#I meant to make one eye blind but I forgot

[22ayla21]

Boommyy, can you pls do a Fanfic about announcing your first pregnancy to Mydei (if you had done it already it's fine ❤). A mix with angst and confort, like what would be his reaction ad perhaps krateros involved.

Thanks in advance dear writerrrr

Life Among Shadows

When a warrior hardened in the abyss learns he will become a father, he must confront his mentor, whose convictions threaten to destroy what little remains of his humanity.

Mydei sat on the veranda, and the early morning, gray and cool, slowly washed over the stones around him. Shadows stretched out like frozen limbs. His palms, usually covered in the rough marks of battle, now trembled slightly. Not from fatigue, and certainly not from pain. In them rested a simple amulet of rose quartz, carved in the shape of a heart – an unpretentious gift, but one that meant more to him than any crown.

She slept in the room, a quiet, peaceful smile lingering on her lips. Her breathing was even and calm. She didn't know he had gone out. And he couldn't sleep. Not after her whisper echoed in the dimness of the room: "Mydei… I'm carrying your child."

The world suddenly constricted in his chest, as if he had stepped into the Sea of Souls again, but this time without a sword. Joy, terror, a sense of reverence, and a sudden ache – all mingled, turning his heart into a raging storm. He spent the rest of the night in silence, listening to her breath, peering into the half-light where a new, overwhelming thought now took root: I will be a father.

"Who am I now?" he wondered frantically. "The heir to a dead throne? A protector of foreign lands? A living weapon cursed by prophecy? Or simply a man capable of loving and being loved?"

The steps behind him were almost silent, but he unmistakably sensed Krateros's approach. In this world, there was no one whose presence he felt so acutely. The old warrior, mentor, friend – and eternal opponent.

"You knew," Mydei said calmly but tensely, without turning around. "Of course, you knew."

"She has changed," Krateros replied, stepping closer. "I am not blind, boy."

Mydei snorted softly. "She is not part of my world. I am part of hers."

"So much the worse."

Krateros lowered himself beside him, exhaling sharply through his teeth. The gray in his beard had thickened, the wrinkles deepened, but his eyes remained the same: gray, piercing, like honed steel.

"You cannot afford this, Mydeimos. A child? A family? You have not yet finished your path. The prophecy still hangs over you. The God of Kremnos lives. This world needs you not as a father. But as a sword."

"And what if I don't want to be a sword?"

"Then you will break. Or you will break others. You are too strong to be merely human. And too scarred to become a father."

Mydei raised his head. His gaze was heavy, but without a trace of anger.

"I spent nine years in the Sea of Souls, Krateros. Nine. Without light. Without warmth. I forgot what an embrace felt like. I killed creatures whose gaze scorched flesh. I learned to survive. But not to live. She… she brought me back to life. Her hands are not a weakness. They are my anchor."

"You have already changed," Krateros whispered, shaking his head. "Become softer."

"And I can still tear a warrior in half without a blade," Mydei retorted sharply. "Softness is not weakness. It is what makes us human."

The mentor fell silent, gazing thoughtfully into the distance. Mydei looked again at the amulet in his palm.

"I don't know who my child will be. A prince of Kremnos? The child of a foreigner? A half-blood in the eyes of the nobility? But I know one thing. I will not be the father who is cursed. I will not repeat his mistakes."

"Are you ready to die for this?"

"I already died once, in that abyss. Now I live. And for this, yes, I am ready to die."

Krateros looked at him for a long time, almost with sadness. Then he exhaled softly.

"You have grown, boy. Become a man. But you have chosen a difficult path. The world does not forgive warriors who learn to love."

"Then I will teach this world to forgive."

They sat in silence, looking at the eternally clear sky of Okhema.

"And also…" Mydei said, rising, "she wants to name the child after you. If it's a boy."

Krateros snorted, turning away.

"Then he is doomed to be stubborn. And too honest."

Mydei smiled faintly and went back inside, to her. To the woman whose heart he had sworn to protect. To the child he had not yet held, but already loved.

He was still a warrior. Still a lion without a pride. But now – with those for whom it was worth fighting. And perhaps, with that for which it was worth becoming something more, not through blood and conquest, but through love.

[thedangoratio]

Saw that cheerleader wukong was resurfacing, so I thought I’d have a little bit of silly fun with that 🤭

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face. 

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager. 

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive." 

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?" 

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?" 

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah? 

Only time would tell. 

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face. 

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings. 

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong. 

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point. 

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you love cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it. 

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts. 

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now. 

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him. 

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked. 

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it. 

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology. 

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it. 

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him. 

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe.  "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. 

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore. 

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? 

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat. 

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

 “Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place. 

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything. 

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?” 

You looked down at your feet. “No.” 

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

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@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[tsunaso]

HEAR ME OUT

Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)

Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced

Thank you! 💖💖

“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”

pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader

synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort

The room was quiet.

Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.

Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still. He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat. Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.

You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.

And he was flawless. That was the problem.

"You're not breathing," you said quietly.

Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath. He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."

"For what?"

He paused. "To give you what you want."

You let that sit. Let him feel it.

Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.

"Look at me."

He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.

You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.

“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”

“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”

He stiffened.

“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”

A silence followed. Longer this time.

You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.

You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”

He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”

“That being owned can feel like being protected.”

His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.

But he was still listening.

So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.

"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”

Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.

"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."

His breath hitched. Slightly.

"You have a safeword. And you will use it."

You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”

He froze.

And there it was.

That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.

But it did.

Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched. But he hadn’t melted either. He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt. Obedient, yes—but not present.

You didn’t want that again.

“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.

His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.

You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”

He went still.

“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.

You tilted his chin up.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet. Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a promise.

You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t stop you.

And now—now he knelt.

He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.

The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance. Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence. Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.

“You’re trembling.”

His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”

He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.

You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.

“I want to hear you say your safeword.”

“…Now?”

“Yes.”

His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.

You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.

“Say it for me, Aventurine.”

“…Citrine.”

The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.

“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”

You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.

And now here you were, asking him to surrender.

You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.

By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.

“Color?” you asked softly.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “Give me your color.”

“…Green.”

Safe. Uncertain, but safe.

You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.

“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”

He swallowed hard.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”

He shivered.

“…Yes, Master.”

There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.

You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.

“Sit back on your heels.”

He obeyed.

You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.

Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.

“Say it.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”

“Who you are.”

His throat bobbed.

You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.

“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”

“…You.”

“That’s not enough.”

He shuddered.

“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”

The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.

And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.

This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.

You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.

“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”

You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.

“You’re going to listen.”

Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.

“You’re going to obey.”

You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.

“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”

He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.

“Color?” you asked, voice warm.

“…Green,” he whispered.

You smiled.

“Good slave.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.

He looked free.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.

The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.

He was breathing a little too fast again.

You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.

“Color?”

“…Green,” he whispered.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”

His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.

You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.

“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”

Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.

You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”

He made a noise—small, breathy.

“I want to see how messy I can make you.”

Another whimper. This one sharper.

You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.

"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."

You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.

"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”

He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.

“You’re mine, Aventurine.”

He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”

You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.

"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”

He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.

“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”

Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.

"Color?" you murmured against him.

“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”

You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.

"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"

He moaned—loud.

So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.

“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”

His cock twitched in your fist.

"Say it."

“I—”

"Say what you are.”

“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.

You squeezed.

"Not good enough."

“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”

"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."

You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.

"You’re mine, aren’t you?"

“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"

And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.

And the word fell from his lips:

“Yellow.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not in failure.

In readiness.

Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.

“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”

His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”

You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.

“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.

You held him.

“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”

You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.

He was trembling now.

And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”

He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.

“…So we can still—?”

You smiled.

“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”

You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.

“I want you to give me your surrender.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.

Not from fear. Not from regret. From how much it was.

He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.

“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”

His breath caught.

Then, “Yes, Master.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering.

“What’s that?”

You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.

“Time.”

You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.

Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.

And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”

Aventurine shuddered.

“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”

You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.

“Like this.”

Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.

“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”

“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”

You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”

He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.

"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."

You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.

“M-Master—”

You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.

“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.

Not endure you.

Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”

He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.

“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”

You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.

But he didn’t say yellow.

He didn’t say stop.

He pushed back.

You grinned.

“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”

He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.

"Say it."

“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”

You laughed—low, hot, proud.

“Oh, my sweet little slut.”

He gasped—choked on it.

You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”

“…Y-yes—”

“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”

His whole body seized.

“F-fuck—!”

You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.

He sobbed at the loss.

You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.

He pushed back instantly.

"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."

“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”

And you gave him exactly what he asked for.

You sank in.

All the way.

Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.

Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.

“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.

You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.

“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”

He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.

“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”

You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.

He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.

You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.

“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”

You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”

He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”

You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.

“Say it.”

“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”

He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.

“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”

Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”

You slammed in hard. He screamed.

“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”

“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”

You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.

“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”

“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”

His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.

You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.

“You want to cum, slut?”

He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Then fucking ask.”

“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”

You grinned.

“Cum for me, slave.”

He screamed.

His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.

He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.

You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.

You kissed his shoulder.

“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”

He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.

Only peace.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You didn’t let go of him. Not once. Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.

You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.

And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.” Over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.

You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”

His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.

You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.

You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.

He was still kneeling.

Silent.

Shaking.

You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.

You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.

“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.

“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”

“Slow is good.”

Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”

“You won’t.”

You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.

“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.

“…Yes.”

“Does it still feel like a leash?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.

He swallowed.

“I kept waiting for it.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”

Your breath stilled.

He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”

You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.

“I know.”

“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”

You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.

“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”

His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.

“But none of them ever stopped.”

You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.

“…And you did.”

You didn’t say of course. You didn’t say I’m not like them.

You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”

And something inside him shattered.

He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.

Not from shame.

From being seen.

You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.

“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.

“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”

His breath hitched.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”

“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”

His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“…Was I good?”

You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.

“You were perfect.”

He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”

He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.

You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“…Anything.”

“What do you want me to call you now?”

You didn’t rush it.

“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”

He blinked.

His breath caught in his chest.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”

You nodded. “It does.”

He looked at you, startled.

You smiled.

“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.

You leaned close, nose to his cheek.

“Until you decide… I’ll call you what I see.”

He swallowed.

“And what’s that?” he whispered.

You kissed the edge of his collar.

“My beloved.”

[bi-writes]

ok simon and his mail order bride live rent-free in my head now and, like, what i wanna know is what their anniversaries look like? not just their one year anniversary, but also their fifth or tenth? how does it change as they settle into that deep comfortability that comes with being with someone a long time? -391780

this piece i still consider canon mail-order bride, but i see it almost as an extra than a continuation of the current story since it is very much in the future of that timeline. <3

mail-order bride

it's difficult to see the potential of something so mangled. sometimes things are so worn out and so used that they don't reflect what their purpose was. instead of function, they see flaw. instead of value, they see waste.

sometimes you wonder if that's what they saw in you. sometimes you wonder if that's why you were given to him.

that's what they made him. simon was a tortured dog they let loose. they saw value, but only what was left, and perhaps they thought something like you might help them squeeze just that little bit more out of him. one more year. one more op.

the sunlight wakes you up. you forgot to pull the blinds, but when you see simon sleeping peacefully next to you, it's worth it to be up so early. you know as soon as you move, he will wake, so you keep still for just a few more minutes.

today marks ten. he doesn't look much older. he seems to have stopped aging ever since you asked him to put in his papers.

like always, as soon as you sit up, simon blinks awake. he's bleary, but conscious, and when your eyes meet, you smile at him. he lifts his big hand and rubs your back gently. you don't speak any words so early in the morning, but you don't have to. there isn't much to say when the love of your life loves you, and you love them back.

you push the blankets off, giggling when you reveal the black and orange balls of fur that blink up at you. they almost seem irritated that you interrupted their sleep, snuggled in the heat that simon radiated. they'll just have to deal with it.

you drag your hand down simon's leg wordlessly. you hear his deep breaths from behind, and you reach into your bedside table to press a little balm into your hand before spreading the ointment across his knee and under it. you work it into the muscles nice and slow; any faster, and simon will hitch his breath in pain, and you'll have to start over.

you kiss his knee before laying back down, settling into his side, and you lift up your left hand, wiggling your fingers knowingly at him before looking up towards his face. he smiles down at you sleepily, raising his hand to cup your fingers.

"still love me?" you ask softly, and simon pretends to think about.

"mmm..." he rumbles. "still love ya."

"but do you still like me?"

"more everyday."

the first few years were spent trying to play catch-up. fancy dinners, expensive gifts, handwritten letters that could've been novels to try and stuff the love you have for each other all in one night. they were all wonderful; you think about those nights all the time, and you cherish the gifts he's given you like they are a part of you, but today feels different.

today might not be just another day, but it's just as special as yesterday. and the day before that. and the day before that.

when it's time to really wake up, you let simon guide you. he walks easy, barely a limp, and he sits you down at your vanity to help you do your hair as you add your serums and moisturizers. he's good with that brush, running it through gently, parting your hair the way you like so he can tie it up. he'd braid your hair if you asked him to (he said it wasn't unlike all the knots he knows how to tie--and he meant it, no one dutch braids like him), but you know your show came out last night, and you want to watch them with the scones you have proofing in the fridge.

he makes the coffee and tea while you set the scones in the oven. you fill the cat's bowls while he cleans out the water fountain. it's wordless, the morning routine, but you like the times when you brush by him. when your arm runs against his. when your hands bump going for the same cabinet. when he leans down as he passes you, kissing along your jaw before he keeps walking.

bliss. fucking bliss.

he's waiting for you in the living room once you pull the scones out of the oven. your coffee sits on the table on its coaster, in your favorite mug, and he's under your blanket as he flips through the tv. he already knows what you'll want to watch, and you bite back your smile when you notice him typing it into the search bar because he didn't see it when he scrolled past (you keep telling him to wear his glasses, but he'll never listen).

you take a seat next to him, thumbing at his cheek, and he takes a scone off the plate before biting into it. he smiles when he tastes chocolate, looking at you knowingly, and you reach for his hand as you settle against his chest.

you used to be mangled, too. a mess. pretty on the outside, dying on the inside. all fried wires, a traumatized animal, learned behavior of relieve and appease that kept you out of trouble and out of sight.

you have never seen simon this way. and simon has never seen you this way. no hopeless potential. no wasted space. no diminishing value.

i matter because you matter. you matter because i matter.

hidden, not broken. disguised, not incomplete. you did not have jagged edges, only armor that you tried to put up to protect yourself.

you tip your head back to look up at him, and when he cups your jaw to stare back at you, you're relieved by what you see in his eyes.

ten years. it will be nothing like forever. it will be nothing like your next life, nor like the life after that. it's comforting to know what home looks like. maybe you will recognize it the way you recognized it in this life.

no, that can't be it.

you recognized it because it had already happened. in some other time, in some other place, you were sitting where you sit now, looking at simon the way you look at him now.

you knew who he was before you even met him, and you will know who he is when you meet him again.

