#I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m not doing enough and even when I am that it just simply doesn’t matter.

[bywons]

PRETTY ON YOU ꣑୧ hot things they do

𝗔𝗖𝗧𝖵────𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝒾𝐒 ❫ ｡ 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1O11 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ✿ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 贅沢 ／ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄

★REBLOG4KISS

LEE HEESEUNG is cheerful most of the time. you can’t get to sway his mood even when you steal his favourite ramen packets and poke his cheeks a little too harsh. he finds it all cute and lets you experiment all that's going on in your mischievous mind on him. he just loves you so much. however, he doesn’t like it when you get too close to one of his friends, laughing a bit too loud. heeseung’s voice drops low when he is serious with you, his usual innocence gone as he easily cages you between his tall figure when he snakes his arm around your waist and back. his grip is gentle, but firm enough to remind you—he’s not playing. his lips brush your ear as he whispers, “don’t test me, baby.” his gaze holds a promise you can’t ignore.

PARK JONGSEONG loves to compliment you at every chance he gets. he loves when you try to hide your giggle when he calls you a princess, how you shove your face in his chest when he showers sweet words on your hard work. jay loves the feeling of this quiet dominance, tha only he can make you flushed. but jay has a bad habit of calling you a ‘good girl’ to see you malfunction. “how was work today?” jay smiles, pulling you onto his lap. “just know that i’m getting that promotion,” you giggle. “that’s my good girl,” jay murmurs, voice like silk as he presses a kiss just below your jaw. you pause—heartbeat skipping—and he feels your reaction, grinning smugly against your skin. his hands rest firmly on your hips, grounding you while his praise leaves you dizzy. “knew you could do it.”

SIM JAEYUN always wants you close to him, whenever you are not, jake whines and pouts until you notice it and come closer. he loves sharing body heat with you— hugging you close from behind, placing his hand on your thighs or simply guiding you by the small of your back. but when you are within arms reach, jake hooks his fingers through the loops of your jeans and pulls you closer with a lazy grin. his eyes drag over you like he’s starving, gaze flicking from your lips to your waist as he tugs you flush against him. “there you are,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers tightening slightly on the loops. your breath hitches when his other hand trails slowly up your spine, settling at the nape of your neck. “why were you so far, huh?” he leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “you know i hate that.”

PARK SUNGHOON doesn’t mean to do it so often, he doesn’t mean to look so in charge when he knows he melts beneath your touch. but as soon as he sinks on the couch after a tiring day of work, sunghoon manspreads like it’s his birthright. long legs spread wide, head tilted back, one arm slung over the backrest. it's not intentional, but that's what he'd say. his sharp eyes flick up when he notices you staring. “something on your mind?” he smirks with amusement, head tilting sideways. but when he doesn’t get an answer from you, he curls his hand inwards and pats on his thigh, “come sit,” he sighs. and when you do, sunghoon just smiles lazily and guides your head closer to his chest like you belong there, and starts to caress your hair like a much needed ritual. “i love you” he murmurs against your hair, “stay.”

KIM SUNOO is determined to be your favourite listener. he drops anything either important or trivial, just to listen to your honey voice. sunoo doesn’t like any distractions in between— it falters your pace which makes you wonder if he even is listening to you, and he likes to leave no space for doubt. sunoo gently pushes the stray strands of hair away from your face whenever they fall over when you are talking, his fingers brushing over your bottom lip. he hums softly when he sees your face flushing, stuttering in your words. “keep going,” he whispers, his voice soft as his hand settles on your jaw. sunoo presses a kiss against your forehead, “why’d you stop? i love hearing you talk.”

YANG JUNGWON always has to make sure you never have any difficulties, at least around him. he makes sure to remember all your favourites when out at a cafe, and urges you to wear comfortable clothes around, whatever is best for you. but the moment he sees you wincing, looking down at your heels, he knows you need his care again. after all, he doesn't like to see you in trouble, jungwon kneels in front of you without hesitation, undoing the straps of your heels. “why didn’t you tell me they hurt?” he asks softly, when they’re off, he rubs your feet gently, his thumbs pressing where it aches. “next time,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a look that leaves no room for argument, “you tell me. i’ll carry you if i have to.” and with that, he slips off his own shoes and offers them to you, because your comfort will always come before his.

NISHIMURA RIKI never fails to tease you about your height. the difference between you two is endlessly amusing to him—he’s always resting his chin on your head, using you as his personal armrest, or ruffling your hair just to hear you whine. “so tiny,” he grins, every time. but when you lean in to whisper something, needing privacy, riki bends down to your level with slow intention. his lips brush your ear as he murmurs, “what is it, shortie?” his voice is low, teasing—but his eyes, locked on yours, are darker, more intense. you hesitate, suddenly aware of how close he is, and that faint smirk on his lips only grows. “you wanna say something?” he asks, pulling you against his chest with ease, voice barely above a whisper. “or want me to get closer?” and god, he means it—every word dripping with love.

스루 ܃ not a favorite one, but i still hope you pretties love it 💗

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[bueckersworld]

come back to me

“sometimes love means holding someone so gently that they remember how to hold themselves again.”

SYNOPSIS: after a tough day navigating the pressures of her rookie wnba season, paige comes home emotionally drained. you offer quiet support—cooking dinner, holding her close, and reminding her that she doesn’t have to carry everything alone. as the night deepens, you show her tenderness and love in both words and touch, helping her release the weight she’s been holding. in your arms, she finds peace, comfort, and a moment of stillness she desperately needed.

WARNINGS: emotional distress, mentions of self doubt and performance anxiety, mild language, smut — mdni, bottom!paige, sub!paige, bottom!paige, pussy eating (p!receiving), scissoring (p&r!receiving)

WORD COUNT: 2.9k. info. masterlist. taglist.

it starts with the door clicking shut behind her.

not slamming. not angry. just heavy. tired. like even the sound of it was weighed down by the day she just had.

you don’t say anything right away. you stay in the kitchen, quietly stirring the pasta on the stove while you listen to her go through the motions—keys dropped on the table, shoes kicked off with a frustrated grunt, gym bag hitting the floor like it wronged her somehow.

her sigh travels all the way down the hallway.

and your heart breaks a little.

it’s been like this a lot lately. her first season with the wings isn’t going the way she hoped. the minutes are short, the critics are loud, and the pressure she puts on herself? it’s louder than anything else.

you hear it in her silence more than her words.

“hey, baby,” you call gently. “dinner’s almost ready.”

she mumbles something that might’ve been “thanks,” but it’s muffled by the sweatshirt she’s pulling over her head. when she walks into the kitchen, her eyes are already on the floor. shoulders tense. jaw tight. her curls are pulled back in a messy, damp bun, and there’s a visible crease between her brows that hasn’t left in weeks.

you step toward her and wrap your arms around her waist without hesitation. she sinks into you without a word.

you hold her there.

“long day?” you murmur against her temple.

she doesn’t answer right away. just breathes you in. slow. heavy. like she’s trying not to cry.

“i feel like i’m drowning,” she finally whispers.

you squeeze her tighter. “then let me be your lifeline.”

—

you both sit on the couch later, plates mostly clean, tv playing some show neither of you are really watching. paige has her head on your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed every few minutes, but you can tell her mind’s still racing.

