayal than what it is.

But, that’s exactly what it is. 

A betrayal from the very person she would have sworn on her life would never.

But, he has, and it’s crushing.

“I can’t—I need—” Stammering accompanied by her heading for the door. She can’t breathe.

“Solana, please—” His long legs have him right behind her, hot on her heels, evoking an instinctual turn and shove of him away. 

“Don’t,” she hisses, voice cutting into him, deeper than even the sharpest of knives. Her eyes shutting as she keeps her hands raised, another sign of the burning desire to have him as far away as possible. It prevents her from seeing the way he swallows, an attempt to keep building emotions at bay. “Just….don’t.”

He doesn’t try to interfere or stop her, just allows her to walk out, the departure feeling different than any other time. Because, it is. Because, in that moment, too swallowed and overwhelmed emotions, she’s not entirely sure just what she’s walking away from. 

—-----

She should have called out.

Solana knows this the moment she arrives at work and after emptying her items into her locker, navigating to the staff lounge to refrigerate her water, the door barely shut before she breaks down in tears. 

Heavy, heartfelt sobs, the shock wearing thin and settling into a sort of pain that has her chest tight, her stomach in all sorts of knots, and her heart aching. A physical, undeniable hurt.

Placing her cup on the counter, Solana moves her hand to her chest, trying to settle herself. She can’t remember the last time she had a panic attack, but one is loading and pending.

Roman cheating on her is just something she could have never anticipated, never expected. Not even in the worst of her nightmares. But, the more she thinks about it, the more she starts to put the pieces together.

The late nights, change and lack in communication, the arguing. The lack of physical intimacy. The dismissal of her concerns about her. 

For each connection and realization, she’s hit with more questions. Just how long has it been going on? Weeks? Months? Is that how she got the job?

Because she’s his mistress?

Just the thought has Solana feeling nauseous. Sick, she feels sick to her stomach.

Solana wants nothing more than to tell herself this is nothing but a misunderstanding. Part 2 of the situation that led her to finding out about Fetu so many years prior. But, that was different. Roman had done nothing to make her believe he was being unfaithful. The conversation wasn’t even suggestive, just misleading.

This though….this is different.

His behavior has been different, and it all lines up. The sight she walked in being the final piece to the gut-wrenching puzzle. 

And, what kills her maybe more than the actual cheating, is the fact that it hasn’t even been 24 hours since she told him about the results of her mammogram, something that has her terrified of what those follow-up tests could come back with, and he does….that?

Broken.

She feels broken.

Solana is too caught up in her racing thoughts and broken heart to pay attention to the entrance and sound of footsteps. “Solana?” A sharp gasp as she looks up to see Dr. Garcia looking at her, face full of concern. “What’s going on? What happened?”

She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—I need a minute.”

“Are you hurt?” His professional instinct kicking in, clearly, as he moves closer, doing a one over. “Did–did something happen?”

Yes. Everything. Everything happened, but she’s not prepared or even wanting to disclose that, any of it, to her boss, of all people. 

“Please.” She sniffles. “I’m fine. I just—I just need to be alone.”

He shakes his head, lips pressed together. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that. What kind of doctor would I be to leave the best nurse I’ve ever had alone when she’s clearly upset?” Solana looks at him, unsure as to why another feeling is building in her stomach. Discomfort. 

It’s discomfort. 

She’s certain she must look a mess, having been crying since she walked into that devastating scene. But, her wishes not being respected in this moment isn’t helping. It’s only making things worse.

“Was…was it your husband?” At that, her eyes widen. 

Did he really just…

Solana swallows, clearing her throat. “That...that’s none of your business.”

“It was,” he surmises. Another assertion that only further upsets her. “Well, whatever he did, know it’s because he’s an idiot.”

And, the hits keep coming, each jarring statement chipping away at her hurt and building up her anger. “Ex—excuse me?”

Dr. Garcia takes a step closer, prompting Solana to straighten, realizing her back is already pressed against the counter. “If you were my wife, Solana, I’d make sure to never cause any tears to stream down that beautiful face.” His gaze drops to her chest, burning dark. “Not for any bad reasons, at least.”

What the hell?

Solana feels like she’s in some sort of twilight zone. She’d been right with her instincts about Celeste, but how had she not picked up the same with the man she worked for?