[psformybss]

Can you do one where the public reacts badly towards Drew’s secret?fiancée? I know you have done a good one but can you do a bad one?

When the World Knew

series masterlist

warnings: internet hate, secret relationship reveal, angst, emotional distress, comfort, death threats (mentioned), protective!Drew, hurt/comfort

an: fun fact i originally wanted to make the reveal angsty, actually wrote a few different versions of it and this one is one of them except more angsty than it originally was

The day they got caught was golden.

Not metaphorically—actually golden.

The light, the laughter, the way the ocean curled around their ankles as they kissed. Teddy chased a gull down the shoreline. Drew held her hand like it was second nature, like no one was watching. Because they thought—hoped—no one was.

For a few sacred hours, it was just them and the surf. A soft kind of joy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the picture hit the internet like a match to dry brush.

By morning, it was a fire.

By evening, it was an inferno.

And by the next day, it was war.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone.

She shouldn’t have.

But the moment she saw her face plastered across fan accounts, tagged in screenshots of that photo, the dread sank into her like a stone in water.

They had found her.

Not just her name—her Instagram. Her photos. Her old high school posts. Her graduation selfie with Drew’s arm around her waist. The blurry prom pic she forgot even existed.

And they ripped her apart.

Her DMs were flooded.

“You’ll never be enough for him.”

“He deserves better.”

“You’re ruining his career.”

“He could have any woman he wants, and he chose you?”

Then it got worse.

“Die.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“He’ll leave you. They always do.”

She locked her phone and sat in the silence of their bedroom, blinds drawn, heart thudding behind her ribs like a warning bell. Her skin itched. Her throat burned. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to scream or throw up.

Teddy barked from the living room. She didn’t move.

Her hands were shaking.

Drew found out during a scene break on set.

His phone vibrated nonstop—texts from his sister, his publicist, old high school friends, “Check Instagram now.”

He pulled up Instagram.

Saw the photos.

Saw the screenshots.

Saw the hate.

Saw her name trending.

He didn’t even tell the director he was leaving.

She didn’t hear him come in.

She was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, eyes blank. Her phone was on the counter with the screen turned face-down.

He said her name once—softly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Hey. Baby. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Shiny. Empty.

“They found me,” she said, voice hollow. “They found everything.”

Drew’s stomach twisted.

“They’re sending death threats.”

She blinked, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“They said I should kill myself so you can be free.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She didn’t fight it. Just collapsed against his chest like she had nothing left holding her up.

“I thought I could handle it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t think it would be this.”

His jaw clenched. He stroked her hair like it could ground her. Like maybe if he held her close enough, none of it would stick.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice raw. “They don’t get to touch you like this.”

“I feel disgusting,” she choked. “Like I ruined everything. Like I’m the villain in their fantasy.”

“No. No,” he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “This is not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

“We waited, Drew. We waited. We wanted it to be ours. Safe. Now they’ve taken even that.”

He saw it then—the heartbreak buried beneath the fear. Not just the backlash. But the grief of losing something sacred.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “You did. You always have.”

That night, Drew didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside him, silent tears soaking into his hoodie. He stayed awake, watching the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the slight hitch of her breath. Every time her phone buzzed on the nightstand, he had to force himself not to throw it across the room.

By dawn, he’d had enough.

He opened Instagram. Sat on the edge of their bed. Hit record.

No lights. No filters. Just a man and his fury.

“If you’re my fan,” he said, “you don’t get to send death threats to the woman I love.”

His voice was low, but it shook.

“She’s been part of my life since we were kids. Before the shows. Before the cameras. She has never once asked for attention or clout or anything from me but love.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now, because someone snapped a picture, she’s being harassed, threatened—told to die. All because she wears a ring I gave her.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m done being quiet. This isn’t just internet drama. This is real. This is the woman I’m going to marry, and you’re hurting her.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“If you say you care about me—really care—then stop. Right now. Because I won’t stand by and watch you destroy the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He posted it without rewatching.

Then he turned off his phone.

And climbed back into bed.

The internet fractured.

Some fans doubled down—called him whipped, dramatic, claimed he was “blaming his supporters.”

But others fought back harder.

“This woman has done nothing wrong. Leave her alone.”

“Imagine being with your high school sweetheart and people think you’re the villain?”

“I can’t believe how disgusting people are being. Drew’s right to be furious.”

“Love like this doesn’t happen often. Protect it.”

Slowly, the tide shifted.

Not fully. But enough.

She could breathe again.

Not because the hate was gone.

But because he didn’t let her drown in it alone.

They stayed inside for a few days.

Ordered takeout. Watched comfort movies. Played music too loud just to block out the world.

Drew held her through the panic. Sat with her through the silence.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he was building a new shield around her every time.

And eventually, she started to come back to herself.

She started answering texts again. Opened her camera roll and smiled at pictures of Teddy chasing his tail. Sat on their back porch with her knees pulled to her chest and said, “Maybe one day we’ll laugh about this.”

Drew kissed her temple.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

[skyguytoast]

REQUEST: ANAKIN X PALPATINE’S DAUGHTER!READER

SYNOPSIS: Anakin discovers that his sweet girlfriend is Palpatine's daughter and the betrayal blinds him.

WARNING:  a little angst but then it's just fluff

WORDS:  2.4k

A/N: hiiiii, big thanks to @andres-galans-wife for the amazing idea — I loved writing this one and I hope it captures the vibe you were going for! as always, my inbox is open for requests, don’t be shy 🥺✨ also… I was thinking about the ROTS (as I do like... constantly) and ughhh anakin is just pure tragedy wrapped in pretty boy rage and i’ll never be normal about it 😭 hope you enjoy reading — comments & reblogs mean the world to me 🫶💫 kisses & happy scrolling 💋 Dividers by @cafekitsune

If it hadn’t already been enough — Obi-Wan, his master, his brother — had asked him to spy on the Chancellor. Not in those exact words, of course. Obi-Wan was too measured for that, too careful. But the request was clear enough: report back, tell us what he says, what he’s doing. Keep your eyes open.

It had shaken something inside him. The Jedi, with all their codes and their high-minded ideals, had given him the most vile of tasks: betrayal. They didn’t trust him. Not with the truth. Not with the war. Not with anything. And yet, they expected him to betray the one person who had — for years — treated him as more than a pawn.

And Palpatine… Palpatine had seen it coming. Had warned him. Had whispered the truth. That the Jedi were plotting something. That they feared Anakin's power. That he had never been more than a weapon to them. And then—he asked for the same thing. To be his eyes. His ears. His shield against the very people who claimed to love him.

It was maddening — being pulled in every direction, not knowing who to trust, not knowing where to stand without the ground cracking beneath him. But in the midst of that chaos, there was you.

Sweet. Fierce. Steady.

You were the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was being torn apart. The Senator with a gentle heart and fire in your voice. The one who stood up for clones, who cared about Jedi, who looked at him like he was more than the sum of what everyone wanted from him.

He had clung to you like a drowning man. And now...

Now he could hardly look at you.

The apartment was quiet. Moonlight spilled across the glossy floor, broken only by the slow, menacing pacing of his boots. He stood near the window, facing away from you, his reflection fragmented by the glass.

“Are you his daughter?”

His voice was ice. No greeting. No softness. Just a razor-sharp question that split the air between you.

You froze. Your breath caught. “Ani—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked like a whip, cutting that name in two. He turned, slowly, eyes wide and burning — a storm of blue, rimmed with red. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

You stepped toward him, trembling. “I didn’t lie to you. I never meant to keep it from you, I just—”

“You just what?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Just forgot to mention that the man tearing the galaxy apart is your father? That the one person I can’t hardly trust might have sent his own daughter to spy on me?”

You shook your head desperately, the silk of your robe whispering around your knees. “I’m not spying on you. Ani, I love you—”

He let out a laugh — bitter, broken, and laced with something unhinged.

“Love?” His voice cracked. “You think this is love? You think I can believe anything you say now?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to step closer, but he took a step back, as if your touch might burn him.

“You knew what this would do to me. You knew. And you let me fall anyway.”

“I didn’t choose him!” you cried. “I chose you. Every time, I choose you!”

“Liar!” he roared.

You stumbled back, startled by the sheer ferocity in his voice. His hands were clenched into fists, trembling. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. You didn’t recognize him — not the boy who carved you tiny gifts, who curled into your lap on bad nights, who held your hand like it tethered him to the galaxy.

This wasn’t him. This was a man blinded by betrayal.

“Did you tell him about me?” he asked, voice low now, dangerous. “Did you tell him about the dreams? The things I said when I couldn’t sleep? Did you whisper in his ear every time I kissed you and thought I was safe?”

“No,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “I never—I never betrayed you.”

But he didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

His shoulders shook with rage, but behind it — beneath it — you saw it. The grief. The heartbreak. The unbearable idea that he might have let his last safe place crumble from under him.

“I would have burned the stars for you,” he whispered, eyes glistening. “And you—you were his daughter all along.”

Silence fell again. Thick. Suffocating.

“I know, I am,” you breathed, your voice trembling, eyes swimming with tears. “But that doesn’t change anything—I’m still the girl you fell in love with.”

Your knees hit the cold floor with a soft thud, silk pooling around you like the ruin of something once beautiful. You didn’t care about dignity, pride, or appearances. If crawling would bring him back to you, you would cross Tatooine’s twin suns on bleeding knees. You reached out, fingers clawing at the edges of his black cloak, clinging to him like the last piece of solid ground before the fall.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just listen to me.”

Anakin didn’t move. His silhouette towered above you like a shadow cast from a darker version of himself. His jaw was clenched, his eyes wild—burning blue rimmed in betrayal.

“How do you expect me to believe you,” he spat, his voice low, acidic, “when you didn’t trust me first?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat like thorns.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked now, louder, more jagged. “Why didn’t you tell me you were his daughter? You sat there, every night, letting me talk about him—about the man who played father to me when the Jedi wouldn’t. You knew what he meant to me. You knew, and you said nothing.”

His hand shot out and caught your arm. It wasn’t violent, not yet—but the grip was iron. He stared down at you, his expression twisted not with rage, but devastation. His voice broke.

“Did you laugh at me? Did you lie in bed beside me and laugh at how pathetic I was, opening up to both of you, not realizing how long you’d been circling me like a trap?”

“No!” you cried, grasping at his cloak tighter. “Ani—no, never! He didn’t ask me to spy on you, I swear it! I would’ve refused if he had! I love you—Force, I love you more than anything! You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me—ever. I would never hurt you.”

But your words only made it worse.

His voice dropped into something cold. Empty.

“And yet,” he murmured, “it was your delicate hand that twisted the knife in my chest.”

You didn’t have time to react before he shoved you back.

You didn’t register the movement until your back collided with the stained-glass divider between the living room and kitchen. The glass cracked with a sickening, sharp sound as you crumpled to the floor, air knocked from your lungs. A bloom of pain shot through your shoulder and ribs, but worse than that was the look on his face when you looked up.

It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t rage. It was shock.

Like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he hadn’t realized what he was capable of until it was already done.

You whimpered softly, trying to sit up, the cold of the floor biting through your skin. Blood bloomed along your hairline. “Ani…?”

Anakin’s blue eyes widened, the once-bright fire behind them dimming into a shade of shattered melancholy. The realization hit him like a lightsaber to the gut—he had hurt you. In a blink. In a storm of blind rage and betrayal, he had done the one thing he swore he never would.

He crossed the room in an instant, propelled by panic, the Force bending around him with unnatural speed. He fell to his knees beside you, trembling as he gathered your injured form into his arms. You were so small against him, too still, too fragile. His breath caught as he felt the warmth of your blood seeping through your clothes, onto his hands.

"No, no, no..." he murmured, burying his face in your hair, his arms locking tightly around you. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—please, please forgive me."

You pressed your face into his shoulder, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay, Ani. I’m okay.”

Your fingers, gentle despite the pain, brushed the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The tenderness in your touch made him shudder. “I’m fine,” you whispered again.

“But I—” His voice cracked, thick with anguish. “I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. I just—”

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks now, warm and relentless. They dripped into the crook of your neck, into your hair, into the palm of your hand as you reached up and cradled his face. His hands shook where they held you. His breath came in broken gasps.

“I could’ve killed you,” he whispered. “If I hadn’t stopped, if I hadn’t seen” He couldn't finish the sentence. The weight of what he had almost done crushed his chest.

He wasn’t a man anymore. He wasn’t a Jedi. He was a monster.

“Ani, look at me,” you murmured.

He didn’t want to—not at first. He didn’t think he deserved to. But your voice called to something deep inside him. Something soft. Something human. Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes met yours.

And in them, he didn’t find anger. Or fear.

He found love.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “It’s not your fault. I should have told you the truth—that my father is the Chancellor. But I was scared. Scared it would change us. Scared I’d lose you. So I lied. I rushed into something and ended up digging the grave of our love.”