“i’m trying so hard,” she whispers suddenly. “i’m doing everything they ask. i’m staying late. i’m watching film. i’m working on my shot. but nothing’s enough.”

you don’t say anything right away. just stroke your fingers gently through her hair, grounding her.

“you don’t have to earn rest, paige,” you say softly. “you’re allowed to be tired. you’re allowed to let go.”

“i can’t,” she says. “if i let go, i fall behind. and if i fall behind…”

her voice cracks.

“then i’ll be a disappointment.”

your chest aches.

you turn her gently until she’s facing you, her knees pulled onto the couch, her eyes wide and vulnerable in the low light. you cup her face in both hands.

“you are never a disappointment,” you say, slow and certain. “not to me. not to anyone who truly matters.”

her eyes drop. “i don’t feel like myself.”

“then let me help you find your way back.”

you lean forward and kiss her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. her breath hitches, and you feel it—the way her walls start to fall.

“let me take care of you tonight,” you whisper. “let me show you how loved you are.”

she doesn’t answer. just nods.

so you take her hand and lead her to the bedroom.

you undress her gently. like she’s fragile. like she’s art. her hoodie first. then the tank top soaked through with sweat from practice. the sports bra that clings to her ribs. every inch of her is tense, but she doesn’t stop you.

you press kisses down her spine, her shoulders, her stomach. you whisper soft things—how proud you are, how beautiful she is, how much you adore her—even when she shakes her head, even when she doesn’t believe it.

you undress yourself, too, and let the room stay quiet. warm. slow.

you want to give her something soft in return for everything hard she’s faced today.

you kiss her again. deeper this time. her fingers clutch at your hips like she’s afraid to fall apart without you.

you press her gently into the mattress.

you move over her like a promise.

your hands trail over her skin slowly, deliberately, as you ease your way down her body. the waistband of her shorts yields under your fingers, sliding down along with her boxers in one fluid motion before you toss them aside, forgotten.

you gently guide her legs up, spreading her open for you. your breath brushes against her heat, and she instantly shudders, inhaling sharply, her thighs twitching slightly from the anticipation alone.

your tongue flicks out, gliding a long, slow stripe up her folds. she tastes like heaven, sweet and warm, and you groan low in your throat as her fingers tangle in your hair with need.

you run your hands up her thighs, grounding her, taking your time like she deserves — no rush, just tenderness.

your tongue finds her clit and circles it gently, then your lips close around it, sucking slow and soft. her breath catches.

“shit…” she moans, her head falling back against the cushions, eyes fluttering shut.

you slide two fingers through her slick folds, teasing before easing them inside her, curling upward just right — the way that makes her body jerk beneath you.

she squirms, hips bucking reflexively, and you hold her down with one arm, keeping her steady as your fingers move with practiced grace.

you thrust slow and deep, curling with each pass, watching the way her face shifts as you hit that one spot — the one that makes her mouth fall open, brows draw together, eyes roll back.

“don’t stop,” she whimpers, voice strained, hands clutching at you like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

your tongue stays on her clit, alternating flicks with firm sucks, building her up, never letting her settle.

“fuck, i’m close,” she whispers, breathless like she’s praying under her breath. “baby, please…”

you pick up your pace — fingers thrusting faster, your tongue licking harder, lips wrapping tighter around her clit as she edges closer and closer.

then she breaks.

her whole body arches off the couch, a strangled moan slipping from her throat as her orgasm crashes over her. her legs tremble around your shoulders, one hand pressing your face closer, the other fisting the blanket beneath her.

you stay with her, licking gently, helping her ride it out, your fingers slipping out slowly. you bring them to your mouth, sucking them clean with a soft moan of your own, all while your eyes stay locked on hers.

“you okay, baby?” you ask gently, brushing your thumb along her thigh as you kneel between her legs.

she nods, her breathing still uneven, lips parted in the haze of afterglow.

you lean in to kiss her temple. “good,” you murmur, voice low and tender. “cause i really need t’feel you.”

you slide your own shorts down and climb back over her, your movements slow, sensual. at first, you straddle her thigh, letting the heat of your wetness press against her skin, but then you shift — hips sliding forward until your center meets hers.

the contact is instant. blinding.

your clits press together, slick and swollen, and you both moan at the same time — hers a ragged gasp, yours a needy breath that catches in your throat.

her hands find your hips, gripping tight as she helps guide your movement. you rock forward slowly, letting your bodies grind together in slow, aching circles.

the sound between you is obscene — wet and rhythmic — and it only fuels the fire already building in your stomach.

“fuck, you feel so good,” she groans, eyes low as she looks down to where your bodies are joined. “look at us, baby…”

you moan at the sight too — her slick mixed with yours, glistening with every roll of your hips.

“yeah?” you pant, riding her a little faster now. “you like that?”

“fuck, yes,” she breathes, her grip tightening. “so much. i’m already—fuck, baby, i’m gonna come again…”

“come with me,” you whisper against her lips, hips moving desperately. “please, paige…”

a few more frantic grinds and you both break — moaning each other’s names, clinging tightly, hips stuttering as your orgasms hit in perfect sync, overwhelming and all-consuming.

your bodies stay locked together, trembling, breathless, tangled in each other’s warmth.

—

after, she doesn’t let you go.

not even for a second.

you lie on your side, face tucked into her neck, her arm wrapped tight around your back like she’s grounding herself in the fact that you’re real. that this is real.

you’re quiet for a while. her breathing is slow. calmer than before. her skin is still flushed, her lips kiss-bruised, her voice raspy from how much she gave you. how much you pulled from her.

and yet—there’s peace in her now.

there’s something close to relief.

“thank you,” she murmurs. “for not giving up on me.”

you press a kiss beneath her jaw. “never even crossed my mind.”

she lets out a shaky breath. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

you smile against her skin. “good thing you’ll never have to find out.”

she laughs quietly. the sound is small, but it’s genuine. the first real laugh you’ve heard from her in days.

she kisses your temple. “you’re kind of amazing, you know.”

“only kind of?”

“okay—fully,” she concedes, pulling you even closer. “you’re fully amazing.”

you hum. “i’ll accept that.”

her fingers trace lazy lines down your spine now, soft and slow. she’s not rushing to sleep. not racing toward tomorrow. she’s just here. present. hers again.

“you make me feel like i’m still me,” she says quietly.

you kiss her collarbone. “that’s all i want.”

“can we just stay like this?” she asks. “just for tonight?”

you nod without hesitation. “yeah, baby. we can.”

and so you do.

wrapped in each other.

no spotlight. no pressure. no critics.

just you and her, steady and quiet and safe.

and finally—finally—she sleeps.

© bueckersworld

𝐧����𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ sub/bottom paige will forever have my heart no doubt ab it, no shame either.

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @iwasbored-okay @kl0verk @bqringtears @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @youmeandjennessey @asapeveryday

h

[moondustbaby]

The Next Heartbeat

CEO!Rafe x Nanny/GF!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

summary: You weren’t planning it, but a faint pink line changes everything. Now, you’re carrying Rafe Cameron’s second child—and watching his son become the most excited big brother in the world.

⸻

You know before the test even turns positive.

You feel it—somehow. You’ve been tired for a week straight, your stomach turning over at the smell of coffee (which Rafe makes every morning, heavy and dark and strong enough to wake the dead). You cried watching a cereal commercial last night.

Something shifted. You just knew.