The compliments. The smiles. The questions that teetered the lines of professional and personal. How had she caught that but missed this?

So many questions racing that it doesn’t dawn on her he’s closed the gap between them until he has her boxed in, his hot breath fanning her face.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Solana,” he breathes, Solana’s panic setting in when she realizes how close he is. Too close. And his hand reaching for her hip is confirmation of just that. “I could—”

Two things happen at that exact moment. Solana prepares to not only push this man, but punch the living shit out of him accompanied with her knee ramming into his crotch, because this is beyond a boundary being violated.

It’s harassment. 

Sexual harassment. 

But, she doesn’t get the chance to, she doesn’t get the chance because Robert is snatched away from her with a level of aggression she’s only ever seen in one person.

Roman.

The same man who has Robert by the back of his coat, the last thing she sees of her husband being his almost feral expression before he slams the man down onto the ground, jumping on top of him.

It’s all so fast. Too fast, because it takes a good minute for her to recognize what’s happening. To realize her husband is beating the living shit out of Dr. Garcia, clearly blinded by unbridled fury. 

She’d like to say that the horror of seeing Roman viciously assault her technical boss was more than enough reason to get her to try to get him off, but it isn't. There’s a delay in her response. Emotion overload? A small part of her believing Robert deserving? She’s not sure. She just knows it takes a minute—or two—for her to say something, and it’s mostly due to the blood she sees starting to imbue itself on Robert’s lab coat.

And Roman’s fist.

“Stop!” She yells, moving over to the men, wincing when she realizes Robert’s face is also caked in blood, his eyes practically swollen shut. “Roman, get off of him!”

It’s like talking to a brick wall, her words in one ear and out the other. A part of her wants to leave it alone. Even saying his name feels off. Wrong, almost. But, she also knows that it’s only a matter of time before people overhear the commotion and call for hospital security. Then, it’s really bound to get ugly, and she can’t have that.

She also recognizes that the longer Roman continues to beat on this man, the higher the likelihood he’ll end up doing something he’ll regret later.

Maybe.

“Roman, you’re going to kill him!” Her shouts seem to be sounded out with every heavy, destructive blow of her husband’s fist onto Robert's face. 

“Good,” is all he responds with, completely immersed and controlled by his rage. He only sees red, and that single word is all she needs to hear to know that he has no plans on letting up or letting go.

Not until he’s completed a newfound task.

To kill the man he’s about halfway through beating to death. 

Solana moves quickly, recognizing verbalizations aren’t about to prevent a murder from being committed in front of her.

“Roman, that’s enough!” She hisses, going against her better judgment, her wants, and grabbing him by his shoulders. It’s at that touch, touch that also feels wrong, the same type of wrong she feels at even having said his name, that penetrates the armor of rage. Big, heaving shoulders, mouth slightly parted, heavy breaths falling out, eyes partially crazed, partially aware, he's finally looking at her.

But, she can’t sustain the eye contact too long, can’t bear it. She just uses the advantage to steer him off of a now unconscious Robert. Roman backs away, Solana ignoring his burning gaze on her as she crouches down to check for Robert’s pulse.

To make sure there still is one.

“What the fuck was that, Solana?”

It’s the last—and worst—thing for her to hear. Relieved that Robert is still among the living—for now—she stands up, turning around to look at Roman who seems 100% unbothered by his actions and 100% focused on, in his mind, what triggered said actions.

“Excuse me?” She whispers, hoping and praying he’s not asking what she thinks he’s asking. What she deep down knows he’s asking. 

But, he is. He absolutely is. Roman angrily gestures to the man behind her. “What the hell were you doing with him?”

Her eyes shut.

Of course.

Of course.

Solana licks her lips, doing her best to remain calm when she feels anything but. “Are…are you seriously going to stand there and ask me that?”

He also briefly closes his eyes, voice tinged with irritation and something else. Hurt. He sounds hurt. “Nothing happened, Solana. That’s what you don’t seem to unders—”

“Nothing happened?” She interrupts, scoffing, those damn emotions returning for another round. “You’re gonna stand here and tell me nothing happened when I literally saw you with a whole ass woman, dress pulled up, on your lap, and I’m just supposed to believe you?”