He closed his eyes, pained. His hand reached up and gently tucked your hair behind your ear, but paused when his fingers brushed the cut on your forehead. You winced.

His face twisted. “I hate that you didn’t tell me,” he said, his voice no longer furious but broken. “I do feel betrayed. But... I can’t pretend it all meant nothing. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel it—every moment. I don’t want to believe it wasn’t real.”

Your gaze locked with his, and in that shared silence, something passed between you. Something deep.

“Everything we had was real, Ani,” you whispered. “My love for you is real. If you need to use the Force on me, do it. See for yourself. But please—don’t leave. Don’t let what we have fall to ruin.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his lips trembling, your words sinking into his chest like seeds taking root.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Maybe, just maybe, he could find his way back to you.

And maybe, you were still his way back to himself.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” Anakin murmured, voice low and aching as his arms slid under your body. “Please… let me apologize properly.”

You didn’t resist when he gathered you into his embrace, lifting you effortlessly off the cold floor. Your cheek rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart thudding beneath layers of black tunic and guilt. He carried you past the shattered remnants of the stained-glass divider, the floor glittering with crimson-smeared shards like the remains of something sacred and broken.

Anakin laid you gently on the couch, moving with the reverence of a man handling something far more fragile than your battered body—your trust. His hands hesitated as they reached for the robe you wore loosely over your silk nightgown, his eyes flicking to yours in silent question.

You gave him a small, encouraging nod.

Carefully, he slipped the robe from your shoulders, checking your arms, your legs, your back for any glass embedded in the skin. His movements were cautious, tender, almost afraid. As if he feared the force of his own touch. As if loving you too hard might break you all over again.

Then he knelt in front of you, the first aid kit at his side, the fabric of his cloak pooling around his knees. He was quiet, almost trembling as he cleaned the cut on your forehead. The antiseptic stung, and your breath hitched, but you didn’t complain—not when you saw the way his hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, as he dabbed at the wound with trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” you said softly, offering him the gentlest smile.

When he applied the bacta salve, the cool, slick gel sent a chill through your skin, goosebumps rising instantly. He muttered another apology under his breath, frowning as he smoothed the gel over the cut with such concentration, as though this small act of care could erase what he’d done.

Once he was certain you were properly treated, he leaned back slightly, looking at you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be this close anymore.

But you reached out first.

Your fingers brushed his cheek, coaxing him forward. And that was all he needed. He scooped you back into his arms, clutching you like a man who had just found the one thing he’d feared he'd lost.

“This time,” he whispered against your temple, “I’m taking you to bed… so I can hold you through it. So I can be there. Like I should’ve been.”

You nodded, tears burning your eyes, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “I want that,” you breathed.

He carried you into the bedroom with the same quiet urgency he always carried into battle, but this war was gentler now. He laid you on the bed like something sacred and sat beside you, tugging off his boots with one hand while the other never left yours.

“I’ll clean everything up later,” he murmured, brushing hair from your face as he climbed in behind you. “The glass, the mess, all of it… but right now, I just want to hold you.”

You shifted closer, resting your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you, warm and solid. His breath tickled the back of your neck.

“I was scared,” he confessed in a whisper, voice cracking. “Of what I did. Of who I am. But holding you now… I feel like maybe I can be more than that.”

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, your fingers finding his. “You are more. We both are.”

He kissed your forehead softly, lingering, his lips pressed against the healing wound he had given. You felt the apology in that kiss—felt it in the way he curled his body around yours like a shield.

And for the first time since the storm broke, you both allowed yourselves to breathe.

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

[eeerrrrewsd]

Right in Front of Me

The first time Clark cried in your arms, he trembled like the world had broken beneath his feet. You had never seen him like this—Superman, the strongest man in the world, undone by a single revelation.

“She didn’t know,” he whispered against your shoulder, his voice raw. “She thought he was me. And now… now she thinks he treats her better than I ever could.”

Your heart ached for him. Clark Kent, the boy who always put everyone before himself, was now drowning in the pain of being unseen—of being loved by someone who didn’t know it was never really him.

You held him tighter, your fingers threading through his dark hair as he clung to you like you were the only solid thing left. “Clark, you are so much more than he could ever be,” you murmured. “And if she couldn’t tell the difference… maybe she wasn’t really seeing you at all.”

For weeks, you were his anchor. You checked on him, forced him to eat when he forgot, made him laugh when the sadness weighed too heavily on his shoulders. You reminded him that he was still Clark Kent—still good, still kind, still worthy of love.

But you also knew he still loved Lana.

So when the time came, you pushed aside the feelings creeping into your heart and made it your mission to help him.

“Clark, listen to me,” you said, standing in front of him, hands gesturing wildly as you paced his barn. “Lana does love you, okay? Maybe she got confused, but that doesn’t mean it’s over! You have to talk to her. Show her who you really are, remind her why she fell for you in the first place—”

He kissed you.

The world tilted, the breath stolen from your lungs as his hands framed your face, pulling you closer. It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, pouring every unsaid thing between you into that one moment.

When he pulled away, your eyes were wide, searching his in stunned silence.

Clark smiled, breathless, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it,” he admitted, voice low, reverent. “But it was never about Lana. It was you. It’s always been you.”

Your heart pounded, your mind reeling. “Clark, I—”

He shook his head, smiling like he’d finally figured out the answer to a question he never knew he was asking. “You’ve been here all along, taking care of me, making me laugh, reminding me who I am. And all this time, I was too blind to realize… you’re the one I should’ve been fighting for.”

Tears burned in your eyes, emotions crashing into you all at once. “You really mean that?” you whispered.

His hands squeezed yours, his gaze steady and sure. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

And in that moment, you knew—you were no longer just Clark Kent’s best friend. You were his choice. His future.

The one who had been right in front of him all along.

[cherrygirlfriend]

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚ safe haven

pairing: lottie x roommate!reader synopsis: lottie hears her psych ward roommate crying warnings/tags: angst, comfort wc: 700 a/n; i want to write more for them :( also do NOT date someone you meet at a psych ward. zon't- zon't zo it.

lottie had gone through the wringer when it came to inpatient facilties. after returning from the wilderness, her parents had taken her to an institution that barely let the patient out of their room for the first week they were there, and most of the time lottie had spent there had been spent in restraints.

for the next two years, she transferred from one hospital to another, pumping her full of medication until every part of her was numb, each new place meant for people that were doing better than the last place she had been at, yet most of the time she felt the same she did the day they returned.

the current place wasn't too bad; at least no one was standing outside the showers, even though every piece of cutlery was made of colorful plastic and there were nurses in every room outside of your bedroom, making sure nothing you did went unnoticed. she'd been there for about three weeks, but today, someone new arrived.

the second bed in lottie's room had stayed untouched for as long as she'd occupied the room, and girl hoped it would stay so, but the new arrival had been led to lottie's room, and she knew not to go in there before the nurses got done checking the duffel bag the girl had arrived with.

lottie had tried to talk to you throughout the day, but you simply chewed on your nail before going back to sketching into your sketchbook, being quiet even during 'group discussion' aka when the nurses would force everyone to talk about what they were looking forward to in the upcoming week.

eventually, ten pm rolled around, and everyone had been forced to retreat to their rooms, the lights automatically shutting after fifteen minutes, so lottie was left to stare at the shadow of the open blinds on the ceiling caused by the bright moon, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall, your breathing too quiet for her to hear.

but after about an hour of just laying there, lottie could hear shuffling from the other side of the room divider, turning her head to stare at it with furrowed brows. the girl could now hear soft sobs that were only slightly louder than the clock that had been placed over the room divider.

she listened to the soft sobbing for a while; you were clearly making an effort to stay quiet, and lottie wasn't sure if it was because you thought she was asleep, or if it was just out of habit. but she got her answer when she moved to sit up in bed, her bedsheets rustling and the sobs immediately quietened.

tentatively, lottie sat at the edge of her bed before slipping on the beige slippers, taking soft steps until she reached the end of the room divider, peeking into your side of the room, your head hidden under the your duvet, muffling the already quiet cries you were letting out.

when she reached your bed, she knelt down next to it, her hand tentatively going to your head that was covered by the duvet, softly stroking it.

you lowered the duvet until your eyes, glossy with tears, were peeking out, looking at the girl who simply continued stroking you, a gentle smile on her lips. normally, you'd think the situation was strange and would tell her to stop, but there was something about the girl that was... soothing. something that made you feel calm. something that told you that she felt what you were feeling.

you didn't even realize you were scooting backwards on your bed until the other girl climbed in, and you pulled the duvet over her too. her hand continued to stroke your tear-streaked cheek, and as she laid next to you, it felt like you forgot every reason you were even crying, and even though neither of you spoke a word, your eyes never left hers, and hers never left yours, and it was like only that said a million different things.

[marscardigan]

family line — epilogue

ellie williams x fem!reader

family line masterlist

summary: falling in love with ellie was easy. it was harder to hate her once you knew she was the one hunting your sister.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: this fic doesn’t follow the original plot of the last of us part ii. no use of y/n.

a/n: i can't let go this story, i love it sm so here you have this part hope you like it!!

Time seemed to freeze the moment you saw her. Abby. Your sister.

The air stilled around you. Your lungs forgot how to breathe, your fingers curling slightly at your sides, like grounding yourself might stop the earth from tilting under your feet. It had been years—years of silence, of distance, of pretending you weren’t waiting for this exact moment. And now here she stood, weathered and quiet, her eyes the same but everything else different.

It was as if Ellie had known Abby would come today. She hadn’t shown up for lunch. In fact, she’d vanished entirely, and though her absence might’ve worried you once, it didn’t today. You knew her. Knew she was giving you space. Time.

At first, the reunion was awkward, brittle with too much unsaid. Words seemed sharp and heavy. But then you made a stupid joke about her haircut—some nonsense about her looking like a post-apocalyptic lumberjack—and Abby actually laughed. Just like that, you were a kid again, doing whatever it took to make your big sister smile.

You showed her the cabin. Shared the food Ellie had prepped before leaving. As you were rambling about how good it was, Abby’s eyes stayed glued to the windowswill, where some framed pictures rested. A picture of Dina, Jesse and Ellie. Your polaroid with your sister, another one of Alice, and a photograph of Ellie and Joel. You noticed how she tensed up at the sight of the man. None of you said anything about it. She just closed her eyes for a second, and turned her attention back to you.

Afterward, the two of you wandered down to the lake, settling on the dock as the sun dipped lower and bathed the world in honeyed gold.

You still didn’t quite believe it. Every time you looked over at her, you half-expected the image to flicker, like a cruel hallucination. But Abby was real. She was here. You didn’t ask why or how she found you—how she even knew where to look after you'd vanished from everyone and everything. You didn't need to. Some part of you always knew she'd find her way back to you.

A long silence stretched, filled with the gentle lapping of water and the soft rustle of wind through trees. It was almost peaceful.

Then Abby spoke, her voice cautious. "We found them." You froze, your heart picked up its pace, not daring to look at her. "The Fireflies," she added softly.

Your throat tightened. "Is… is Lev there?" you asked, the words trembling on your lips.

"Yeah. He is. We’re about eight hundred strong now."

You nodded slowly, a quiet smile creeping onto your face. Gently, you reached over and took her hand. "That’s amazing, Abby. I’m so happy, I know how much that meant to you."

She squeezed your hand in return, her calloused palm warm in yours. "You could come with us," she said after a beat, her tone tentative but hopeful.

Your stomach dropped. "Abby—"

"—You’d have your own place. You could study surgery again, like you always talked about. We’d be together. We could—"

"Abby." Your voice was soft, a breath more than a sound.

She paused. Then, hesitantly: "You could bring her, if you wanted."

You flinched.

Ellie hadn’t come up, not once. But Abby wasn’t blind. Her gaze had lingered on the silver ring on your finger. She knew. And still, she stayed.

You finally turned to look at her. She looked at you like she was willing to forgive it all—if it meant you’d come back. Your chest ached with the weight of her love, her stubborn hope.

"We're happy here," you said, firm but gentle. "I'm happy here."

Abby swallowed hard. "I get that this… this life is peaceful. But what if something happens to her? Or to you? What will the other one do?"

You didn’t want to think about it.

"What if she doesn’t come back one day?" she pressed. "What if she dies out there? What then?"

"I’ve thought about it," you admitted, pulling your hand from hers. "But if something happens to one of us… the other will survive."

"I know you and—"

"You knew me, Abby," you cut in, voice sharper than intended. "But I’ve changed. I know how to survive now."

That quieted her, and the two of you sat in silence again. When your gaze drifted back toward the cabin, you spotted a thin trail of smoke curling from the chimney. Ellie was home, making dinner. That knot of tension that creeped in your chest began to loosen, replaced by something warmer. Softer.

You looked at Abby again.

"Stay the night." Before she could object, you wrapped your arms around her, tightly—like she used to, before everything broke. "I’m not letting you leave until the sun comes up. You know how stubborn I am."

That earned a small laugh. "Fine. But I’m not hungry. I’ll just crash on the couch."

"Works for me," you grinned.

Back inside, the cabin was filled with the rich smell of soup and woodsmoke. You paused at the doorway, inhaling deep. Ellie looked up from the pot simmering in the fireplace. Her eyes softened when they met yours, but then they shifted—landing just over your shoulder. The tension was instant.

"Hey," you said softly, fingers still looped around your sister’s.

"Hey," your wife replied, her voice quieter, her green eyes sliding back to yours.

Abby shifted awkwardly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. You turned to her. "You should take the bed. You must be exhausted."

"I can take the couch, it’s fine—"

"I mean it, Abs."

She glanced at Ellie, as if seeking permission. Ellie gave her a small, indifferent shrug.

Abby nodded, murmuring a nearly inaudible 'Good night' as she stepped into the bedroom and closed t he door gently behind her.

You exhaled sharply, finally feeling the tension leave your bones. Ellie sent you a lopsided smile, trying to figure out if you were okay. You smiled back, getting closer to her, as you slipped into her arms without a word.