Still, when you slip into the guest bathroom with trembling hands and three different brands of pregnancy tests hidden under your hoodie, it doesn’t feel real.

Not until it is.

Two pink lines.

Plus sign.

Pregnant.

All three tests confirm it. You sit on the closed toilet lid, hand pressed to your mouth, breath shaky.

You’re pregnant.

Pregnant with Rafe Cameron’s baby.

⸻

You don’t tell him that night. Mason’s energy is at full blast, bouncing between puzzles and bedtime negotiations. You’re curled up on the couch beside Rafe by the time Mason finally crashes.

He kisses your temple. You try not to cry again.

You fall asleep in his t-shirt, one hand curled over your belly like it’ll somehow ground you. Or protect you. Or prepare you for the thousand emotions rolling through your chest like a thunderstorm.

⸻

You tell him the next morning.

He’s in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading something on his phone and sipping orange juice. You watch him for a long minute—this man you’ve loved quietly, then not-so-quietly, for almost two years now. The father who balances meetings and school drop-offs and pancakes with superhero syrup designs.

He looks up and smiles when he sees you. “Hey, baby. Want a muffin?”

Your throat tightens. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Everything stops.

His hand goes still. His expression freezes. Then something softens behind his eyes—shock, confusion, and something else. Something deep.

“You think?” he says slowly.

“I—I took three tests,” you say. “So I’m pretty sure. I just… haven’t even fully processed it yet.”

He sets his glass down carefully and walks toward you, the look on his face unreadable. He stops in front of you, hands brushing over your hips, then slipping to your waist.

“Come here,” he says, voice low.

You fold into his chest.

He holds you like he’s anchoring you in place.

“You’re not mad?” you ask after a moment.

“Mad?” His hands splay over your back. “No, baby. No. I’m just… surprised. That’s all. We weren’t expecting it, but—” He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re everything I want. This is everything I want.”

Tears burn behind your eyes.

“It’s just a lot,” you whisper.

“It is,” he agrees. “But we’ll do it together. Just like everything else.”

You nod against his chest, breathing him in.

He pulls your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles, then presses his palm gently against your belly.

“We’ve got a little secret now, huh?” he murmurs.

You laugh—wet, wobbly. “Yeah. For now.”

⸻

Mason finds out two weeks later.

You and Rafe go back and forth about timing. Whether to wait longer. Whether to tell him in a special way. But one Saturday morning, you’re all in the living room in pajamas, and Mason is curled up against your side, his cheek pressed gently to your stomach like he’s done it a hundred times before.

And he says, completely out of the blue:

“Is there a baby in there?”

You and Rafe both freeze.

You glance at each other.

Mason’s eyes widen. “There is, isn’t there?!”

Rafe exhales a laugh and ruffles his hair. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

Mason practically vibrates with excitement. “WAIT. So I’m gonna be a big brother?!”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, bud. You are.”

He screams in joy. Like actual shrieking, followed by an immediate flurry of questions.

“When will they be here? Can I hold them? Do they like dinosaurs? What if they don’t like ketchup?!”

You’re crying and laughing at the same time. Rafe reaches over and laces your fingers together, squeezing your hand.

Mason finally goes quiet and climbs up into your lap, his small hand resting gently over your belly.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers. “I’m your brother. I’m gonna teach you how to play Mario Kart and how to do cartwheels and how to ask Dad for cookies without him knowing it was your idea.”

Rafe groans. “Unbelievable.”

You smile through tears. “This kid is gonna have the best big brother in the world.”

Mason beams like it’s the highest honor he’s ever received.

And maybe it is.

⸻

That night, after the house is quiet and Mason is snoring softly down the hall, Rafe pulls you into his arms in bed and rests his hand over your belly.

“You really okay?” he whispers. “You’ve barely had time to breathe.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Scared. But happy.”

He kisses your forehead. “We’ll figure it all out.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You turn toward him and rest your hand over his. “You’re gonna be the best dad to both of them.”

He swallows hard.

“I’m just trying to keep up with you,” he murmurs.

You fall asleep like that—his hand over your stomach, his breath in your hair, your whole future curled up between you.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this one melted me into a puddle. i’m such a sucker for soft domestic pregnancy reveals, mason being the most enthusiastic big brother, and rafe going from “oh shit” to “i’m all in” in 0.5 seconds.

♥️ lani

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[povbarnes]

Stay.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You want Bucky to stay, he never does.

Word Count: +3K

Warnings: Angst, Heavy angst, Smut, Angsty smut, Hurt no comfort, Bucky Barnes is TERRIBLE at feelings, Reader is a little desperate, but so is Bucky, bear with me for this one, No use of Y/N, i think that’s it, lmk if i missed or forgot anything!

A/N: alrighty! first of all, thank you so much for the love on my first fic, it means the world to me. this took way longer than i thought it would but it’s finally done, hopefully i won’t disappoint. pictures are only for the vibes, no description of reader in this one other than that she has hair. hope you like it! :)

P.S. i couldn’t really decide which bucky this was, you can decide for yourself but the closest to me was tfatws!bucky i think.

He won’t stay, you know it. He never stays.

You wait for it every time. You spend all the little time that you have together waiting for it, dreading it, never being able to fully enjoy a single second. You dread the moment that eventually comes every single time, that moment when you feel the instant shame surrounding his entire frame right before he gets out of your bed, gets dressed and leaves you while you watch him with tear-filled eyes.

As time passed, you got better at not crying. At least not in front of him.

You know he hates seeing you cry, more so when it’s him who is making you. Not enough to make him stay, but enough to hurt him too. So you simply try not to. You never want to make him feel bad, even though he holds your delicate heart in his strong hands and crashes it over and over again.

He tries talking to you, you’ll give him that. He tries to make you understand. You can’t. Or rather, you won’t. You don’t want to understand him, you want him, all of him. Not just the parts he thinks is worthy of you, which are very little, but anything and everything that makes him who he is. You want it all. And for the months that you have been sleeping together, he could never accept that.

You shouldn’t let him in. Every time he leaves, you make a promise to yourself. To not let him in, to not let him make you feel more miserable than he already has.

Then, you hear his voice. “Please, doll. Open the door.”

All your resolve crumbles in an instant, and you never succeed.

You open the door, lay your pride in front of him like a red carpet and watch him walk all over it to get to you. You don’t even think there’s any pride left in you to protect anymore. It sickens you.

One last time, you say to yourself, every time.

Your breath catches when you see him, all tired blue eyes and hunched shoulders. It takes everything in you not to throw yourself into his arms and hold him until your limbs melt into one. Instead, you stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says after what feels like a lifetime. The first thing he said to you after not seeing him for a week.

You huff. “For what?”

His lips press together, head hanging low to look at his shoes instead of you.

You put him out of his misery, just as you always do, and take a step back so he could come inside.

He doesn’t lift his head while he steps in.

It goes the same way it always does. He waits a moment, maybe as long as he feels enough that you would feel somewhat respected by him, because he knows you’re upset, and that you know why he’s in your house, and how even if you are upset, you still want him because that’s just the way it goes, something that just is and something you can’t help, and how none of it will change anything for him.

He will still leave you at the end of the night.

After the short pause, he is on you, his lips crashing onto yours filled with the amount of desperation that almost matches yours.

You want to push him away, smack him, scream at him to stop doing this to both of you. You wrap your arms around his neck instead. You’ve missed him so much.