“No.” His voice is much lower than she would like, his eyes too soft, his expression too defeated. “You’re supposed to trust me.”

She nods, looking away at the open window of the lounge. “The same way you’re supposed to trust me?”

Silence.

A heavy, devastating silence that’s complicated by a crushing realization that this scene is far too similar. Familiar. History repeating itself. 

She remembers the question she posed to him so many years ago. The last time they ever encountered something as serious and damaging as this.

“What kind of marriage can we have if you don’t trust me?”

A question she now has to pose to herself as well.

What kind of marriage can we have if I don’t trust him?

It’s a thought that nearly crushes her. Does, in some ways. The tears return, her voice breaking and paving way for her pain. “Roman, we can’t….we can’t keep doing this.”

Standing before her, he’s never looked so…so lost. “What do you mean?”

“The fighting, the arguing, the…trust—” That feels all but gone at this point. Maybe on both sides. “I—I want us to—to get through the boys’ birthdays next month—”

“Baby—”

“Because it’s not fair to them—”

“What are you saying—”

“Maybe even Lina and Leya’s quinceaneras—”

“Solana.” Desperate. He is desperate in this moment, vulnerable gaze focused on her. “What are you saying?”

It’s a good, valid question. What is she saying? Solana doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what the follow-up of her mammogram results will bring. Doesn’t know how she managed to miss all the signs that her husband was being unfaithful. Doesn’t know she missed the signs that Dr. Garcia was attracted to and flirting with her. Doesn’t know just how she can manage this, all of this, and try to pretend like everything is alright up until the passing of two, or maybe four, of her seven kids upcoming birthdays. 

It’s all so confusing, and she knows nothing except, right now, in this moment, she answers as best she can. What she feels is best. Even if saying it breaks her heart in a way she never thought possible. 

“I think we need to separate for a while...”

------

so....whose side ya'll on?

we'll see more of the kids' reaction to certain things in part 3, little do you know.

[samiramohann]

would've been you (should've been me)

just a little something I wrote based off of this post and my own tags. based off of the flashback from 8x16.

They stop at the hospital on the way back to the firehouse. Parked outside behind the 118's ambulance, Bobby tells them he'll be a minute before he ducks inside.

They all knew he was going to talk to the mother from the house fire.

So they wait.

10 minutes later, their captain had emerged from the hospital doors. No one commented on the tear tracks that had cut through the soot on his face and hastily wiped from his cheeks. The call had been hard. And no one pointed and laughed at the 118 anymore if your emotions got away from you.

They ride back to the station in silence, and the cab of the engine is filled with a tension that has the hairs on the back of Tommy's neck standing on end.

When they finally pull in, Bobby is first out. Hen and Howie share a look as their captain tosses his gear into his locker, his helmet bouncing off the metal and falling to the concrete, forgotten as it's owner walks away.

Everyone else climbs out after a few seconds and sets their gear back into place, eyeing the crumpled turnouts on the ground. Tommy sighs.

"I'll get them." He calls out to the others, hopping down from the cab. "You guys go get washed up."

Everyone nods before they head off, and Tommy sets his own stuff to the side before going to pick up Bobby's things. He hangs the turnout coat on the hook, with the Captain's helmet laid to rest on top of it. He checks to make sure nothing was damaged on the tanks and mask before he stores those, too. He makes a mental note to check the oxygen levels, and then he shrugs out of his own turnouts and stores them away until they're needed again.

Once he's done, he contemplates heading towards the showers. Scrubbing the soot from his skin sounds like a really great idea right about now, but he feels restless. So he heads for the roof access instead, hopes the cool night air will clear his head.

When he gets to the access door, it's propped open, meaning someone is already out there, and he wonders if Robinson is sneaking a smoke or three as he pushes the door open and steps out.

He's met with the sight of their captain instead, hands planted on the ledge, eyes set on the street below. His body stiffens when he hears the door and suddenly his eyes are on Tommy and Tommy freezes.

"I, uh, sorry Cap. I didn't think anyone would be up here."

Bobby's eyes are full of grief and a rage that makes Tommy's stomach twist.

"What do you want, Kinard?"

The words are clipped as Bobby turns away from him, looking back down to the passing cars below them.