"Where were you all day, huh?" you murmured against her shoulder.

She grinned, closing her eyes, letting your soft voice ground her. "You know I like to secure the perimeter. Don’t trust those fuckers."

You chuckled, running your fingers through her auburn locks. "It was one clicker, Ellie. Lost and confused."

"Still."

The soup was surprisingly good. After eating, you both curled up on the couch. Ellie left you more space than usual—until you complained, and she shut you up with a kiss, grumbling how she 'loved being squeezed by you anyway.'

And that night, with your sister asleep in the next room, and Ellie’s heartbeat steady against your back, you slept at peace.

When the first light of dawn spilled gently across the cabin floor, Abby was already awake. She moved quietly, the door creaking softly as she opened it with deliberate care. Her steps were slow, practiced, barely stirring the stillness of morning. But the moment she turned toward the living room, she froze.

There you were—curled on the couch, tangled up in Ellie. Her arm was draped loosely around your waist, fingers resting like they belonged there. Your head was tucked into the crook of Ellie’s neck, your lips parted slightly, a soft, breathy snore escaping every few moments.

Abby’s heart stuttered. She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe a distance between you. Maybe an arm’s-length kind of love. Maybe something that could be undone. But this? This looked permanent. This looked like home.

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering over your sleeping face. Peaceful. Content. Safe.

And yet, something churned in her chest—confusion, sorrow, guilt, maybe even resentment. She didn’t want to feel it, but it sat there anyway. Wasn’t this what she’d wanted for you all along? For you to find peace? To live without fear? To be loved?

So why did it feel like a loss? Was it because you’d found all that without her? Or because she realized… it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would?

She turned toward the door again, aching to escape the heaviness pressing down on her. But just as her hand brushed the doorknob, a voice stopped her in her tracks, calling out her name. She stiffened. For a moment, she felt like a child caught sneaking out. Slowly, she turned around.

Ellie was awake now, her voice low and hoarse from sleep. Her hand was still possessively resting on your waist, as if claiming you even in her half-conscious state. Her eyes were sharp, though, watching Abby with a guarded edge.

You were still asleep—blissfully unaware of the tension lingering in the cabin.

"You’re already leaving?" Ellie asked, her tone deceptively neutral, but Abby caught the note of disbelief underneath.

The question stung more than it should have. Already?

Her jaw tightened. "Yeah," she said shortly. "It’s a long journey back."

Ellie didn’t blink. "Not even going to wait for her to wake up?"

That one hit deeper. Abby’s gaze dropped to you again, her breath catching in her throat. The sun had risen enough now to cast a warm glow across your features, catching in your lashes. You looked older, but somehow your facade still glowed with tenderness. Normally, the creak of a door or the murmur of voices would’ve stirred you by now. But not this time. You were never a heavy sleeper.

But this time, you didn’t even flinch. You were still asleep, safe and unbothered, nestled beside Ellie like nothing in the world could reach you here. That was what Abby had always wanted for you. But it still hurt.

She exhaled through her nose. "I’ll wait by the lake," she said quietly, almost reluctantly. "Then I’ll go."

Ellie gave a small nod, satisfied enough not to press further. She leaned back into the couch, her arms tightening slightly around you as if to reclaim the moment that had been interrupted.

Abby lingered a second longer. Just one more glance at your peaceful face, your hand still curled loosely near Ellie’s ribs, before she finally turned away.

She stepped out into the crisp morning, the door shutting gently behind her. And true to her word, she made her way to the lake—alone.

You woke slowly, gently, as if your body didn’t want to leave the warmth it had found. The sunlight had crept across the floor, brushing over your skin, golden and soft. But it wasn’t the light that stirred you. It was something else.

The press of lips on your neck. Again and again. Soft. Familiar. Devoted. Ellie.

Her arm was still wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into her chest. Her nose was nestled behind your ear, her breath tickling your skin between kisses. She was warm, and steady, and everything in you relaxed into her touch—until it didn’t.

Because suddenly, your memory caught up with you. The night before. The knock at the door. The voice in the woods. Abby.

Your body tensed, muscles going stiff beneath Ellie’s gentle affection. You didn’t mean to—it was instinct, that old reflex of bracing for something, for anything. And she felt it immediately. Ellie paused, then pulled back just enough to glance down at you. Her hand smoothed over your waist, slow and grounding.

"Hey," she murmured, voice still husky from sleep. "It’s okay. She didn’t leave yet."

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. Her thumb brushed your ribs in a soothing arc.

"She said she’d be by the lake," Ellie continued softly.

Your throat tightened. The way she said it—without bitterness, without warning, just quiet understanding—it made your chest ache. You reached up, resting your hand over hers, and nodded. You didn’t need to say anything. Ellie pressed one last kiss to your shoulder before letting you go.

The path to the lake felt longer than you remembered. Maybe it was the weight of everything pressing down on you. Maybe it was the heaviness in your steps. Or maybe it was just that you knew what was waiting there: the last thread of a past life, one final goodbye that had never come.

When you emerged from the trees, you spotted her immediately. Abby sat on a rock by the edge of the water, her boots muddy, forearms resting on her knees, gaze cast over the still surface of the lake. She didn’t turn when she heard you approaching, but you knew she heard you.

You sat down beside her, a few feet of space between you. It was quiet for a moment. The water lapped gently against the shore. Birds chirped in the distance. You let the silence stretch, let it breathe.

"I thought you’d be gone," you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Abby looked over at you, her expression unreadable. "I almost left." You nodded slowly, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

"But she stopped me." She looked away again, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "She truly loves you."

The statement landed somewhere deep in your chest. "Yeah," you said quietly. "I love her too."

Abby let out a breath through her nose, not quite a sigh. "I saw it. This morning. The way you looked… peaceful. I didn’t think I’d ever see you like that again."

You didn’t answer right away. There was something aching beneath her voice, something raw. She looked at your features, and even after everything, all those years of suffer and darkness, you still looked as pure as before. As pure and kind as you always were.

"How do you still have it?" she asked suddenly, "after everything. After what we did. What I did. How do you still have a gentle heart?"

You blinked at her. The question wasn’t accusatory. It was genuine. It was lost.

You thought about it. About all the years of running. Of hiding. Of choosing softness when the world demanded sharpness. You looked at her—at the woman who once swore she’d protect your happiness, and who had tried, in her own way.

"I think…" you began, voice fragile but steady, "because if I don’t stay soft, none of it meant anything. Mom. Dad. Joel. You. Even Ellie. If I let the world make me cruel, then I lose all of it. And I’ve already lost enough."

Abby looked at you like she was memorizing your face. Like she needed to carry it with her. You glanced down at your hands. "I am aware I’m not the same girl you used to know. But she’s still in here somewhere. And... And I think Ellie sees her too."

A small, sad smile tugged at Abby’s lips. "She does."

You looked back at her. "You could still find peace, you know. Not like this. Not out there trying to fix the past. Just… let it be."

"I’m trying," she said, her voice almost breaking. "I swear I'm trying. But it’s hard when the only thing that ever felt right was you."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "You’ll find something. Someone. It won’t be me, Abby… but you’ll find it."

The silence between you now felt heavier. More final.

She stood slowly, brushing the dirt from her hands, and then reached into her bag. She held your gaze for a long time. Then—

"I should go,” she said quietly.

You nodded, standing beside her. "Take care of yourself, Abby."

"You too, bug."

You hesitated. Then, for just a second, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around her. She froze for a beat, then hugged you back—tight, desperate, but fleeting. When you pulled away, neither of you said another word.

You watched her walk into the trees, disappearing into the shade, and with her, the last piece of the life you’d shared. The wind picked up gently off the lake, carrying the scent of pine and earth, and the faintest trace of closure.

You turned around and made your way back to the cabin—back to Ellie.

Back home.

perm taglist !

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[irritatedirishfrog]

"𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐗"

— 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳

CONTENT: how some of the wind breaker boys would react if you told them that you wanted to get pregnant.

[ ᯓ Someone help me PLS! I can barely write. I'm pretty sure that if my lively hood was contingent on making enjoyable NSFW tings, I'd be a goner. This is probably as close as I'm getting to it, SO Y'ALL BE GRATEFUL! ᯓ ]

✓ requested by anon

✓ warning, poorly written work

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ SAKURA was flustered immediately, having no idea what to think. What did you mean you wanted a freaking baby? Like—a real one? The ones that stay in your stomach for nine months before getting an eviction notice? No, that couldn't be what you meant. Why would you ask that? And with him of all people? Were you blind? Have you seen him? He must have misheard you, his subconscious throwing him a curveball yet again.

It had to be that, it would make sense—especially given all the dreams his brain was forcing him to have recently and whatnot. It wouldn't be entirely surprising that the thought came to mind. But still, what?

"... Say that again?" He muttered, silently praying he wasn’t losing it.

"I want to have a baby with you."

His face twisted instantly in silent confusion, and you scowled in response. He looked like he might throw up, but really, he just felt exposed. The way you said that so casually—he wasn’t ready for it, it made him feel all hot. He wasn’t used to hearing words like that out loud. And, well, he had thought about it before. He just forced himself to brush it off as a stupid idea.

Hearing it come from you was shocking to say the least, and he'd rather not think about giving in like that.

“If you don’t like the idea, just say I’m talking out of my ass and we’ll drop it,” you huffed, eyes flicking back down to whatever game you were playing on your phone previously.

... Wait

... What?! What did you mean by that?! You can't just drop some crazy shit like that on his head and then tell him to choose! Were you insane?! What kind of emotional whiplash was that!?

"Huh!?" Sakura blurted, his face burning even redder. The reaction pulled a small smile from you, but you were already distracted again by your screen.

"It's okay."

"W—what's okay!?"

"If you don't want a baby," You chuckled. "I was only thinking about it."

And then it was quiet. The silence made Sakura’s chest tighten with anxiety. You looked unbothered—calm, like you didn’t even care about his response, despite clearly wanting one. But he still wasn’t entirely sure if this was real or just some weird prank.

Would you think he was weird if he said yes right away? If he let you know just how desperate he actually was to give you what you wanted?

He was always a sucker for you, after all. But it was worse than that—he’d quietly caught baby fever a long time before you. Ever since he saw you helping a little lost kid, gently guiding him back to his parents, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you as a mom. The only problem was... he wasn’t sure he’d make a good dad. Should he take it as a sign that you asked him for this first? He isn't sure.

“Why?”

“Hm? Why what?” you asked, glancing up from your phone.

“There… Well, th-there’s a chance that if we had a kid… it’d look a little bit like me, right?” Sakura mumbled, eyes dropping as he tried to hide how nervous he was. He shouldn't be like this, not in front of you.

“Would you really want a baby that kinda looks like a freak?”

You didn’t respond right away. Just blinked at him as he kept his eyes downcast.

You forgot sometimes—how much he struggled with that. The stares, the comments, all because of his differently colored hair and eyes. Traits that made him stand out, often in the worst ways. But you were pretty sure those same traits caught good attention, too. After all, he had friends. He had a place at Bofurin. And—he had you. A pretty girlfriend. Or, at least, you hoped he thought you were pretty.

“…Y’know,” you finally said, turning off your phone and standing up, “I wouldn’t be asking for a baby if I thought you were a freak.”

Sakura closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath to steady himself. He shouldn’t be feeling this weird about it. You asked a question—he should’ve just answered. It’s just… he really wanted a baby. But he was too self-conscious to admit it. Too unsure that he’d be good enough. He didn’t think he was even boyfriend material half the time—though you seemed delusional enough to believe he was.

“Honey,” you said gently, “look at me.”

His face burned at the sound of your voice. He barely cracked his eyes open before squeezing them shut again from embarrassment. You were standing in front of him now, your eyes intense enough to swallow him whole. Without a word, you reached out. Your hand touched his, then slowly intertwined your fingers with his.

That simple gesture sent a shiver through his entire body, but he didn’t hesitate to squeeze your hand back, tightly—like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I love you,” you breathed, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “You know that, right? That’s why I asked. And I think you look perfect.”

“…I… I know. I—I love you too,” Sakura whispered, his voice barely audible.

But his blush had mostly faded now. That had to mean something. You weren’t sure what exactly—but there was something different about him now. A look of quiet determination had settled in his eyes, like he was suddenly planning something.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something?” you asked, raising a brow as he stared past you, seemingly lost in thought.

“Nah… It’s nothing… I think.”

Nope. Definitely something.

But before you could press him on it, he suddenly grabbed your arm and kissed you. Hard. Maybe a little too hard. But enough for you to feel it deep in your chest—a rush of heat flooding through you. He understood what you meant earlier, and this was him answering, in his own, overwhelmed way.

“Do you want a baby right now?” he murmured against your lips, watching with interest as your eyes widened. His usual shy, fumbling self had vanished, replaced with this strange, intense confidence.

“You’d want one too? Really?”

“Yeah, I should be the one asking that. I still can’t believe you want one with me,” he scoffed, kissing you again before pulling away and reaching for his jacket. Though in your defense, you weren't used to him initiating any sort of physical touch either. Apparently it was your turn to get flustered. The blush had returned on his face after her saw yours, but it was softer now—a light, pink hue, no longer boiling red.

“But we’re not doing it here. Your place is less run-down.”

“Does it really matter where we try to have the baby?” you giggled—only to be cut off with another kiss as he grabbed you and tugged you toward the door.

“Hell yeah, it matters. I don’t wanna have a baby here. Now c’mon,” he muttered.

“You’re acting like the baby’s already in there, dummy,” you snickered, poking his cheek and making him flare up all over again. “Maybe I should bring this up more often, huh?”

“Sh-shut up,” he grumbled—but you didn’t miss the soft smile tugging at his lips as the two of you stepped out of his apartment together.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ SUO didn’t believe you at first—he just blinked at you like you were the one who was confused. To be fair, you were drunk. Not just a little tipsy either—scarily intoxicated. Honestly, he was impressed you were still conscious. Technically, it was your fault. But then again, could he really blame you?