His vibranium arm sneaks around your waist to cage you to him, flesh hand holding your chin, covering your entire lower face. It’s so possessive, and you feel so safe, and you hate yourself.

He lifts you just a bit, starting to move towards your bedroom through the familiar path. His mouth is relentless on yours, not even giving you a time to take a breath, not that you want to.

He doesn’t turn on the lights when he reaches your room, he never really does. He doesn’t like you to see his scars.

You gasp as soon as his mouth travels from yours to your cheek, nuzzling his face to yours, leaving kisses to your eyes, nose, all the way to your neck. When he reaches the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder and takes a deep breath, a sob you so desperately try to keep in wrecks through you. He tries to look at you when he hears it, but you hug him tighter to keep him there. You don’t want to talk, not when you know it won’t make a goddamn difference, but the words that come out of your mouth are not planned, they claw their way out of your throat in order to be freed. “You make me hate myself.”

He pauses, this time doesn’t let you stop him from looking at you. He sees your damp eyes, and you think he might be sick. You don’t want it to be a relief, but there’s not much you can take from him. So, it is a relief that he looks as guilty and as in pain as he does. Because you are hurting more than him. You must be, with the way your heart feels like it’s torn off by the seams and stitched together by shaky hands for a thousand times.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur when he doesn’t say anything. A tear rolls down your cheek. “Don’t stop.”

When he still doesn’t move, you do instead. With his eyes still on yours, you withdraw one of your hands from the back of his neck, slowly moving it south to his jeans. After a short fumble with the button and the zipper, your hand quickly reaches inside the soft material of his boxers, pressing your palm against his dick. His expression he tried to maintain so hard crumbles in an instant, eyes fluttering shut as his hips jerks forward against your hand.

He curses lowly as you move your hand up and down before freeing him and starting to properly move around him.

His blues find your eyes again, watching you for a second while you slowly move up and down. His breathing gets frantic quickly, and it doesn’t take long for him to grab your wrist to stop you, lifting you with comical ease and laying you down on your bed in mere seconds.

His hands do quick work of your sleep shirt and shorts, vibranium hand going straight to where you ache for him to rub you over your underwear.

Your moan makes his eyes flutter, his jaw ticking as his flesh hand coming to massage your breast.

He keeps the perfect pressure, at the perfect speed, shows you once again how he knows your body better than you do. His eyes never leave yours, and he watches with wide eyes and a slack jaw as your first orgasm hits you hard and fast, his hand never slipping inside the thin material, torturing you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I need to be inside you.” He doesn’t give you a minute to recover. You can barely blink before your underwear is thrown away somewhere around the room, and he is already moving between your legs.

He is too desperate, too fast. Everything’s going to be over way too soon. And you need more time. This night of all nights, you need more time with him. Your heart clenches in your chest.

He is about to push in when you place your hand on his chest over his shirt. “Wait.”

He freezes. And when he looks at you this time, maybe for the first time, he looks panicked. Disheveled. You don’t know what exactly he is thinking, but you lift your hand to his face to soothe him immediately. You smile at the feeling his stubble leaves inside your hand.

“Can you go slow?” You see relief rushing through him like it’s something solid. His hands that are on either side of your legs move up and down as he looks at you with a softness in his eyes that make tears form behind your eyes.

When he speaks, it’s worse. It’s like the first time, when you weren’t this glass half version of yourself, when he didn’t break you just yet. “You okay?”

You nod, smile faltering but not leaving your face. “Yeah, just…” You don’t know what to say. Just what? Just I can’t stand the thought of you leaving so soon? Just I want you to stay a little longer?

“Just a little sensitive today.”

He smiles then, first time since he walked through your door, flesh hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “My girl’s sensitive.”

You whimper at his words, and his smile grows a little, still soft as silk. “Of course I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I’ll do whatever you want me to.” Except stay.

He does go slow.

He opens up your legs to make room for himself, but doesn’t lay on top of you yet. His hands, one warm and one cold, roam around your body, making you shiver. “How do you want me?”

You pause even though you’re not moving, and he senses it. Edge of his mouth ticks up a little. Your heart clenches in your chest.

He never asked you that before except for the first time you had sex, when you’d met just a couple of days ago.

Most of the time it feels like he knows you better than you know yourself.

You don’t know what to say for a good minute, but he is patient, he’s going slow, he waits for you.

Your mouth opens and closes for once or twice, but no words come out. Eventually, your fingers find his shirt, dragging it up and off. Your hands close around his shoulders, and he tenses when he feels your warmth around the scarred tissue of his left shoulder.

You pull him over your body in response, your legs caging him onto you by wrapping around his torso. You hold him to your neck, your mouth dancing over his ear, a small shudder leaves him as his forearms rest on either side of your head. “Like this,” you whisper. “Close, and slow.”

“Close and slow.”

You nod, and he copies you.

When he pushes in, it’s both heaven and hell.

Heaven because he’s here, he’s so close, as close as he can be. And he feels so good, filling you so well that makes you think he was made for you.

Hell because he’ll leave, he may be close but he’s always so far. He is breathing into your neck, inhaling your scent, grunting with every powerful thrust of his hips, and it feels like he thinks you are made for him as well.

After five or ten or twenty thrusts, you can’t even tell, you are gone again. You try to warn him while also holding onto him impossibly tighter before softly crying out. “Bucky- I’m-“

He nods, because he already knows. He always knows. “Go on baby,” he says without lifting his head, voice muffled. “I got you.”

You come with tears gathering in your eyes, burying your face in his neck and breathing him in.

His hips never lose their rhythm, instead gaining strength and speed. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Squeezin’ me so tight.”

He keeps going until the you come around him once again, the force of it catching you by surprise. You don’t even realize you are chanting his name until he starts caressing your hair and murmuring next to your ear. “I know baby, I know.”

He is losing control, you can tell. He still tries to go slow like you asked but his rhythm falters, his hips speeding up and slowing down like he’s at war with himself. You can tell he is close when he starts grinding into you every other thrust, almost making you climb that high again.

“You feel so good,” he says suddenly, voice higher than before. “Best thing in my goddamn life.”

Faster.

“Baby, my baby.”

You can’t breathe.

Faster.

“I love you, I love you, fuck. My baby.”

Your whole world narrows down to the sound of his voice, hands freezing where they were traveling around his shoulders.

You don’t even breathe when he collapses on top of you, and even though you can’t see anything in the now pitch black room, you can feel him. He’s so warm, his face still hidden in the crook of your neck, heavy breaths mixing with yours. He stays like that for a couple of seconds.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, not knowing what to do, how to react. You are terrified.

You try savoring the feeling of his strong frame enveloping yours, even though you almost choke under his weight.

You are afraid to move. You are afraid the second you move an inch, he will come to himself and realize what just happened. And you so desperately want this to last, for it to be real. But after a minute or two, you can’t stop yourself from slowly bringing your fingers to his hair and starting to play with the damp strands that curls a little around his neck. He lets out a soft breath and you can swear that for a moment, he relaxes into you even more.

It takes a while for him to raise his head from your neck and look at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions that you can’t quite name.

“Please, James.”

That seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was in, because he averts his gaze from yours, shame, again, winning over any other emotion on his face. You watch it happen like it’s a movie you’ve seen a hundred times.

You wince when he pulls out of you, and he steals a glance to make sure you are okay, but that’s it. He is on his feet, putting on his clothes again.