"I doesn't matter now. I don't want to bother you. I'll just go back and-"

Tommy cuts himself off when Bobby pushes away from the ledge and turns toward him fully.

"It's fine. I need to go do paperwork anyway."

Bobby crosses the roof, and Tommy steps aside, pulling the door open for the other man as he reaches it. Bobby stares at it for a second before he heads inside.

"Oh, uh, don't worry about your gear." Tommy calls after him. "I'll make sure your oxygen tanks are full when I head back in."

Bobby stops, his foot falling heavily onto the next stair.

"I didn't ask you to do that, Kinard. Just like I didn't ask you to stop me from reaching that crib."

Tommy's eyebrows knit in confusion.

"I know you wanted to rescue that baby, Cap. I did as well but you would have gone through the floor with him. You could have died, too."

Tommy sees Bobby's jaw tick, like he's angry that that exact scenario didn't play out.

"You're right, Tommy. But I gladly would have given my life so that a mother wouldn't have to be grieving the loss of her little boy tonight."

And with that, Bobby continues downstairs until Tommy hears the inner door to the stairwell open and close again.

Bobby's words play through his head as he stumbles away from the door, dropping down into one of the folding chairs they keep on the roof. He sinks into the uncomfortable plastic, arms coming up to wrap around himself like a hug.

There is a chill that has settled over his bones, and it isn't from the light breeze blowing across his exposed arms.

Tommy was able to save his captain, and that should feel good, and it had for a brief moment. But now it just feels like he's messed up.

Like Bobby wanted Tommy to let him fall.

Tommy wants to chalk it up to the emotions of the call. They lost a kid. Everyone involved is going to have to live with that for the rest of their lives. The 118 haven't experienced a lose like this since Bobby took over as captain.

Tommy sighs, runs a hand down his face. it comes away covered in soot, and he cringes, wiping it on his pants.

A few hours later, after he came down from the roof, had a shower, and checked both his and Bobby's oxygen tanks, he heads upstairs to grab a drink. As he reaches the top of the stairs, Bobby steps out of his office. Tommy stops where he is, watches Bobby as he crosses over to the coffee maker, and grabs one mug for coffee and then another. He fills them both up and sets one down across from him on the counter. Nodding towards it, Tommy takes the invitation and crosses the room, hoping onto the stool and pulling the cup towards him. They don't say anything to each other as they drink, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Every so often, Tommy will shoot Bobby a glance, and their eyes will meet before Tommy flicks his away quickly. Before long, both mugs are empty, and Tommy watches as Bobby fills his again before he starts back towards his office.

Tommy doesn't make a move to get up. He just stares down into his own empty mug until Bobby calls his name. Tommy turns to look at his captain, who has stopped just outside his office door.

"You did good tonight, Kinard." Bobby pauses, glances at the clock. "It's late. Make sure you get some sleep, Tommy."

Tommy blinks and hesitates before nodding.

"Yeah. You too, cap."

Bobby nods once, and then he's gone. Blocked from Tommy's view as the door clicks shut behind him.

Things feel back to the way they were before the call. The coldness that had come from his captain seems to have gone, replaced by the same man he's gotten to know these past few months.

And the cold stays away on their next call. And the many calls that come after that. They continue to work flawlessly together as a team under Bobby Nash's leadership. He praises them for their work and offers corrections and advice when needed. He cooks dinner, often asking for assistance from one of the others. When Tommy is called on, it's friendly between them. They go over the day, Bobby asks about the car Tommy's been trying to fix up. It's nice.

A few months later, after Tommy transfers to Harbor, Bobby catches him by his truck at the end of his last shift with them.

"We're gonna miss having you around, Kinard."

"I'm gonna miss you guys, too. But if you ever need a helicopter for anything, give me a call. I'll be there."

It makes Bobby smile and before Tommy knows it, he's grabbing Tommy's shoulder and pulling him in for a hug. They hold onto each other for a couple of seconds before Bobby is stepping away, his hand still resting on the younger man's shoulder.

"You're gonna do great things, Tommy Kinard. It's been an honor working with you."

Tommy nods, throat tight. Bobby gives his shoulder one last squeeze before he's pulling his hand away and heading back toward the doors. Tommy watches him go until he is completely out of sight.