"A baby?"

"Yeah! A small one, that's all cute and squishy." You grinned, your words mushing together as you mumbled out some other stuff. "And we can buy the baby a cute little eye patch to match with yours."

You probably didn’t expect your friend to drag you to the sketchiest part of town and then vanish. At least she had the decency to call him afterward, claiming she had to leave for a family emergency. Still, the fact that she left you behind in a place like this made Suo question her legitimacy as your friend.

And you—you hadn’t realized that some of the locals were trying to drug you. All it took was a glass of “expensive wine” that was really just beer spiked with a disturbingly unhealthy amount of sugar followed by all sorts of incapacitating drugs.

“Just to taste,” they’d said, “so a pretty girl like you can give us some advice on how to make the wine better.”

At least that's what the younger man had said had happened, Suo was quick to kick the leaders neck hard enough to knock him out.

You were a little naive, he knew that much. Soft-hearted. You turned into putty in someone’s hands the moment they made you feel special. Even though you were loyal to him, compliments from anyone still made you glow.

“Also, there was this lovely scarf I saw near here, but I didn’t have enough money to buy it!” you rambled, your voice dreamy and slurred, as if you hadn’t just tell him to get you pregnant in the middle of a crowded sidewalk.

Sweet, clueless thing. You were going to be mortified when you remembered all of this tomorrow. Suo, surprisingly, wasn’t embarrassed. He probably should’ve been, but he didn't feel like he was. This was a terrible place to wander around aimlessly, especially when you didn’t know what you were doing. He’d come fully prepared for a full on fight if anyone tried to stop him from retrieving you—so much so that he brought both Sakura and Nirei along for backup.

And now, those poor bastards had to stand there and listen to his girlfriend shamelessly ask him for a baby.

“Please don’t mind her,” Suo said, turning to his friends with a calm smile. “She’ll be fine once she gets some rest.”

"Seriously, what did she even drink?" Sakura muttered, face beet red as he stole another glance at you. “Was it just alcohol or pure ethanol?”

Sakura was clearly flustered by your drunken boldness. The way you’d said it had sounded almost romantic, which only made it worse. Meanwhile, Nirei was grinning like a kid at a comedy show, clearly finding the whole thing adorable.

“Hayato, take me home, please,” you whined, pulling away from his hand to wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and my feet hurt!”

Suo just smiled gently, his voice calm and certain. “Don’t worry. We’re going home.”

He then adjusted his hold on you slightly, one arm steady around your waist as you leaned more of your weight into him, your head nestled lazily against his shoulder. You were heavy in that drunk, warm way that only made people more pliable. Almost like a sleeping cat.

"Anyway, we’ll leave you two to it. I don't think she needs an audience right now.” Nirei gave a two-fingered salute, still grinning ear to ear. “She’s wild when she isn't sober, man. It's funny, just know that we're praying for you.”

Suo nodded. “Thanks for coming. Get home safe.”

"Text us if you need backup!" Nirei added over his shoulder as he and Sakura started down the sidewalk.

Then for a moment, it was quiet. Just the two of you now, standing under the halo of a flickering streetlamp. You swayed slightly, then yawned like a baby bear, your grip on him tightening again.

“Home,” you mumbled. “I like our bed. It smells like you.”

His heart squeezed a little. Damn you. Even drunk off your mind, you somehow knew exactly how to say things that made it impossible for him to stay annoyed.

"Of course, princess."

You sighed against his shoulder. “Hayato,” you mumbled, almost too soft to hear. “Do you think the scarf’s still there?”

He glanced down at you, your hair sticking slightly to your forehead, your lips parted just enough to let the question float out like a drifting balloon.

“I’ll get you a scarf,” he promised. “Not from here though. A prettier one. And something warmer.”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “Make sure it’s bright. The woman at the fabric tent said that bright colors will look good on me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll do that.”

You didn’t respond, just tightened your arms around him like you might dissolve if you let go. He didn’t rush you either. You'd trip once in a while over your own feet, muttering curses under your breath, but he'd catch you every time—making sure you were stable before continuing. He was a very patient person after all.

Suo looked down for a moment when you leaned more against him. You were still latched onto him like a human koala, your face smushed into his chest.

“Mmm...you feel like warm bread,” you murmured.

He snorted. “I feel like sweat and stress.”

“You always feel nice to me,” you mumbled, completely oblivious to how that sounded.

Suo shifted you a little to help you walk without tripping over your own feet. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get moving before you fall asleep standing up.”

You trudged beside him, holding onto his arm, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. Every few steps, you’d either hum something off-key or dramatically sigh, like a tragic heroine in a play.

"So, did you think about it?"

He blinked, looking down at you. “About what?”

“The baby thing.” You looked up with eyes too wide and honest for someone who could barely say the alphabet right now. “I think you’d be a good dad. You’re good at being kind to people and protecting me.”

Suo laughed—actually laughed, the sound low and rare. “That’s your criteria?”

“Mhm. You’re also nice to animals and you never forget to bring me snacks. So can we have a baby now?”

“You’re drunk, so no.”

“Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean I don't mean it.” You whined, almost on the verge of tears already.

He sighed, but there was no irritation in it—just that soft kind of exhale people give when they know they’ve lost. Because he had been secretly thinking about it ever since you said it. They always say that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts, or something like that.

So, had you been thinking about this for a while then?

"So you have to promise me something then," You yawned. "When I'm not drunk anymore, that we'll have a baby."

"I have to?"

"Yeah! Pinky promise." You held up your hand, poking out your pinky finger for him.

Suo sighed, propping you up more against him as he got to the front of their house. Something in him wanted to agree, mostly due to the fact that you had riled him up. But even so, he had enough discipline to keep himself in check... You just looked so damn cute though.

Now he wanted a small baby that was all squishy and cute.

"I won't promise that," Suo started, grabbing your hand before kissing the back of it. "But I promise that when you're better in the morning, if you still want a baby, we'll make a baby."

"... Really?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind being a baby daddy." Suo kissed the top of your head. "I'd mean you'd stay with me, wouldn't it?"

"I'd stay with you anyway." You simply giggled, hugging him tighter and warming his heart.

"Alright, come on now. We need to get you to bed."

You giggled as he opened the door to your house and helped you in. “Hayatoooo… you love me, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You dooo!”

He sat you down on a stool in the hallway and a second later, shut the front door with a click. Though his smile lingered.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ NIREI felt his face grow warm, stumbling over his words as he tried to process what you’d just said. A baby? That had to be a joke—something ripped straight from a fever dream after getting his ass handed to him.

“Come again?” he blinked, bewildered.

“I want a baby.” You shrugged casually, your cheeks tinged pink, though your smile stayed bright. "Can we try now? Or should I wait until you're not busy?"

...Now?

Nirei flushed even deeper, his skin nearly as hot as the fiery yellow strands framing his cute, startled face. His hazel eyes widened—like a deer caught in headlights. Sure, he got flustered sometimes, but no one got under his skin the way you did.

“D-did you just say—?” he stammered, waving his hands like he could somehow cool the heat rising in his cheeks. “I don’t— I mean, I do want one, but—did you mean now? Like, right now? That’s—”

You cut him off with a soft smile, slipping your hand into his and stepping closer. Leaning in, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his blush bloom beneath your lips.

“Akihiko,” you whispered, using his name like a secret. As always, he gasped quietly at the sound of it. No matter how long you'd been together, he never quite got used to hearing his name from you.

“I want a baby with you,” you murmured.

You pressed another kiss, this time to the center of his brow, as your arms curled around him, pulling him closer—closer still.

Nirei took a steadying breath, like he was bracing for impact, then gently tugged you even tighter against him, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. The two of you both had acknowledged that in the future, you'd want a baby. However, you've both been kind of ignoring anything past that.

“I want a baby with you too,” he mumbled, “but... don’t you think it’ll make your parents angry? They don't really like me..."

He was about to say more, but you silenced him with another kiss.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the way he trembled slightly in your arms. You knew he worried too much, especially about your parents—but none of that mattered to you. Not when he looked at you like this. Not when his arms around you felt more like home than anything else. Your parent's were just gonna have to suck it.

“They’ll live,” you whispered. “I love you. That’s enough for me.. They don't get a say in this, they'll have to get over themselves.”

You bit back a laugh and leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “Unless you’re getting cold feet, Akihiko?"

He made a soft, scandalized noise. “N-no! I’m not— I would never—”

You grinned mischievously, tightening your hold around him like you might never let go. “Good. Because I was serious about starting now.”

Nirei swallowed hard, face practically glowing at this point. “You’re gonna be the death of me...” he muttered, but the way he smiled—nervous and so full of love—gave him away completely.

Nirei’s breath hitched, and for a second, he just stood there, soaking in the plan and ignoring the fact that your father might come after his throat. Slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he was memorizing it, every little detail that made you you. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“I love you too,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “More than anything.”

You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling, and for a moment, neither of you said anything at all. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable either, it felt right for some reason.

Then Nirei chuckled—a soft, nervous little sound. "I, um... I should probably take a shower first," he said, cheeks flushing again. "I kinda smell like I lost a fight to a brick wall."

You laughed quietly, threading your fingers through his hair. "Fine. But hurry up. I'm not changing my mind."

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before practically sprinting off, leaving you standing there, grinning like an idiot. And for the first time in a long while, he didn't look like he was frustrated with anything.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ UMEMIYA agreed immediately — almost too eagerly. He wasn’t even sure what came over him; something about the way you asked had him ready to jump at the chance. Unfortunately for you, any hope of keeping things low-key was dashed almost immediately. Despite your best efforts to keep the conversation quiet, Umemiya talked like one of those front desk clerks at the bank with the mini-microphones — just determined to announce your personal business to anyone within earshot.

"Hajime?! Shh!" you hissed, scrambling to cover his mouth with your hand. The two of you sat cramped together at a little table in Kotoha’s diner. It wasn’t packed by any means, but there were enough people lingering around — enough that even the tiniest bit of gossip would spread like wildfire. You could already hear it in your head: Baby out of wedlock? How irresponsible.

Umemiya whined against your hand, his eyebrows scrunching up like a kicked puppy before he pried your hand away — though he didn’t just move it; he laced his fingers through yours and held it there stubbornly.

"I don’t care if people hear," he said, voice loud enough to make you wince. "And you shouldn’t either! Everyone already knows we’re dating—"

"Dating and becoming parents are two completely different things, you moron!" you whisper-yelled, yanking your hand out of his with an exaggerated scowl. You were about two seconds away from socking him in the chest — not that it would do anything besides hurt your own hand.

Umemiya’s grip on your hand tightened, his voice softening in a way that you weren't expecting. He could be such a clown sometimes that you forgot just how serious and genuine he was as well.

"I mean it," he spoke, staring at you as if you were the only person in the world. "If it's with you... I don't care how hard it gets. I'll do anything. I want to start a family with you too."

You froze, heart tripping over itself at the sudden shift in mood. For a second, you didn’t know whether to throw a punch or start crying. But you could tell even now, that this would definitely be a topic of conversation in town. You didn't want that. This dumb ass is always embarrassing you, and yet you wanted to kiss him. Instead, you yanked your hand away again, harsher this time.

"You're such an idiot!" you snapped, pushing your chair back with a screech against the floor. Heads turned ��� of course they turned — but you were too flustered to care. Umemiya immediately stood up with you, confused and not having a clue what it was that suddenly irked you.

"I don't need you getting all dramatic about it! You don't even know what you're agreeing to!" you hissed, grabbing your jacket off the back of the chair before he could. Your chest felt too tight, and you didn’t know if it was anger, nervousness, or something else. Maybe all of it. Probably just love, love was always hard to understand.

"Wait, just hold on!" Umemiya gasped as he was about ready to try and hug you until you pushed him away, storming toward the door without a second glance.

The bell above the diner door jingled as you shoved it open and disappeared onto the street, leaving Umemiya standing there, looking like he had just been cursed out at in the middle of Kotoha’s diner.

Kotoha, who’d been wiping down the counter, didn't miss a beat. She sauntered over to his table, arms crossed, a knowing look on her face. This fighting man was crazy, he didn't understand his girlfriend at all.

"You," she said, flicking him in the forehead hard enough to make him wince, "are the dumbest person I've ever met. And I know at least three people who thought microwaving foil was a good idea, two of them being your friends."

Umemiya rubbed his forehead, practically sulking. "I didn’t mean to mess it up... I know she asked me to be here to talk to me, I just didn't realize that she felt having a kid was so serious." he muttered.

"Yeah, well, having a kid is serious and you did mess it up." Kotoha leaned on the back of a chair, staring him down. "You can't just throw around big words like that without thinking. You scared her off, dummy. Plus, you need to act more responsible, a baby can't have a baby."

"What do I do now?" He groaned, slumping against the wall, making a scene yet again in front of the few remaining customers left in the diner.

Kotoha simply shook her head before smirking, thank God almighty the two of them weren't actually related by blood.

"First? Get your sorry butt to the store and buy some chocolate. Good chocolate. Not that cheap gas station stuff either. Maybe get her a small flower bouquet too." She straightened up, pointing at the door like she was kicking him out. "Then, you’re gonna apologize. For being stupid. And for making a scene in my diner, by the way."

"Right. Chocolate. Apologize. Got it." Umemiya pushed the door open with a loud sigh, still not fully understanding, but taking Kotoha's words to heart.

Kotoha shook her head with a half-smile as he stumbled toward the door. Umemiya may never understand you fully, or not get on your nerves from time to time, but at the very least, he meant well.

"And make sure to smile after the fact," she muttered. "you're gonna need it."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ KAJI thought this might be the first time he was truly at a loss for words. He wasn’t one to talk much anyway, but when he did speak, he usually had a way of getting straight to the point. Efficient. Sharp. But now, he was just staring at you—expressionless—rolling the lollipop in his mouth like it could somehow settle the nerves buzzing in his chest.