“J- Bucky,” you try one more time, your voice wavering. Pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s in a rush. “It was- I-“ He shakes his head, pulls on his pants.

“It was the heat of the moment, I- I got carried away. It wasn’t-“

He might as well struck you.

“It’s okay,” you manage to say, interrupting his rambling. You take the blanket hanging off the bed and cover yourself, feeling too exposed now that he wasn’t in the bed with you. “I know.”

You feel like you are about to throw up.

He pauses for a moment at your words, but doesn’t take it back.

And for the first time ever, you want him to leave. Because now, you are about to lose control. You feel on the verge of some kind of an anger attack, because of him, or yourself, you don’t know. You just want him to get the hell out of your house as soon as possible so you can cry until your body runs out of tears.

“Take care of yourself,” he says when he is dressed seconds later. You almost laugh. He rushes towards your door, lingering there for a second too long that causes your stupid heart to skip a bit and straighten up a little bit.

But then he is gone.

The low sound of the apartment’s door getting shut making you flinch like someone slammed it, and you find yourself where you always were. Crying, with his cum dripping between your legs, trying with every fiber of your being to not feel used.

IloveyouIloveyouMybaby

—

Bucky knows what it means to hate oneself. He’s hated himself for the better part of his life. He knows what it’s like to not be able to live with himself. Which is precisely why he cannot have you. Not in the way you and him both want. You don’t deserve this broken version of him. He did things in his life, terrible things, killed and tortured people, did things he can never forget or forgive himself for. But after meeting you? After leaving you over and over and over again? He didn’t know he could hate himself to the degree he does now.

Each time he leaves you with tears in your eyes, it feels like it’s the worst thing he has ever done.

And he knows it’s not fair, how he keeps coming back. He knows he isn’t letting you breathe, let alone move on. Yet he can’t stop.

Standing outside your apartment now, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door, knowing he will hurt you again, is a unique kind of torture.

A battle he always loses.

Because he needs you. He always needs you.

And he knows it’s selfish, so selfish that it makes his stomach turn, makes him unable to look in the mirror in the morning. But he needs you, and he can’t help it.

He knocks.

He hates himself.

The second his hand meets your door, he knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t know why, but it’s wrong. The sound of his knuckles against your door is wrong, the eerie silence of the building is wrong, and he can’t hear your footsteps coming towards the door. It’s just wrong.

His brows furrow. His heartbeat picks up.

He knocks again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

A rational part of him inside his head tries to reassure him, maybe you were out with your friends, maybe you just went to get some fucking milk. But no, he knows. Something’s not right. He can feel it in his bones.

He is panting now, staring at your door, eyes wide, trying to not let panic consume his whole being.

“Doll?” he tries desperately, heart pounding.

The door behind him opens, and it makes him flinch so hard that he needs to take a second to look behind him. An old lady, probably younger than he is, stands behind the threshold, looking at him with squinted eyes. “Are you James Barnes?”

Bucky’s heart drops. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to know how she knows who he is or hear what she has to say. His mouth feels like he spent the last three days chewing concrete.

He nods.

“She’s gone.”

No.

“What?”

“She left,” the lady repeats. “She’d say you’d come by. Kindly asked me to let you know.”

Just like that, the earth is swiped away under his feet, his whole world is crumbled, crushed down upon him. Two words, and he feels like he’s dying.

“What- uh…” A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, flesh hand coming up to rest on his forehead for a second. “What do you mean she left?”

The lady looks at him with sympathetic eyes. Bucky wants to cry. “She moved away, it’s a shame. Such a nice girl. Told me to tell you.” When Bucky just stares at her, she gives her a tight smile like she knows. “Sorry, Kid. Have a nice evening.”

Then her door is shut.

He flinches again at the sound of it.

And Bucky is left in the hallway, your door not opening for the first time in seven months.

WELL! wasn’t that something? thinking about doing a second part for this with a more detailed smut section, but i think i’ll just see whether you guys want one or not.👀

comments & reblogs fuel me, love you!

[httpvomitello]

False Alarms .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: When Joel notices you’ve been skipping meals, looking tired, and avoiding your usual morning hot chocolate, his mind jumps to the worst-case scenario: pregnancy. What starts as concern quickly spirals into a tense argument that cuts deeper than either of you expected.

joel miller x f!reader

WARNINGS: Angst, age gap, arguing, miscommunication, references to past trauma, hurt/no comfort, mention of pregnancy (false), language.

You hadn’t thought much of it when you skipped breakfast three days in a row.

Jackson was colder than usual this week. Some mornings, the thought of dragging yourself to the mess hall before your shift with Maria felt like too much. That, and you’d been feeling nauseous. Not sick—just… off. A tightness in your chest, a queasiness in your gut. You figured it was stress. You’d been helping with patrol coordination and dealing with Maria’s endless to-do lists. That’d be enough to knock anyone off balance.

But Joel noticed.

He always noticed.

“You eat today?” he asked as you slipped off your coat in the cozy warmth of the house.

You shrugged. “Not really hungry.”

Joel didn’t say anything. Not right away. He never jumped to conclusions. But he was quieter than usual that night. Thoughtful. His gaze kept flickering to you—watchful, almost guarded. The kind of stare that made your skin itch.

By day five, he was no longer quiet. He was suspicious.

And angry.

“We need to talk,” Joel said that night, arms crossed, jaw tense. The fire crackled behind him, but the room felt cold.

You looked up from the couch, half-curled under a blanket. “Okay... what about?”

His eyes locked with yours. There was something behind them—fear? Panic? Disbelief? Maybe all three. But Joel wore anger like armor. He didn’t do vulnerability unless he was desperate.

“You late?”

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely. “Your... your period. You late?”

The room spun for a second.

You sat up straighter, your heart starting to pound. “What the fuck, Joel?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Why the hell would you even ask me that?”

Joel didn’t flinch. “You been sick. Avoidin’ food. Tired all the time. You haven’t touched a cup of hot chocolate in a week, and you love hot chocolate. Somethin’s off.”

“I’m tired because I’ve been running around Jackson like a damn mule,” you snapped. “And maybe I’m not hungry because I’m stressed, not pregnant.”

His expression didn’t soften.

“You sure?”

That made something in your chest crack.

You shot up from the couch. “Wow. Okay. So what, you think I’d just get pregnant and not tell you?”

“I think maybe you don’t even know, and that scares the hell outta me.”

“Scares you?”

His words stopped you cold.

“I’m twenty-five, Joel,” you said quietly. “Not sixteen. I’m not stupid.”

“You think this is about your age?”

“What else would it be about?” you bit. “You think I can’t handle the idea of a baby? Or is it that you can’t?”

Joel rubbed his face. “Fuck! That’s not what I—”

“You’re not saying it, but you’re thinking it,” you cut in. “You think I’m reckless. That I’m some dumb kid who let something slip. Is that what I am to you?”

Joel’s hands were fists at his sides. “That’s not what I think.”

“Then why the interrogation?”

“Because I’ve been through this before, dammit!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stared at him, blinking fast.

He didn’t yell often. But when he did—it cracked something open. A ghost from the past.

Joel turned away, staring into the fire, breathing hard.

“I’ve had things taken from me,” he said lowly. “Things I never got back. I can’t— I can’t go through that again. Not without knowin’. Not without bein’ prepared.”