And still Tommy stands there, staring at his old house. He stares for a few minutes before he's pulling his phone out, going to the group chat him, Howie and Hen set up.

"Watch out for Cap for me, yeah?"

Howie sends back about 10 thumbs up emojis.

"Always." Is Hen reply. And it comforts Tommy to know his team will always have each other's backs.

He just hopes he'll still be able to have theirs all the way from Harbor.

He's going to try like hell to make sure he does.

[dog-bimbo]

shiu n his sweet bimbo girlfriend part two :3 — 18+ only minors dni ! part 1

it all starts with shiu snapping his fingers at the salesgirl. you knew the pattern by now, your old man sure was a sick guy :( "that one." he says, pointing lazily at the display case—lacey, sheer, leopard print lingerie that looks like it was made just to be ripped off, “in her size.” you giggle and tug on his sleeve, pouting but you don't really mean it, “but i already have so many, shiu...” he leans in, lips brushing your ear, “'m not buying it for you, sweetheart. 'm buying it f'me.” the salesgirl looks nervous, her eyes darting between the two of you. you just look dumb and dizzy like you always do when he talks to you like that, it was obvious that you quite literally thought that it was for him. ten minutes later, you're in the changing room, trying it on. "c'mon... help me with the straps, won't ya'?" and he doesn't hesitate, not one bit. he pushes the curtain aside like he owns the place—and also, you.

"baby, i can't be around doin' everything for you...” he grins, stepping inside the small space and locking the door behind him. you start to mumble, one tit already spilling out of the sheer fabric. “but it’s kinda… hard, y'know?" and he's clutching onto his box of cigarettes and pulling one out as if he's going to fight a battle. "smokin' ain't allowed in here-" “oh baby, neither is this." his hands are on your hips before you can blink. he spins you toward the mirror, makes you look at yourself. “fuckin’ look at you. this little thing?" he pulls on the strap of the bra, "worth the price.” he let the strap go with a sharp snap and it slapped back against your skin, "ouch!" and then he’s pulling the crotch of the panties aside and sliding his dick into you like he needs it—like he’s been thinking about this the whole day.

you gasp, grabbing at the mirror for some balance, cheek pressed to the glass. his hands are firm on your hips, snapping you back onto him. "gonna ruin this pretty little set before you even get out the store,” he groans, breath hot in your ear as he thrusts shallowly. “they should be payin' me for putting this on you.” he busts into you within minutes, his hot cum painting your gummy walls white, "fuck, i kinda lost myself, didn't i?" he chuckles almost bashfully, pulling his cock out and thrusting two digits in to keep that cum from leaking down the dressing room. "what about me finishin', huh?" you whine, tears rolling down your eyes due to the frustration, you were so close. "don't be a brat," he whines too, mocking your tone, "wear this tonight and i'll take real good care of you..." your old man sure was one heck of a meanie too :( but he did compensate. on an ideal day, all he wantrd was to see you strut around stores and buy you your favourite things while he walked behind you with all of your bags.

[catssluvr]

migraines, van palmer

van palmer x fem!reader (817 words) (request)

in which you have a particularly bad migraine day and van does her best to take care of you.

warnings: chronic migraines, hurt/comfort, van being worried :(

ᝰ.ᐟ ᝰ.ᐟ

Van holds her breath as she slowly cracks the door open, doing her best to make the least amount of noise possible.

She lets her eyes adjust to the dark bedroom, glad to have had her blinds fixed just a few days ago. Being the reason of your increasing pain would cause the heaviness on her heart to feel even worse.

She can see your figure under all the covers, strands of hair peeking from them. It makes having to pull them from you feel even worse.

Quietly walking over to you, she sits on the soft covers and gently pulls them away until she can she your tightly shut eyes. You practically whimper in displease, bringing your finger to your temples.

"'M sorry, baby." Van whispers as lowly as possibly.

Bringing the cold towel in her hand to your forehead, she presses slightly at your temples and rubs your scalp with her free hand. Hating the way your discomfort doesn't seem to subside.

It's been like this for the whole day, now being late in the afternoon. She's starting to feel hopeless, barely having managed to make you eat the whole day while the pain stayed constant.