He had even taken off his headphones so he could hear you clearly. Now, he kind of wished he hadn’t.

A baby? What for? Why? Were you serious? That was stupid. No—he was stupid. Stupid for even being considered. He wasn’t the guy you chose to parent with. Absolutely not. He had anger issues—barely managed to control himself when it came to discipline. The only thing he really knew how to do well was fight, and that sure as hell didn’t seem like a skill worth passing on to a damn baby, at least not now.

He was so quiet—so unnervingly still—that you started to wonder if maybe he hadn't heard you. Honestly, that could’ve been the case. You did tend to talk lower than you meant to, a bad habit really.

"...D-Did you hear me?" you asked, voice cracking a little at the end.

"Yeah... But why?" Kaji asked flatly, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a soft pop He unintentionally made you want to evaporate on the spot, his words too emotionless, almost mechanical.

"Oh! Uh, no reason, really. Um… shoot, sorry. Forget I said anything."

Shit. He didn’t mean to make it sound like he was judging you. He was just… caught off guard. He hadn’t realized that 'baby fever' was, like, actually a thing.

He scrambled to his feet too fast and nearly rolled his ankle trying to stop you from leaving, catching your wrist before you could walk out. He forgot sometimes that you were a bit sensitive—that it took a lot for you to speak your mind. But you trusted him enough to do it. That meant something.

"Sorry," he murmured. "That's not what I meant. I just meant... why now? I’ve never heard you bring up babies out of nowhere like that."

"U-uhm, well, I just, uh—" you stammered, face practically on fire. "I… it’s your fault."

"...My fault." Kaji blinked, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what you meant. But whatever logic you were hiding behind didn't make any sense. Then he let out a short laugh at your completely serious tone, though it was more so out of confusion than him being amused.

"What did I do?" he asked, showing genuine bafflement. "How is it my fault?"

"I saw you hanging out with some toddler at the playground." you whispered, cheeks burning hotter and looking at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

For a second, Kaji just stared at you like you’d grown another head.

"Wait... You’re serious?"

"... Well, not anymore."

"You wanna have a kid because you saw me making funny faces at some toddler?" he asked, eyebrows lifting.

You flushed, trying to wiggle your wrist out of his grip, though he didn’t let go.

"Y-You weren’t just making faces! You were... you were good with them!" you protested. "You were patient and you weren’t even grumpy about it, and he really liked you!"

Kaji made a low sound in his throat—something between a scoff and a groan—and dragged a hand down his face.

"God," he muttered. "You have baby fever, a made up sickness by the way."

You gave a wounded squeak and tried to yank your hand free again, but he caught it easily, tugging you a little closer instead. Close enough that you could see the embarrassed pink creeping up his neck, just under his collar.

"You’ve been thinking about it this much just ‘cause of that?" he said, eyes flicking down to your lips for a second before snapping back up. His voice dropped lower, teasing, but still a little rough. "Should I be worried you’re already pickin’ out baby names or something?"

"N-No! I haven't thought that much about it yet!" you sputtered.

Okay, you had maybe thought of one or two, but you were absolutely not going to admit that now.

He grinned—smirked, actually—the kind of smile he only pulled when he knew he had you cornered.

"You sure?" he said, leaning in just enough to make your heart hammer painfully against your ribs. "You look guilty."

You slapped his chest half-heartedly, face burning hotter. "I am not guilty," you grumbled, trying to shove him away. He didn’t budge. If anything, he looked way too entertained by the whole thing.

For a moment, you thought he might keep teasing you forever. But then, Kaji’s grin faded a little. He looked down at you—really looked—and something in his expression softened. His thumb brushed lightly over your wrist, almost absentminded.

"...If it’s you," he said quietly, "I don’t mind."

You blinked, stunned into silence.

"I’m not saying I know what the hell I’m doing," he went on, voice rough and a little unsure. "I’m not, like... dad material or anything. Probably wouldn’t win any awards."

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing away.

"But if you want that… if you want me to do that with you…" He shrugged, like he was pretending it didn’t mean as much as it did. "Then yeah. I’ll try."

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught. What were you supposed to say? Kaji made it sound like he'd practically give you the world if he could.

Kaji saw the way you struggled, and to save you the trouble, he leaned in and bumped his forehead against yours with a soft thud.

"Just... don’t start showing me tiny shoes and baby clothes yet," he muttered, barely hiding the laugh in his voice. "I need, like, a week to mentally prepare."

You snorted and shoved at him again, and this time, he let you. Mostly because he was grinning like an idiot the whole way, once again sucking on his lollipop but keeping his headphones off.

[jayden-killer]

Greediest man in the Stone World.

summary: you've just being awaken by your old friend and classmate, Senku, in a whole new human era. But, who's this young guy claiming you as his? a/n: waahh, i sincerly apologise if i disappeared...again. i literally forgot my tumblr writing page, and life took a.. strange turn of events(?) kinda. i hope this first ryusui one shot will make you guys forgive me!!

Dark.

And then... a golden beam of light passed through my eyes, blinding me. My muscles began to melt. I felt them sore, as if I had slept in an uncomfortable position all night. Or maybe, for three thousand and fifty years. This was what was brought back to me when I woke up from that sleep I thought was eternal. The first thing my eyes noticed when they hatched was a blinding sun. There was so much green. So much vegetation was not seen even in the well-preserved jungles. Then, a group of boys with familiar and unfamiliar faces. My eyes met his.

"Senku..?"

I uttered that name in a subtle tone of voice, and the boy did nothing but address to me that mischievous grin of his own.

"Yoh, Y/N...we need your help".

[ Time skip...(*ゝω・)ﾉ ]

"So... you need my dexterity in putting these little pieces together so you can build, um... Repeat it, thank you".

"An oxygen tank" Senku rest, without even thinking of getting that smirk off his face.

His attitude hadn’t disappeared after 3,700 years. Not even when he claimed in front of a professor that their speeches were meaningless.

Here we go again...

Between a sigh and the other I immediately set to work, while in the distance I heard Senku arguing with what seemed to be his colleague.

Just in the middle of my work I felt someone touching my shoulder gently. A delicate touch, like that of a…

"Child?"

The girl in question wore a watermelon helmet on her head, with lenses inserted in the two holes that created a space for the eyes. She made a sound of wonder, her hands to her mouth.

"So, you are new here!"

With a confused look I lowered myself to her level, able to have a face-to-face conversation with the little creature. " I suppose so..? And you are...?" That little girl who didn’t immediately show her intentions and courage was pretty to say the least.

"Suika wanted to welcome you to the Science Team!" she said clearly, now showing me her hand to shake her. I took her, and with a kind smile, I accepted her request. "How kind of you! Since I am now a new addition to your team, can I have the honor to meet my future colleagues and companions?"

Little Suika nodded happily, running in the opposite direction where I was working. Heck. Maybe it was me who was no longer a child like her, but Suika seemed really fast in the race, not giving me a chance to keep up. I didn’t know where she was taking me; we passed through several huts, erected on wooden structures, running as if someone was after us.

The only one chasing her was me. Looking back to see if we’d actually drifted apart, my foot tripped on a double-sized rock. The collision with the stone made me lose my balance; I was ready to crash on the dirty ground and have some bruises all over my face for a few days. Only that never happened. In the instant that I was about to feel my face against the damp soil, two arms wrapped my waists not too strong, but with determination, preventing me from slipping a second time. I didn’t even realize I closed my eyes.

"It’s not even the first day you’re back here on Earth, and you were destined to get hurt. Pff, not very convenient for our team, huh?"

A moment later my eyes sprang to meet his, and those eyes reminded me of an autumn now close to winter. " Well, lady killer, now you might as well put me down. I’m not meant to be your princess." I said authoritatively. His powerful arms let go of my body, and with a little thump my butt bounced off the ground.

What an idiot!

Not only was he now laughing at me with a fat laugh, as if I had just said the funniest joke on Earth, but he didn’t even deign to preseed himself! The blond slightly lowered his head, as I was still on the ground, and with an energetic voice he replied:

"Not yet", later going in the opposite direction, with firm step. Oh, what kind of weird I had in front…

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

"Become mine! With all my Drago you would become the luckiest woman in the world!"

Somebody kill me...

It had been two months since I had made my unexpected (better to say, unlucky) acquaintance with blondie, who had the name of Ryusui Nanami. With his egocentrism and sheer avarice, he had proved to be one of the most promising members of the Kingdom of Science so far, with great skills for navigation. Apparently he came from one of the wealthiest families in Japan, and he certainly had not lost the habit of being indulged in everything, even after 3,500 years. And since our first meeting, he hasn’t stopped trying once. On every occasion he would give me his flirtations comments (sometimes shabby), he would become handsy, or he would try to buy me with his stupid Drago.

I was not one of those women who was so easily deceived, especially if a situation was about money. He thought I would give in so easily. I was so determined to prove to him the opposite, during these months, that this would give him up. With a gesture of the hand, I pushed him away. " I’m sorry, Ryusui. As I’ve explained many times before, I’m not interested." I took a dramatic break. ".. to you."

He whined loudly like a little baby, fogetting his money behind to get close to me. "You’re making a mistake!"

"I have made many mistakes in my life," I answered sharply.

"Then add another to your long list." I nailed him down with my sharp look, sketching a tight smile. Nothing to do. That man would never wave the white flag in the sky. However, it was becoming a nuisance, and having it close to me like a fin was starting to run out. For the worse.

I had only one idea that could have saved me in that instant, from a near future in which he was no longer clinging to me like an octopus: make him believe he had a chance with me. A bold idea; nevertheless, it had to be tried. Either it will make it or break it.

"Maybe, in the future, you might have a chance…" I implied in a vague tone, already heading somewhere, any, to get him off my back. I could swear to see his eyes shining remarkably with hope, and a new fire, fueled by determination.

He snapped his fingers, his iconic gesture that everyone, by now, had learned to recognize, and if he did, it was because he decided to do something. There were no roads back.

"HA-HA!" His laughter seemed to flow throughout the Ishigami village. Even Senku and Chrome turned to us, with confused scowls, to see what was so funny at the time. But Ryusui found nothing amusing in this situation, except a challenge to complete.

"So be it! I’ll show you how much I’m willing to change your mind. Anything to get the chance to become yours!"

Though I did not turn to look at him, once again, his muscular arms clasped my waists, turning my body to meet his. Face to face. "You, damned Nanami, what do you want now?!" That gesture had taken me by surprise, because he was not used to come so near me, but with his cheeky smile, he kissed me on both the cheeks. A quick gesture that made me blush remarkably in my face, almost to feel it burn under the palms of my hands.

"What the f...?!"

"You don’t know it, but you’re already mine!"

[dyingswanpavlova]

Lessons to be learned

Pairing: Nam-gyu × Reader

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Restraints, Edging (More like Withdrawal of Release), Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Degradation Kink, Implied Manipulation, Minors Do Not Interact!

Author's Note: I'm not sure what the hell this is. Probably porn with little plot. I fucking hate Nam-gyu and I hate that I like him.

Nam-gyu is testing you "in order to see if you really belong to him", but it's mostly him being cruel.

"You doin' okay over there, huh?"

Your eyes fluttered shut and you took a slow breath to keep yourself from...

Fuck, there wasn't much you could do anyway, right?

The motherfucker was right there, only a few steps away, scrolling dumbly on his phone. And you? You were there.

Legs spread to a nearly inhumane degree, your mouth dry by the pair of panties he'd forced inside. Every part of you was aching - in pain, in humiliation, in rage...but mostly in need. He had been doing this for hours now and you were slowly going insane.

You muffled out a response and only then heard him smirk.

"Right." He mubled in amusement. "Probably not."

A treacherous, pleading sound came over your lips before you could stop it. They felt chapped, like sandpaper and all you really wanted was to lick your lips.

Or, well, punch his gut.

"Okay, okay. We'll give it another try."

He set his phone down and lunged forward. His weight pressed you down into the mattress even more than the binds, the screech of the slat frame barely audible compared to your needy moan.

"Who do you belong to?"

He wasn't gentle. And he sure as hell wasn't merciful.

No, he pressed two fingers against your core and pushed them inside almost immediately, but there was no resistance anyway - you were dripping.

"You." You muffled out desperately. "Mhpf...Belong to you-"

He pumped his fingers faster, harder, stretching you so cruelly, you were sure you wouldn't survive this night if it continued on like this.

"I didn't quite catch that." He whispered menacingly, before he sharply withdrew his hand.

You whined needily and tried to arch into his touch, but he was just out of reach - and he wasn't a man for half-assed restraints.

"Please-" Your chapped lips somehow formed.

He smirked. That fucking bastard.

"Please what? Please fuck me? Please lick my pussy? Please leave me here to rot all night? Use your words, you dumb little slut."

Your face flushed in embarrassment and anger, but you forgot about it, the second he pressed his hips down against your own. Instead, you moaned - as expected.

You couldn't tell how long you'd been in this position, how many times he brought you to the edge and left you there, begging, whining, all but sobbing. You had never felt this desperate in your entire life. The ache between your legs was slowly killing you.

It meant something to him, you knew that. He didn't trust easily, not anyone, not even you. He needed to test you, to push you, to drive you to madness and still have you. Still see you. And maybe then, maybe when you were good for him just a little longer, if you were truly ready to endure whatever he did to you...Maybe then he would finally realize that he was indeed lovable.

Loved.

You knew how messed up it was to even think like that, but what else could you do? You were in love and he was an idiot. A blind one, at that. Burnt one too many times.

"Please." You croaked out somehow. "Please...fuck...fuck me."

He bared his teeth in a predatory grin.

"You don't know what you're asking for, baby."

The sound of his pants being unzipped and the rustling of the fabric falling to his ankles was enough to make your heart stop beating. You needed to come so bad. But what you needed even more than that was him.

You didn't struggle when he pushed himself inside you. The low moan on his lips was enough to make your skin tingle, your insides squirm.