You didn’t move.

“So you think if I was pregnant, it’d be something to brace for?” you asked, quieter now. “A disaster waiting to happen?”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Right,” you whispered. “Okay.”

You grabbed your coat.

“Where you goin’?”

“Walk,” you said flatly. “I need some air.”

Joel took a step toward you. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not pregnant,” you snapped, hand on the doorknob. “But thanks for showing me exactly how you’d react if I ever was.”

The door slammed behind you.

Joel remained standing in the middle of the room, thinking about the mistake he had made by letting his fears speak louder.

[fushigurokogane]

"𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙆𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙠 𝙉𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚." Pt.3

fem!reader x megumi fushiguro an: hihihihihihi!!! so, im thinking about this, but im not sure if i should do it. Should I make this into a series?? I feel like I could do a few more parts. If you wanna be part of the taglist, just comment below!! Pt.1 - Pt.2

The next few days passed with a new kind of quiet between you and Megumi.

Not the cold kind. Not avoidance.

But the charged kind—like every moment was filled with things neither of you had the nerve to say out loud.

He didn’t tease you again after that night. He didn’t need to. The way his eyes lingered a bit longer, the way his shoulder brushed yours during missions, the way his voice softened when he said your name—it all said enough.

And you were starting to unravel. Slowly, surely. He was becoming a problem.

Because this was Megumi. Stoic, sharp, silent Megumi—who knew how to read a room in five seconds but could ignore his own feelings for years. Who never asked for help but was always the first to show up when you needed him. Who was safest when he was distant, and most dangerous when he started letting you in.

And you’d already been let in.

You just hadn’t figured out what to do with it.

-

It wasn’t until a storm rolled in that things shifted again.

You were curled up on the couch in the shared lounge, rain beating against the windows, a movie playing low on the screen—something dumb and not worth remembering. Everyone else had cleared out for the night, too tired from the latest assignment. But not Megumi. He walked in quietly, a towel around his neck again, dark shirt clinging to his still-damp skin from the shower.

You glanced up. “You know, one day I’ll be emotionally strong enough to see you like this and not short-circuit.”

He didn’t smile, but his voice had a softness to it. “You’ve gotten better.”

You rolled your eyes but made room for him on the couch anyway. He sat next to you, not too close—but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint cedar of his soap.

The movie played on, unnoticed.

“Hey,” you said after a few minutes, voice quieter. “What you said… the other night. About liking it when I look at you like I see you…”

He turned his head toward you, brows slightly lifted. He remembered.

“…Were you being serious?”

The silence stretched, but not in a bad way. More like he was choosing his words with care.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

You looked down at your hands. “I wasn’t sure if you were trying to mess with me.”

“Have I ever messed with you like that?”

You paused. “No.”

“Then you should believe me.”

His voice had that depth again—that unshakable calm that only made your heart race faster.

“I see you too, you know,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Not just the strong sorcerer part. I see the way you carry everything. The way you protect everyone even when it tears you up. I see all of it. And I still… like you.”

It felt like dropping a stone into still water. Heavy. Real.

Megumi didn’t speak at first. His eyes just stayed on you, dark and unreadable, but there was something raw in them now. Not vulnerability. Not quite.

Just honesty.

He reached out slowly, his hand brushing your jaw, then resting against your cheek like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him hold you—but hoping you would.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know how long I’ve felt this,” he said, voice low, close. “You always looked at me like you knew. Even when I didn’t say a damn thing.”

You leaned into his touch, heart loud in your ears. “Maybe I was waiting for you to catch up.”

His lips curved—not quite a smile. But something softer.

“I’m here now.”

And then—finally, finally—he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that wasn’t rushed or possessive. It was quiet. Steady. Like a truth that had taken its time getting here, but had always known where it was going.

When you pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads touching.

Outside, the storm kept raging.

Inside, for once, everything felt calm. --- Part 4....??? Series..??

taglist: @ehcilhc @amesenseii @vintag3u @obsessivestrawberrysimp @moonymoo1 @arabella0001 @sassymilkshakewitch @sutefa02 @hawkwithsocks @akiducky (I just tagged a bunch of ppl that commented for different parts on other posts)

©fushigurokogane - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[tokoyan]

hiii, i love your work o(^o^)o

Can i request a go hyuntak hdc or a fluff, tyyyy

- The things he does without asking.

pairing: go hyuntak x reader

Warning: none

word count: 506

a/n: i've been so eager to write this but i litt almost never had the chance to due to school 💔 wish it was longer but still very cute

headcannons:

● when you walk to school together, he always takes your backpack without asking. you don’t even notice until the weight is gone. he just casually picks it up and carries it like it’s no big deal.

● you tell him he really didn’t have to, but he doesn’t say anything. he just keeps walking, looking straight ahead like it’s totally normal for him to do.

● he always walks on the side closest to the road. if you try to switch sides, he moves too, always staying on the outside. he never says it, but it’s like he’s quietly making sure you’re safe.

● he remembers everything you say, even the little things. what you like to eat when you’re upset, how you like your coffee, and that one song you can’t stop playing. it’s like he keeps track of every detail.

● when you forget your pen in class, he’s already handing you his. when you lose your charger, it’s already plugged into your phone. he never makes a fuss about it, he just does it without asking.

● if you’re tired, he lets you rest your head on his shoulder. he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stays still. you can feel his warmth, and for a moment, everything feels calm.

● sometimes, you catch him looking at you. not in a creepy way, but in this soft, almost admiring way, like he’s watching you and doesn’t realize it. when you meet his gaze, he looks away quickly, acting like nothing happened.

● during lunch, he always saves you a seat next to him. no one else even tries to sit there, even if the place is crowded. he’ll just look at them, and they get the hint.

● if you’re upset, he doesn’t ask you a million questions. he’ll just sit next to you, close enough that you can feel his presence. the silence feels comforting, and you don’t need to say anything.

● you once called him soft, and he looked away, embarrassed. he muttered, “I’m not” but you could see the little red on his cheeks. he didn’t want to admit it, but it was obvious.

● when it’s cold, his jacket always ends up around your shoulders. even if he’s freezing, he doesn’t take it back. when you try to give it to him, he just shakes his head like it’s nothing.

● he doesn’t make a big deal about anything. when he cares about you, he shows it in little ways. in the way he holds your bag, the way he makes sure you’re okay, and the way he stays by your side even when he’s quiet.

[neeeooon]

HELLO! i JUST finished catching up with wind breaker and its soo so good 🥹 I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT IT! and i was so happy when i found out YOUR blog had wind breaker fics because i love and adore ur writing smm 🥹🩷🩷

i was just wondering if i could request like a headcannons format with umemiya, sakura, kiryu, and any other charac of ur choice!! with a hurt/comfort scenario that reader is upset (not because of them) but reader is kind of just really tired and ignores the characterss. they could be in an established relationship or not!! up to youu!

also, just thank you so muchh! ur writing has genuinely cheered me up a lot of times 🫶🫶

YESSS TY FOR THE REQ MY LOVE 🫶🌺

how they cheer you up

bf wbk x upset gn!reader. hurt-comfort, fluff

umemiya hajime

-> you look like a kicked dog, yet he’s the one in pain

-> “y/n?” umemiya asks in a gentle voice as he kneels beside you, a hand flat against your back. “is everything okay? you look a little sad..”