Van hesitates for a moment before saying, "Maybe we should pay the doctor a visit." It's no that she wants to, but if that means you'll feel better than so be it.

You immediately shake your head, hissing at the way it makes your eyes sting with pain.

"No." You decide on saying, voice coming out croaked and slightly harsh.

"Okay." She answers softly, choosing to not talk further.

She doesn't blame you for your tone, she wouldn't be nice to anyone either if her head felt like it might explode at any moment. Taking a glance at her watch, she realizes it's been enough time for you to take some meds again.

It's hard to know exactly how you feel or what you want, mostly with how unresponsive you've gotten.

Deciding it's probably a better idea to leave you in the quiet and come when she has your meds and an herbal tea ready, Van gets up from the bed with a sigh. She pushes away the waver of distressed tears.

You reach for her wrist, giving it a squeeze and opening your eyes slightly. "Don't go." You mumble.

"Just getting something to make you feel better, sweet thing." She smiles sweetly, pulling your hand to place a kiss on the back of it.

You force a smile on your face too, squeezing her hand once again before letting go of it, "'Kay." Before closing your eyes once again.

The redhead takes that as the first time all day in which you've showed to be pleased with one of her many attempts at making you feel better, relief washing over her.

Moving around in the kitchen, Van swiftly prepares your tea - making sure to pour it on your favourite mug in hopes of cheering you up even a little bit.

It's not long before she's back by your bedside, helping you sit up even with your protests and handing you your tea and meds.

You pat the bed beside you, urging her to lay beside you as you slowly sip your tea. "Yes, ma'am." Van obliges happily.

It's warm under the covers from you laying there all day, but you don't look as warm as you did before and that's enough to not make her panic.

"Feeling better?" She asks, sensing your mood better than it was a few minutes ago. Maybe siting up wasn't that bad of an idea.

"Mhm." You hum contently, setting your tea down before leaning heavily against her shoulder.

"Got me worried for a bit there." Van affirms with a kiss to your temple.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I've never been much of a doctor." She jokes with a huff.

"You did just fine." You reassure, sensing some honesty in her voice. Making her worried was not on your plans at all.

"How about i make us some soup for dinner?" She questions after a moment of silence, hopeful that she will get you to have a full meal until the day ends.

"Sure. Later, though." Your voice is a bit groggy, but it's not a no and that's good. Maybe after a nap. "Just don't burn down the kitchen again."

Your girlfriend chuckles in response, pulling you to lay down comfortably on the pillows before enveloping you in her arms. You bury your face in her chest, her heartbeat making you even sleepier than before.

You feel one of her hands cradling your head, gently massaging it with her fingers as the other pulls you the closest possible to her. You squeeze her waist in a thankful gesture.

The last thing you hear before falling into a slumber is a faint 'i love you', pulling one last smile to your lips as response.

[b1eedthefreak]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Blue Hair

⌇daryl dixon x reader

⌇summary: you loved daryl, he loved you, but he couldn’t let himself feel.

⌇warnings: angst angst angst

⌇word count: ~4.6k

a/n the request i got was if i could write based on the lyrics of blue hair “i guess ill just miss her, even though she isn’t really gone. things are just different.” <3 (notice how i made the title blue instead of pink? haha get it blue hair— ok ill stop..)

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It was supposed to be a simple run. A trip outside the gates for medicine, maybe some canned peaches, and whatever else they could find for the pantry. You and Daryl had done this countless times. He scouted, you kept track, made sure nothing got missed. You loved it. You loved any excuse to be near him, in the woods, on the road, or even driving back in silence with the sun warming his cheek. It was simple with him. Or maybe it used to be.

The day turned on its head somewhere between the old gas station and the back lot of a feed store. You weren’t paying attention, you saw a box of vitamins in a tipped-over cart and bent to grab it. You didn’t even hear them coming. Daryl did.

One guy had a knife pressed to your throat. Another was patting your pockets. It all ended in seconds… blood on the pavement, Daryl breathing hard, crossbow still aimed.

You looked at him with wide eyes, whispering, “I’m okay.”

But he didn’t take your hand. Didn’t ask if you were sure.

Instead, he exploded.

“What the hell were ya thinkin’?!” His voice was sharp, louder than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t ever look around, do ya? Always trailin’ after me like some damn dog. You even know how to protect yourself?”