He was no man for gentleness. So, you didn't protest when he began to fuck into you like a beast in heat. You just moaned. Closed your eyes. And begged.

Oh, you'd feel him for the next few days. But you couldn't bring yourself to care. You needed him. You needed release.

You felt it approach faster than you thought. Being kept on edge for hours was a cruel endeavour and being so close to the damn-well-needed release was even worse.

Because, just seconds before you felt yourself tip over the edge with you arching your back and moaning against the material in your mouth, he stopped.

As expected.

You gasped and tried to move your hips but it was futile. He was still inside you, still so incredibly close to your sweet spot, but he refused to move. You closed your eyes in your frustration, but his firm grip on your jaw forced you to look up at him.

"That's right. Now that's a good girl if I've ever seen one." He smiled and it almost looked genuine.

He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead.

Almost loving.

Almost.

"Don't worry, baby. We'll take it one day at a time."

It might have sounded reassuring from any other man, in any other situation.

Yet you couldn't help but feel the dread creep into your bones.

You understood it now.

This was only the beginning.

[the-librarby]

FANCY SEEING YOU HERE IV

- DANTE SPARDA (DMC)

18+ MDNI, only warning.

Wheww I believe this is the closing chapter to FSYH. It’s open ended, but, I don’t have any more plot devices planned as of now so I’m going to officially call it here for this one. I haven’t written this much in a long time, let alone mature content so take it with a grain of salt.

Happy reading!

Part one Part two Part three

The bright morning sun shines within your bedroom, you forgot to close the blinds in your rush to lay down. It’s annoying at most, but it’s not what wakes you. A disturbing buzz vibrates from atop your bedside table, blindly you fish around from it, far too comfortably to sacrifice rolling over onto your back.

Eventually you feel it, in your haste you yank it off charge, blindly accept the call and balance it on your ear.

“Hello?” You greet groggily, eyes still closed and hair askew over your pillow.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Your friend replies, her giggle is taunting.

With your other hand, from under your pillow you pull your hair out of your mouth, “How are you so cheery?” You groan, “You drank just as much as me last night,”

“Yeah, but did you chug any water when you got home?” Fair point, you didn’t.

“You’re a freak,” you grumble, sinking back into your pillow with a huff.

It’s silent for a thoughtful second, “Anything interesting happen on the way home? You should have told me you were getting picked up by your knight in shining armour,”

You snort, Dante would love that one, cocky as he is, “No,” you lie, not ready to unpack that conversation, “Just a walk home,”

“You’re a fucking liar,” your friend laughs, “You were all over him, and he lapped up every moment of it. I won’t be surprised if I hear an engagement announcement soon, are there wedding bells in the distance?”

You stuff your face into pillow in avoidance, regret washes over you. You were never one for public displays of affection, but clearly you went overboard last night.

“I didn’t even know he was going to show up,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Huh? Can’t hear you hun,” she chimes.

You sigh, shifting your face onto its side again, “Didn’t think he would show, he was meant to be on a miss—out of town,” you settle on.

“What? Oh my god,” her giggle turns into full on laughter. “This just gets better and better, you’re telling me he left his out of town meeting to find you?”

Well, you hadn’t actually put that part into perspective yet. You hadn’t put anything into perspective, it was way too early. With a sigh, you roll over onto your back to stare up at the ceiling.

You rake your fingers through your hair, “I guess? I don’t know,”

“That’s dedication,” she comments, “I guess he passes the test, for now.”

You chat a little while longer, mortified at the blanks she fills in on your behaviour last night. This is why you don’t drink, you make a promise to never drink that much again. Your friend doesn’t believe a word of it, and you hang up after a promise to catch up again sometime soon.

You stare at your ceiling for a little while longer. Dante had been on a mission last time you spoke to him on the phone. Not only was it far away, but it was meant to be at least another week long. From what you remember it was a hunting mission, some hoard hiding deep in the mountains and smuggling others through a portal.

How had he made it back so early? Had he expedited the mission somehow? And for what? You shake your head, an opportunity must have lined up, there’s no way he rushed in blindly just to meet you.

You rise up abruptly in your bed, the sheets pool around your lap. You search the sheets frantically for your phone which you just put down. Once founded, you scroll through your call log until you find the number.

It rings a couple times before it picks up, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for at least a couple more hours,”

You bring your knees up to your chest, “How did you finish the mission so early?”

There’s a momentary pause and shift, you imagine Dante leaning back in his chair as he tries to think of an excuse, “There was an opening?” He tries.

“Bullshit! You rushed in there! It makes so much sense, how odd you were acting, and telling me to keep my phone on me. It was so you could find me later on once you finished the mission!” You exclaim.

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down. It wasn’t like that,” he placates, “Yeah maybe I…cut out a few steps of the original plan, but it was still under control,”

You drag your free hand down your face, shaking your head in disbelief, “I can’t believe you Dante, rushing in like that for something so stupid!”

“It’s not stupid—” he interjects.

“—Yes it is! It’s the definition of stupid!”

A deep sigh rumbles through the speaker, “There you go again, questioning my abilities, If I were a lesser man I’d be offended, darling,”

“You are so fucking cocky, one day it’s gonna bite you in the ass Dante,” you lean back until you’re propped up against your headboard.

“Where’s the girl from last night? She was much more fun,” he muses, “Couldn’t keep her hands off me either,”

You clench your teeth and look to the window of your room. You can feel your face flaming, and it’s not because of the sunlight pouring in.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, “That’s unfair to bring up,”

The smirk is apparent in Dante’s tone, “I like to play dirty,”

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly remember you complaining,” you snap.

“Oh, is that what you think?” He asks sincerely, “I’m far from complaining, I was one step away from waking up in bed with you this morning,”

His tone is matter of fact. So self assured of his feelings, that it’s almost overwhelming to hear. When speaking to Dante, your mind just runs on autopilot, there’s no thinking or deliberating.

“What stopped you?”

The hiss you hear in response is satisfying. Like a crack in the armour, “Because I am a gentleman, sweetheart. Although, you make it hard to keep it that way,”

Before you can reply with a witty remark, he cuts through, “Listen,” there’s rummaging in the background, “I have to go to meet a client, this conversation is to be continued in person. You alright with that, doll?”

The condescension sets your jaw in place, “Sure, whatever you want, Dante,”

There’s a pause in his step, “Don’t overthink this,”

“Overthink what?”

“This— Us,” he sighs, “I really have to go, and I don’t want to rush this, don’t think until I see you next,” he demands.

“Don’t think?” You muse questioning.

“Don’t think,” he confirms, “I’ll see you in the office later.”

You barely exchange goodbye’s by the line hangs up.

The day went about as normal, you weren’t expected in the office until the afternoon so it was a slow start around your apartment. Despite Dante’s demand to not think, you were thinking.

Your friends painted a real cozy picture of the two of you last night. And as much as you cringe over your own behaviour, it makes you feel some kind of warmth. As stupid as Dante was for cutting corners on a mission, he did do it for you, right? It would be equally as stupid to dismiss that.

Maybe you weren’t ready for this conversation, what if you had different ideas?

Your phone pings on the kitchen bench.

[Image]

Just in case you needed photo evidence of how into you he is.

You open the photo from your friend and smile. It’s slightly blurry, but it’s a shot of the two of you outside from the bar window. Dante’s arm is wrapped around your waist as an anchor, and he’s leant down to hear you better as you talk animatedly mid step.

You shake your head and save the photo before putting it down. You move on about your day and push everything else back before it derails your day.

It’s about two pm when you unlock the door to your office. Everything is as you left it, with no messages on the machine you go about the admin work for the day. A few hunters drop in for their contracts, but other than that, it’s uneventful. It’s gives your mind lots of time to wander against your will. Dante hadn’t checked in once, which is unusual on most days, but maybe he’s just trying to keep his word to talk in person.

Minutes tick by and you’re getting bored, all your work is done but the day isn’t over. As if sensing your boredom, the office phone rings. You reach over with laziness to take it off the hook.

“Devil may cry,” you greet.

“Y/N,” Enzo replies, “How goes everything?”

“Slow,” you complain, “Barely any hunters have come by, or even called, it’s dead over here,”

There’s a knowing hum, “Probably because Dante is sweeping up all the contracts,”

You frown, “How? He hasn’t even come past here recently,”

“He’s got his own contacts, most of our high profile clients have his direct line, they only come to us when he’s on long missions,” he explains.

You tilt your head in confusion, “Wait, so he doesn’t even need us?” You inquire, “Then why does he come past so often?”

“Wait,” Enzo pauses, “He’s been visiting you? When?”

“At least once a week?” You say questioningly, “More sometimes, actually,”

“Interesting…” Enzo teases, “Keep an eye on for me, will you?”

“Sure.” You reply hesitantly.

A weird feeling follows you after the call. Enzo had been vague at best—like he always is— you justify. You’ve noticed how he keeps Dante a bit more guarded than the rest of the hunters. There’s a tie there that you don’t know enough about, but you can tell he cares a lot about him.

You keep your mind busy with mindless work that you’ve been putting off until now. The sun slowly starts to set and your eyes are getting tired, you lean back in your chair and rub your face under your glasses. The door starts to creek open, you peek your eye open. A familiar red jacket slips through, you lean forward in your seat ready to greet him but your smile drops.

There’s red drops dripping from somewhere onto the floorboards of your office. You stand up quickly as Dante closes the door behind him.

“You’re bleeding,”

“Huh?”

“You’re bleeding,” you state, point at the red drops on the floorboards.

Dante looks down at the floor where the blood is dripping, curiously he examines his left arm to see a deep cut on the outside. Must of missed that one.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he assures, “It’ll heal,”

You’re not listening as you open one of the overhead cupboards to grab your first aid kit. You usher him to sit down, and he complains— really it’s not necessary— just as you grab the antibacterial wipes you can see the cut slowly knit itself back together like nothing happened.

Reading about Dante’s regeneration ability is one thing, but seeing it in person astounds you. You sit back on the corner of the desk in front of him, wipe still in hand.

“I…” you trail off, shaking your head, “Didn’t expect that,”

“Told you,” he states.

You sigh and reach for his arm anyway to wipe off the dried blood.

“Successful mission then?” You ask, wiping over the skin that just previously was sliced open. You feel complete disbelief, there’s not even a scar.

“Very successful,” he smiles, “Fat paycheque too,” he adds on.

A charged silence washes over the two of you. You try not to think—ironic—about anything than the crusted blood you’ve now finished scrubbing off. As you turn to drop the wipe in the bin beside your desk, you hear the chair scrape backwards. When you look back, Dante is standing over you.

“You’re quiet,” he notes, finger hooking under your chin. You smile in amusement as he tilts your head side to side in inspection, “Getting shy on me?”

“Never,” you reply. “Just thinking,”

He looks down at you suspiciously, his other hand gets comfortable on your thigh, “About what?”

“Enzo told me something interesting,”

Dante back tracks, confusion stopping his hand in place, “Like…?”

You arch your brow, “Apparently clients have a direct line to you when you’re in town,” you wrap your hand around his raised arm, stroking up and down, “So there’s no need for me to liaise between you and them,”

Dante smiles knowingly, “Caught on have you? Should have known Enzo would open his big, fat mouth,” he sighs dramatically, looking down at your lap. Both his hands are now resting on your thighs, you can feel the warmth of his hands through your stockings as he rubs up and down.

“Anything else you want to add?” You ask.

He tilts his head and leans in closer, invading your space, “Need me to spell it out for you?” You can feel his breath fan across your face as he comes closer, “I’m obsessed with you, have been since you kicked me out of your office,” he admits.

You laugh lightly, “That do it for you?”

He mulls it over with a nod, “The tights helped.”

You squeeze your thighs together subconsciously at the thought. Your knees are the only thing forcing space between the two of you, but Dante doesn’t let that stop him as he uses your thighs as something to grip onto. The warmth emanating from him is making your own body begin to flush.

“I think that’s enough conversation,” you breathe.

“Thank god.”

The first kiss is rushed, you’re forced to lean back from Dante’s eagerness. Your hands come up to hold onto his shoulders, then neck, for anchorage as his hands slip further up your skirt. He’s not as reserved as he was last night, his hands are all over your body trying to map it out. When his hands migrate to your covered chest, he hums and breaks away for a breath.

“You have no idea how hard it was to leave you alone last night.” he admits, hands shamelessly squeezing your chest.

You exhale sharply, his gaze is fixated on your body. Without say, you reach for the hem of your sweater and lift it up. Dante remains quiet as you do so, watching as inch my inch your skin comes on display. You’re just left in your bra as the sweater is flung behind you on your desk chair. You lean your hands behind on your desk, letting Dante stare at your exposed chest. His hands hover your naked waist, but doesn’t touch almost out of reverence.

“Did you think about me?” You tease.

This seems to snap him out of his reverie, he looks into your eyes, “It would be shameful for me to even say what I was thinking about.”

His hands settle on your thighs, forcing them open so he can step through. He watches your expression as his hands slowly migrate up your waist, his thumbs dig under your ribs causing a steep exhale. Settled there, he arches your back as he drags you closer for another kiss. You keep your hands on the desk for anchorage as his hands continue to glide up your ribs. Without the sweater in the way, you can feel the warmth of his hands encompass your breasts through the lace.

He’s shameless as he squeezes them, you moan against his lips, hand holding onto his outstretched arm tightly. You pant softly as he pulls away, leading kisses down your neck. You almost miss the warmth as his hands pull away from your chest, one settles on your waist while the other is placed on your thigh.

He pauses as his fingers dip into your inner thigh, “How attached are you to these?” He asks, fingers pinching and snapping the tights material against your leg.

“Huh?” You breathe out, “Not much?”

The snap and tear of the material makes your eyes widen, you try to close your legs out of habit but can’t with him standing in the middle of them.

He sighs in contentment, staring at the massive hole he’s ripped from your crotch to inner thighs, “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,”

You shake your head in disbelief, “You’re a fucking animal,” you chastise.