-> you usually love helping him with his garden, but not even that is cheering you up. you look up at him with shaky eyes and sigh. “no…”

-> and umemiya panics. “did i do something? is there anything you need? if you want, i can—“ “no, no, it’s nothing like that. i’m just feeling a little down, i promise. it’s not you.”

-> so it’s not him, but it’s something. umemiya works his jaw before slipping his hands beneath your arms and hauling you to your feet. “wha—“ “come on. let’s get out of here.” “but the garden…” “sugishita can take care of it! right, sugishita?” sugishita nods a bit too enthusiastically

-> you spent the rest of the day with umemiya, simply enjoying your time together. he bought you a plushie penguin at the aquarium and got you takeout from pothos. “feeling better?” he asks once you’re halfway through your omlette rice. “mhm. thank you, ume.”

sakura haruka

-> he doesn’t know what to do when you arrive to meet him at pothos without your normal blinding smile. he knows for sure that something’s wrong when you sit down and stare without a hello

-> he’s immediately angry with himself. he must have done something to upset you. did he miss a text? was there something he forgot to do for you? ears red, sakura sinks into his chair and asks, “what did i do?”

-> your gaze snaps up to meet his, and now you’re feeling worse because you didn’t mean to be so obvious. you were upset over something trivial, yet seemed to be taking it out on your boyfriend

-> shaking your head, you explained that it’s not him. you’re just having a bad day. when sakura stands suddenly, your gaze follows from his blushing cheeks to his outstretched hand. “come on.”

-> he takes you to a bench overlooking the river, where pretty pink cherry blossom petals drift into the water. “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna. i’m here, though… if you want.”

kiryu mitsuki

-> kiryu has his head resting on an open palm, leaning his elbow against the table as he watches you pick mindlessly as your nail

-> when you fail to volunteer any information, your boyfriend straightens and reaches across the table to caress your hand. “what’s on your mind, hm?”

-> too much. not enough. you sigh and slip your fingers from beneath his, which immediately freaks him out. “are you mad at me? today isn’t a special date, is it?”

-> the guilt crashes into you and you quickly pick his hand back up. “i’m sorry. it’s not you. things at work have been.. weird? i don’t know.”

-> kiryu brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them. “what do you wanna do? we don’t have to stay here, we can go eat or just hang out and do nothing. we’ll make it a you day, hm?” you nearly cry tears of relief as you let kiryu pull you out of your chair. “i want to be lazy and do nothing, and i want to do it with you.”

[finchyclarkemd]

Things you don’t remember

~Angst/fluff~

The first time you see him, he's leaning against the hospital doorframe like he’s holding up the whole damn world with one shoulder. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares.

You study him, trying to place the dark circles under his eyes, the tired set of his jaw, the way his hands stay clenched at his sides like he’s holding something back- grief, maybe. Or worse: hope.

The nurse clears her throat behind him. “Mr. Clarke… she’s awake.”

He walks in like the floor might shatter beneath him.

“You don’t remember me,” he says, voice rough.

You blink. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but so does your own, and neither comes with a face. You try to find something in his eyes that stirs recognition, some warmth or flicker of home, but there’s just… blank space.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Should I?”

He exhales, and it’s the saddest sound you’ve ever heard. Like a man mourning something still alive.

“I’m George,” he says. “George Clarke. I-” He swallows. “We were engaged.”

Your breath catches. You glance down at your hands instinctively, searching for a ring. It’s not there. Of course it’s not. You don't even remember what love feels like. But when he steps closer, voice low, he says your name like a secret only he knows. Like someone who’s said it a thousand times, through laughter, through tears, through every version of you that you've forgotten. And in that moment, though your mind doesn't recognise him- your heart clenches like maybe, just maybe, it still does.

You stare at George like maybe if you look long enough, something will click into place. It doesn’t.

“I don’t feel anything,” you say quietly, and immediately regret the words. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does, like he’s been punched in the chest but refuses to fall.

He nods once, like he’s been preparing for this.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t come here expecting a miracle.”

You look down at the blanket on your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. “Then why did you come?”

He hesitates. Then: “Because I made you a promise. And you don’t remember it, but I do.”

Your eyes lift slowly. “What promise?”

George steps closer, then pulls a small, weathered notebook from his coat pocket. It’s old, edges frayed, the pages inside bent and loved. He holds it out to you, but doesn’t let go when you take it.

“You told me,” he says, voice like gravel, “if anything ever happened to you, if you ever forgot, you wanted me to bring this. You said it had the truth in it. Not just facts, but... the way things felt.”

You gently tug it free from his hand. On the front, in your own handwriting, are the words: “Just in case.”

You open it.

Page one is a sketch of a coffee mug. His, you think. The caption underneath reads: He drinks it black and complains every time, but won’t admit he likes it that way.

Page two is a scribbled quote: "I think I could love him forever. Maybe I already do."

You look up at him. His jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.

“How long were we together?” you ask.

He swallows. “Four years.”

“And I don’t remember any of it?”

“No.” His voice is barely audible now. “But I do. Every day.”

You flip through the pages- doodles, ticket stubs, half-finished thoughts. Every one of them proof that something real existed between you. That it wasn’t just his memory holding you here. It was yours, too, tucked into paper and ink.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I won’t push. But I’ll stay as long as you let me.”

You look at him, and even though your mind is still a fog, there’s something grounding about his presence. Like gravity, pulling you toward something you don’t understand but maybe want to.

You nod.

“Stay.”

George visits the hospital every day. He doesn’t bring flowers or balloons like the others. Instead, he brings pieces of the life you used to share. The first day, it’s a playlist.

“Your favourite songs,” he says, setting his phone gently on your bedside table. “You said music made you feel things faster than memory ever could.”

You don’t say anything. But when he leaves, you press play. By the third song, your chest aches with a feeling you can’t name.

The next day, he brings your cat.

“He hated me at first,” he admits as the nurse raises an eyebrow, “but I bribed him with tuna and dignity.”

The cat, Garfield, is unimpressed by the sterile room but curls instantly into your lap like he knows exactly where he belongs. Like he knows you. And maybe, for a moment, you believe you know you, too.

Each day, George brings another puzzle piece.

A Polaroid of the two of you at a winter market, noses red, hot chocolate in hand.

A chipped ceramic mug with your initials and a tiny heart carved in the bottom.

A dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre with sarcastic notes scribbled in the margins.

“We used to argue about whether Rochester deserved redemption,” he says one evening. “You said he didn’t. I said he was just a man who made mistakes.”

You pause, gaze drifting over his face.

“And now?” you ask softly.

George smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now I think maybe we both were right.”

You start to ask more questions. Not big ones. Just quiet, everyday things.

“How did we meet?” “At a bookshop. You made fun of my Hemingway pick. I pretended not to care.”

“What was our first fight?” “You were convinced I didn’t like your cooking. I was just scared I’d mess things up if I admitted I did.”

“What did I say when I told you I loved you?” George looks down at his hands. “You didn’t say it. You wrote it. On a napkin. Slid it across the table like a secret.”

You feel the echo of it, just a tremor, but it’s there.

One afternoon, as the sun spills gold across the hospital floor, George sits beside you, close but not touching. His hand hovers near yours, respectful of the distance between the past and the now.

“Do you ever… resent me for forgetting?” you ask quietly.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Never. Losing you once was enough. I’d rather have the pieces than nothing at all.”