You stood there, frozen.

“I ain’t always gonna be there, y’know!” he growled. “One day— one day I ain’t gonna make it in time. Then what?”

You said nothing.

And that was the last word between you both until you made it back to Alexandria.

The gates opened with a low groan and Aaron greeted you with a wave. “Hey! You two find anything good?”

You nodded faintly, holding a box of fruit. Daryl said nothing.

As you walked toward the pantry, Aaron clapped Daryl on the shoulder. “Man, I swear. You’re lucky. She’s sunshine.”

Daryl didn’t answer. Just turned and walked off toward the infirmary, needing space, needing anything but the echo of his own anger in his ears.

An hour passed. The sun was lower. And when he made his way back to the house you shared, the silence was deafening.

He climbed the stairs, expecting the quiet hum of your voice, maybe you brushing your hair or folding laundry like you always did when you were trying to settle your nerves.

Instead, he found you packing.

Your dresser drawers were open. Your bag half zipped. Your small stack of books was already tied together with string.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, voice low, heart thudding in his ears.

You looked at him. Calm. Tired. Empty.

“I’m leavin’,” you said simply.

He frowned. “Leavin’? Where the hell you gonna go?”

“I’m staying in Alexandria,” you clarified softly. “Just not here.”

You picked up a blouse and folded it carefully. “Daryl… I love you. But I’ve spent every day trying to reach a version of you that won’t let me in.”

He shook his head, confused, defensive. “I let you in.”

“No,” you said, gently. “You didn’t.”

You turned to face him fully now, eyes glassy but strong.

“You won’t let yourself feel anything, not really. You carry the whole world on your shoulders and forget that maybe I want to carry some of it too. But every time you push me out. Every time you explode or shut down or pretend I’m not someone you can lean on.”

He tried to step toward you, but you stepped back.

“I understand why you are the way you are. I do. You’ve lost people. You think if you stay hard, you’ll survive. But love isn’t weakness, Daryl. And I can’t keep being a stone next to someone who’s scared to feel.”

His jaw clenched. “I have to be strong.”

“I never asked you not to be.”

“I ain’t the boyfriend you want.”

Tears were slipping down your cheeks now.

“You’re the man I want,” you whispered. “But I can’t beg you to want me the same way back.”

He raised his voice then. “I do! I just— I can’t— You want me to sit here feelin’ everything all the time? People die, alright? Everyone we know — they could be gone tomorrow! So yeah, I shut it off. I have to.”

You stepped toward him, placing your hand on his cheek.

“Then I hope one day, you realize that loving someone doesn’t kill you, Daryl. It saves you.”

You kissed his cheek and walked toward the stairs.

He followed. “Where the hell are ya goin’?!”

“I told you.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your elbow.

“Leave then,” he snapped, more out of fear than anger. “I never needed anyone! Been fine by myself!”

You paused at the door, looking back one last time. “I know.”

Then you left.

The door shut behind you.

And everything fell silent.

Daryl stood there for a long moment. Then something cracked. He stumbled back, hand in his hair, chest heaving, and knocked the side table clean over. A glass shattered. A lamp hit the floor.

He sank to his knees and cried. For the first time in years, he cried.

—

Three months later,

You still lived in Alexandria. You had your own little cottage now near the gardens. You opened a bakery with Carol’s help. Cookies, breads, muffins, it was the coziest thing in the whole community.

People smiled when they saw you. You smiled back. You were okay.

Daryl watched from afar.

He never left Alexandria, but he never tried to talk to you again either. He wasn’t sure you’d want him to. He wasn’t sure he’d even know what to say.

He passed you sometimes. Once you were helping Judith decorate cupcakes. Another time you were sweeping your porch, music playing low from a small solar radio.

You looked happy.

He tried to be happy too.

And then one day, he went on a run again. Alone.

While sitting around a fire with a few good people they’d met, someone asked, “You ever lose someone?”

He stared at the flames for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I did. I miss her.”

“What happened?”

He paused. Picked at the label of a water bottle.

“She ain’t really gone,” he said, voice rough. “But things’re just… different now.”

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to.

The fire cracked, and Daryl sat back.

And somewhere, deep down, he wished he’d just let himself feel.