He smirks wolfishly, “Oh yeah?” His fingers glide over your exposed sensitive skin, inching close to your panties, “What does that make you then?”

Your breathing turns shallow as his thumb brushes over your covered clit. Your hand shoots down to grip his wrist as he keeps rubbing, just barely. The fine sensations are setting you on edge. You want to get even, to wipe that godforsaken smirk off his face.

You reach for his pants but he leans back grabbing your hand with his free one before you can touch, “Nuh uh,” he teases, still circling his thumb, “Not yet,”

You frown incredulously, “What? Why?”

“Ladies first.” He responds, slowly dropping to his knees.

Your legs are pushed open further to accomodate his broad shoulders, your hands grip the edge of the desk as you look down at him. Your skirt is still covering most, but you can see as one hand settles on your inner thigh and the other reaches forward. Deft fingers hook onto the edge of your panties and pull them to the side. The cool air makes you clench, but Dante doesn’t wait as he leans forward.

The feel of his tongue circling your clit makes you moan instantly, nails dig into the edge of the desk as your arch forward against the sensation. You cuss breathlessly and look up at the ceiling with your eyes clenched shut.

“Fuck, should have said something sooner,” you look down at Dante, jaw involuntarily slack as you pant, “Didn’t realise you were so good at this,”

You can see him start to pull away—for some witty remark, of course— but you grip his hair firmly, “Don’t,” you demand, “I don’t need the comment right now, Dante.”

Dante loves a girl that can use her words. Following your command he leans forward and sucks around your clit, the sensation is rough, as sensitive pins spike. Your fingers curl tightly in his hair as you clench your thighs closer around his head.

Dante groans beneath you. You apologise softly and force your legs to relax, but his hands grip the outside of your thighs and push them closer. When your thighs tense, he rewards you with a soft tap.

Good girl.

Noted. You keep your thighs squeezed around his head, and one hand clenched around his silvery strands as he continues to eat you out. One hand sneaks away from your thighs and inches closer to his mouth, without warning his middle finger starts to rub up and down your slit. It’s dripping with your own juices alongside Dante’s saliva.

“Wait,” you gasp, “Wait—”

He slides his finger in with ease. You shiver and curl forward, your hand is pushing down on Dante’s head causing him to lean deeper and it’s all just too much sensation. Your thighs twitch, as his finger slides in and out in timed thrusts, when his index finger aims to join you shake your head and push your palm against his forehead forcing him to dislodge.

His fingers are still moving but he’s breathing with panting breaths as he looks up at you. The light of your office highlights the glistening mixture of fluids of his chin and neck. It’s hard to catch your breath when his fingers curl inside you. Your hand migrates from his hair to his shoulder.

“Dante,” you pant, “You need to—stop,” you gasp.

His free hand grips your thigh for leverage as he stands, towering over you once again.

“Can’t handle it?” He teases, “I don’t know what to tell you doll, I can’t stop until you’re ready. So you’re just going to have to take it.”

The finality of it makes you clench your teeth. Now that he’s standing you can see the clear outline of his cock tenting his pants. You reach forward with haste to unbuckle his pants, this time he allows it as he slips a third finger in. The stretch makes you grapple at his arms for leverage. For a moment he just stands there with his pants undone as you catch your breath. He loves the affect his fingers and mouth are having on you, already imagining future ways he could be better.

With one last deep breath you straighten up again, widening your legs a bit more as you pull him forward by ends of his pants. With unrestricted access, you slide your hand across his boxers, feeling along the covered length. Dante huffs, his hand gripping your thigh at the sensation.

His movements stutter when your fingers pinch softly around the former wet patch on his underwear. The off guard hiss, drives you forward with confidence. You slip your hand underneath and form a tight grip around his cock. His hips twitch forward, fingers withdrawing altogether from your hole to grip your thigh. You can feel the wetness of his fingers through your stockings, as you start to stroke your hand up and down.

Dante mutters words of praise at just about anything you do, every twist, squeeze, and pinch is met with a resounding yes, keep going. As long as your hands are on him, he’s coming undone. He’s near desperate when your fingers circle tightly around the head of his cock, milking every bit of pre-cum he’s capable of without blowing his load altogether.

When you pull his cock out, he hisses as the cool air brushes against sensitive skin. All you can think about is how wet your fingers are starting to get.

“Feel okay, sweetheart?” You whisper with faux concern, the mischievous smile on your face gives your facade up instantly, this is about revenge.

Dante groans, feeling a tad bit helpless—dream scenario to him—under your touch. His hand goes towards your skirt but you slap his hand away before he can retreat under, “Nuh-uh,” you tease, “Not yet,”

He huffs and places it back on your thigh, to accomodate his weight he leans his forehead against yours. Both of you are now watching as you stroke his cock leisurely.

“I will fucking cum like this,” he admits shamelessly.

You smile, “And disappoint me? I thought you were better than that,”

He sighs, cock twitching at the tight upstroke of your hand, “I’m only a man, darling, when are you going to learn that?”

His hands grip harder and drag your legs around his waist. Both of his hands and your free one are resting on the desk behind you for balance. He kisses you hastily, catching you off guard. It’s needy, and desperate, and deep. His tongue dominates your mouth in a sweep causing your hand to pause its movements. With clumsy eagerness you tug him forward until you can feel the head of his cock slide through the slick of your inner thighs, next to your entrance.

Dante bows his head his desperation, his hands grip your hips and tug you forward until you can both feel him slide up and down the wetness.

“Fuck,” you gasp as your clit is rubbed against. You can’t help but wriggle your hips, the sensation is numbing.

“Stop,” he pants, forcing your hips to still with a bruising grip, “Stop moving.”

You twitch impatiently but Dante’s not letting you go anywhere. After a moment of recollection, he shuffles back and removes your hand to replace it with his own. You watch, entranced, as he glides forward. His hands push your skirt up to your hips so he has an unobstructed view as he sinks in.

It’s maddening, how full you feel. The office is quiet save for the panting as you both catch your breath. Dante leads a trail of kisses across your chest as you settle.

“Okay?” He asks gently.

You exhale raggedly, “You’re fucking massive,”

Dante quirks an eyebrow, a satisfied smile on his face. You slap his chest, “Don’t look so happy about it,”

“Is my massive cock an issue?” He asks.

You shake your head incredulously, “Just move,”

“Yes ma’am.”

The first thrust is uncomfortable as you clench tightly around him, but he takes such care as he opens you up nice and slow. The shallow thrusts start to become not enough, more, you demand, and well, Dante is nothing but a follower for you.

He notes what you like most and by the end of it he has you. Fingers are curled in his hair, teeth marks against his bare shoulder from the just right, timing of his thrusts, and your legs trembling around his waist. When you think this is it, the tense curl of your lower stomach is about to snap, his fingers reach to rub against your clit.

“Fuck!” You cry, just hanging on at this point, your fingers tighten against his hair and shoulder as you press closer against his chest, “Too much,”

Dante hums, fraying at the edges himself but just a little more intact than you to keep it together, “Nah, you can take it my love, can’t you?”

He hasn’t called you that since the mission you went on together and it makes you sob, “Fuck, Dante, please,”

Who is he to say no to his girl?

He thrusts in deep, just as you like, and circles your clit faster until you’re clenching and trembling around him. He would give up a lot to see your face right now, but he settles on next time, as he pulls out to cum on your thigh.

He’s satisfied at the mess he’s made on your stockings, a deep fulfilment flooding his chest as he rubs it in with his thumb. You can only look down from his shoulder dazed and mildly disgusted at the mess he’s making.

“You fucking creep,” you mutter.

He tilts your head back, admiring your flushed face and tear stricken cheeks. Your lips twist as he rubs his dirty thumb against your bottom lip, forcing it in your mouth.

“Shh,” he coos pressing his thumb against your thumb to silence your annoyed protest, “Stop acting like you don’t love it.”

You thought it impossible for your face to get anymore red but Dante chuckles. He had so much in store for you.

[satorusdiary]

2:29 am; back in love ! - toji fushiguro

summary: ex bf! toji in your bed for the first time in months after the split up.

continuation from dilf!toji being your ex bf

pure fluff, that’s all.

ps. the pic above isn’t mine :)

Gojo sent 2:29 am

i’m worried for you, are you even home?

the constant buzzing coming from toji’s phone continues to annoy him, and his chances of sleeping. it was his mistake not silencing his phone before he drifted off with you in his arms.

yet how could he pull away from you when all he wanted to do was trap you with his warmth? it was impossible trying to get away from you.

he almost forgot how he was able to be away from you for so long. now that you are in his arms again, his heart has been soaring of excitement for so long in the past few hours.

he’s missed you so much.

his love for you has never stopped, nor has it stopped looking for you. his other half.

Toji sent 2:30 am

the fuck are you on?

the light is almost blinding, and the small squirms you make against his chest almost make his heart stop. he doesn’t want to wake you up, especially when you were already having trouble sleeping.

the bags under your eyes, and the dried tear stains under them as well had him concerned for you. all he wants to do is care for you.

Gojo sent 2:30 am

your car isn’t outside your house, and i know damn well u don’t park shit in ur garage.

Toji sent 2:32 am

that’s because i’m not home, ya dumbass

before his phone was attacked with multiple messages from his friend, he shuts off his phone and places it face down on the nightstand.

sleep is far from consuming his body now. his eyes stay looking outside the window, and into the dark starry sky. his thoughts weren’t all over the place, but had certain things to think about.

he’s gonna have to explain everything to you in the morning. then he is gonna have to pick up megumi from nanami’s home, go to work.. all that stuff.

he might consider taking the day off if it meant staying by your side.

a sudden movement snaps toji out of his thoughts, your arm that was around his bare torso slithers off, you rub your eyes while slightly whining.

“toji?..” you muttered, your head moving up to look at the wide awake man. you were still tired, but wide awake to know that toji wasn’t able to sleep.

his arm went under your— his hoodie that was over your body and rubbed your bare back. his warm hand easing you quickly with satisfaction.

“shh— shh. go back ‘ta sleep, sweetheart.” toji snuggles in closer to you, your head snuggling in deeper towards his broad chest.

“‘m sorry, pretty baby. didn’t mean ‘to wake you up.” he whispers, making sure to not wake you up more than you already were.

instead of complaining, you only hummed. whilst placing a kiss on his chest.

“‘ts okay. sleep with me, tojii.” you slurred. sleep was just about to take over your body, until he kissed your forehead sweetly.

“yeah, will do princess. sleep well, mkay?” it wasn’t really question, more of a concerned demand coming from him. none the less you nodded your head, with your eyes drooping closed.

“love you..” you started off, bringing one of your hands to caress his arm lovingly. the confession makes toji smile, snuggling into you more.

“i love you more baby.”

jujutsu kaisen masterlist

[elegantlyeva]

I loved your last Scott fic and was wondering if you could do something with just him and fluffiness for his girl? (Or as fluffy as he can get)

Burned Breakfast

a/n: Thank you for the request babe! i assumed you met established relationship fluff but if you meant for the pining stages lmk!!

Word Count: 0.6K

The sunlight from the early morning peeks through the blinds, the curtains wide open. One of you forgot to close the blinds, and considering you were the one woken up by the sun’s intrusion, you blame Scott.

Scott, the peaceful man soundly asleep next to you, small snores leaving his lips, despite how many times he’s rejected the idea that he snores.

Early mornings, ones right after a night in with you, were the only times he looked truly at peace. No complaints from any of his co-workers, no gum in his mouth to fidget with and no one but you to irritate him, though he enjoys you.

He had been extra nice yesterday, making dinner for the pair of you after he got home from a particularly good day with Storm Par. So, considering you were up, you thought to return the favor, slipping on your slippers and peeling Scott’s arm that lay heavily on your waist.

He moved a bit, his brows furrowing in agitation, even in sleep, when he doesn’t get his way. Eventually, he relaxes again, and you make your way out of his bedroom.

It wasn’t even half an hour before Scott started to stir, his hand reaching out to grab you, but met with your side of his bed, cold.

Scott sits up abruptly, opening his eyes in a frenzy. You never got up before him. Did you leave in the middle of the night? Had he done something wrong?

The man was contemplating his entire life when he heard a pan fall from the kitchen.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and got up to follow the noise quickly. He was met with his panicked-looking girlfriend running a hand under the sink.

Scott scowls at the sight, scurrying over to you to inspect the damage.

“What the fuck were you trying to do?” he asked incredulously, kissing your cheek in lieu of a good morning.

“Cooking you breakfast,” you frown, moving your hand to motion around the mess you made in the kitchen. “Pancakes and bacon!”

Scott shook his head, laughing slightly. “Oh really?” he asks, moving to wrap his arms around your waist from behind, pushing your burned hand back under the running water when you move it away. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You narrow your eyes playfully, “You can’t be mean. I’m injured,” you say rather dramatically.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you did that to yourself.” But he moves to the fridge to collect the burn cream he kept there after a nasty incident he had a couple of months back.

He turns off the water for you and snatches your hand towards him so he can apply the cream. “Why were you trying to make me breakfast anyway? Not that I don’t appreciate it.” He raises a brow, and you smile sheepishly.

“I wanted to do something for you.”

“That’s sweet ‘n all, babe, but I promise I’m happy with waking up to you in my bed,” he says, blowing on your burned hand when you wince. “The cream won’t stop the pain, but it’s refreshing, and if you keep applying it, the burn won’t scar.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly, cheeks tinged pink at his words.

“Alright, no offense, but I'm not sure how much I trust this pancake batch,” he starts, staring judgmentally at the (burned) batch you made. You start to protest, but he cuts you off. “It’s fucking early. How about we go back to sleep for another hour, and when we wake up, I'll take you out to the diner?”

The argument dies on your tongue, and you nod, grabbing his hand. “Well, come on, then. I’ve been dying to get back to bed the second the opened curtains that someone forgot to close last night woke me up.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he pushes you back into the room, gently. “Thought you wanted to be nice?”