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[wendichester]

can you write smth about cas x reader where shes autistic and dean and sam dont know how to handle her because one minute she's fine, the next shes not and only cas knows how to handle her? absolutely no pressure sweetheart, love your work and would love to see your where you take it 🫶🏼🩷

𓍯𓂃 the language only you speak,

summary. you're overwhelmed. the noises. the lighting. the air. everything's too much. everything but castiel. castiel is everything you need.

pairing. castiel x autistic!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 756

notes / warnings. soft cas being the best emotional support angel 🩷

It starts small. It always does.

The bunker’s too loud tonight. Dean’s clanging around in the kitchen, and Sam’s arguing with him over something dumb, and the lights are too bright, and the hum of the AC feels like it’s drilling into the soft spot behind your eyes.

You try to smile. You try to be normal.

But it’s like your skin is wearing you instead of the other way around. Everything itches. Everything scrapes.

“Hey,” Dean says, tossing a beer cap onto the counter. “You okay?”

You nod too fast, too hard. The wrong rhythm. Dean’s eyebrows pinch, confused. Sam glances at you, then at Dean, like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces they can’t find.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Dean shifts awkwardly. “Uh… well, we're gonna watch a movie if you wanna—"

“No,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. "No thank you."

The words are stiff, clunky, mechanical. They feel wrong. You feel wrong.

Sam frowns. “You sure? It’s not scary or anything. It’s just—”

“I said no," you choke out, pressing your palms to your thighs, grounding yourself. "I’m fine. I'm fine."

You can tell they don’t believe you.

They exchange that look — the one where they don’t know if they should back off or push. The one that makes you feel like a bomb with a missing timer. Dangerous, unstable.

You bolt.

You don’t mean to. You just have to.

The hallway spins around you as you speed-walk to your room, shutting the door quietly (quietly, you have to stay good, you have to stay polite, don’t slam it, don’t draw more attention).

You sit on the bed, wrapping your arms around yourself, fighting back the burn building behind your eyes.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. They probably think you’re crazy.

You're so lost in the spiral you almost don’t hear the soft knock on your door.

“Can I come in?” Cas.

You nod, even though he can't see you.

He enters gently, not saying anything. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light. He doesn’t stomp his boots. He just crosses the room like he's made of water and weightless things, and sits beside you on the bed.

“I could sense your distress,” he says simply.

You blink rapidly. “I’m fine.”

Cas tilts his head. "That is a common lie among humans."

The smallest, tiniest huff of a laugh escapes you. It cracks the shell you’re in just enough to breathe.

Cas waits.

Not like the others do — not heavy with expectation, not pacing in impatience — but truly waits. Like there’s all the time in the universe and he’s already given it to you.

You squeeze your hands together so tight it hurts. “It’s just... sometimes everything’s too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too everything.”

Cas nods, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you just told him the sky is blue.

“They don't mean to make it worse,” you whisper. “They just... don’t know what to do with me.”

“They love you,” Cas says quietly. “But they do not understand you the way you deserve.”

You blink again, tears finally breaking free. Cas reaches out — slow, careful — and places his hand over yours.

Warmth. Steady. Anchor.

“You are not a burden,” he says. His voice hums like a prayer. “Your feelings are not wrong. Your needs are not wrong. You are not wrong.”

You clutch his hand like a lifeline. Like a tether pulling you back to the earth.

“I don’t know how to make them not... uncomfortable," you admit, voice shaking. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You are not a problem,” Cas says firmly. “You are a person. One who experiences the world more sharply, perhaps. But that is not something to fix. It is something to cherish.”

You hiccup a soft, broken laugh. “Dean would probably disagree.”

Cas’s mouth twitches into something almost-smile. “Dean is often wrong.”

You snort. Cas squeezes your hand, just once.

“They will learn,” he says. "I will help them."

You look at him — this strange, stubborn, tender creature who always sees the parts of you you try to hide — and for the first time tonight, your chest feels a little lighter.

You lean your head against his shoulder. He lets you. No flinching, no fidgeting, no trying to fix you. Just there.

Just enough.

Maybe you’re not broken after all.

Maybe you just needed someone who speaks the same language.

And Cas? Cas is fluent in you.

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