Your throat tightens. And then, for the first time, you reach for his hand. Not because you remember. But because something inside you wants to.

It happens on a Tuesday. The sky is grey, the kind of heavy-clouded quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something. You and George sit on a bench just outside the hospital’s rehab wing. It’s your first real time outdoors since the accident. Everything feels too sharp. The air, the light, the smell of wet pavement.

George unwraps a sandwich but doesn’t eat it. He’s watching you again. He always does when you’re not looking. Like if he stares hard enough, he can will your memories back. You don’t mind. You’re starting to look at him, too.

He says something about a coffee shop you both used to visit Cedar’s describes it with the kind of affection that feels like a prayer: mismatched chairs, cinnamon in the air, the table by the window you always stole because you liked the light. You blink. Your fingers tighten around the Styrofoam cup in your hands. The cold coffee sloshes.

“Wait,” you say, voice suddenly thin.

George freezes. “What?”

You close your eyes. There’s something. Cinnamon. Wood polish. A squeaky chair. A sound. Your laugh? His. A moment: his hand brushing yours across a chipped table. The curve of his smile when he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I remember… that table,” you whisper. “Just for a second. You… you spilled something. I think it was tea? I made fun of you.”

He doesn’t speak. You open your eyes and see the look on his face, pure disbelief, breaking slowly into something softer, something wild with hope.

His voice is hushed. “You always made fun of me when I spilled tea. You said I held the cup like it owed me money.”

You let out a breathy laugh, startled by the sound of it. There’s no full scene. No name. No clarity. Just a flicker. A sensation. But it’s yours. And it’s real.

You glance at him. “It was chamomile.”

George nods once. His throat moves like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling like a man who’s been holding his breath for weeks. “It was.”

You don’t reach for him this time. But you lean just slightly in his direction. And that’s enough, for now.

It’s raining again. A cold, slanting drizzle that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and blurs the world into greyscale. You’re back in the hospital lounge, curled under a too-thin blanket, flipping through the memory notebook George gave you. You’ve read the same five pages for days now, waiting for something else to surface.

He stands at the window, arms folded, jaw tight. Silent. You can feel the storm in him before he says a word.

“George?”

He doesn’t turn around.

You set the notebook down, uneasy. “Is something wrong?”

He laughs, but it’s brittle. “Wrong? No. Not at all. I’m just watching it rain on the day that should’ve been our wedding anniversary. So, no… nothing’s wrong.”

The words land like stones in your chest.

You sit up, slowly. “I didn’t know…”

“I know,” he says sharply, then softens. “Of course you didn’t. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He finally turns. His eyes are tired. Not angry. Just… tired. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

“I’ve been trying not to say this,” he murmurs. “I’ve told myself over and over that it’s selfish, that you’ve been through enough. But it’s killing me, watching you look at me like I’m a stranger.”

You flinch. Not because of his tone, but because he’s right.

“I never wanted to make you feel like-”

“Like I don’t exist anymore?” he finishes. “Like the last four years of my life evaporated the moment your head hit the dashboard?”

You look down at your hands. Shame rises hot in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

George exhales, dragging his hand through his hair. “I’m not mad at you,” he says, quieter now. “God, I’m not. I’m mad at fate, or the universe, or the idiot who ran that red light. I just… I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

You meet his gaze. And for the first time, you really see it. The cracks behind his calm, the way love and grief have been eating him alive in silence.

“I remember chamomile tea,” you say suddenly. “And the cinnamon. And you… smiling at me, that way you do.”

His breath catches.

“I know it’s not much,” you add. “But it’s something, isn’t it?”

He walks over slowly, kneels in front of your chair like you might disappear if he moves too fast.

“It’s everything,” he says.

And then, for the first time, you reach for him. Not out of obligation, or guilt, or the faint echo of who you were, but because you want to. And maybe that’s the beginning of a new memory.

Spring comes softly. It creeps in through the windows of your new apartment. Smells like rain on warm pavement and the hint of lilacs blooming somewhere unseen. The air hums with quiet promise.

George is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in deep concentration over an omelet that’s probably going to fall apart. He still can’t cook. You’ve confirmed that much.

You lean against the doorway, watching him with a warmth you can’t explain. Or maybe you can. You just don’t have all the pieces yet.

“I remember something new,” you say.

He freezes. Slowly turns.

“Oh?” he says carefully. Hope flickers in his eyes, but it’s guarded now. He’s learned not to expect too much. You walk over to the table, where a familiar mug waits. Chipped. Painted blue. You pick it up.

“You used to bring me tea in this,” you say. “You’d pretend you didn’t know which one I liked, but you always got it right.”

George says nothing for a long moment.

Then he smiles. Not the broken, uncertain kind you saw in the hospital, but something real. Full. Alive.

“I never forgot you,” he says softly. “Not even for a second.”

You take the mug in both hands. It feels like yours again. Like home.

“I think…” you pause, feeling your heartbeat rise. “I think I want to fall in love with you. All over again. From the beginning.”

George crosses the room in two steps, but he doesn’t rush. He touches your face gently, like you’re fragile porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

“You don’t have to fall,” he whispers. “You can choose me. Every day. I’ll do the same.”

You nod.

“I choose you.”

And that’s the truth of it, in the end: The memories may come back. They may not. But love isn’t always something you remember. Sometimes, it’s something you decide to build, again. Together.

——————————————————————————————————

First time writing again in a while! I hope you enjoyed! I will try and post a little more now university has finished.

Tags

@themdera

@tyna-19

@smzyyx

[save-the-villainous-cat]

pt. 1, pt. 2

“…did you know that death as a result of surgical intervention is the third leading cause of death worldwide?”

“Please,” the hero said. They took the villain’s hand. “Please, don’t say that.”

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” the villain said. “It’s pretty common. I’m not exempt from that.”

They stared at each other.

The villain was covered in bandages. Bruises everywhere. They looked tired, they looked sick.

Although the hero knew them waking up was enough of a miracle, they couldn’t bear the thought of parting with the villain this quickly again. They were here. They were in front of them. They had survived a surgery most had doubted to be successful.

“You’ll be fine,” the hero said. “You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think my body can handle this anymore. I’m in so much pain and I…I feel so weak. There are so many wounds, I cannot walk, I can’t eat…I…I’m sorry, but I don’t think I will make it.” The villain’s eyes looked sunken in, sad, devastated.

And once again, once again, the hero had to swallow their tears.

“No,” they whispered. “Please. You said you’d stay with me.”

“I’m sorry,” the villain said.

When the hero had heard the news, they had jumped out of bed - despite their own broken leg - to stumble into the room where the villain was recovering, just to catch a glimpse of them. To see them, to touch them. To know they were here and not under the concrete. Several nurses had to drag the hero back to their own room.

And now, the villain was saying this. They were saying all these horrible things. The hero clenched their fists, their bottom lip was trembling.

“If I had—”

“None of that, please.” The villain took in a weak raspy breath. Their eyes found the hero’s and their gaze softened, softened like the world did when spring came. “Oh, dear. You are so wonderful.”

The hero forced themselves to maintain eye contact, but the tears blurred their vision.

“I want you to find some peace, okay?” The villain took the hero’s hand, but there was no strength in their grip. Not even the tiniest bit. “Whatever it is, I would like you to find peace in what you do.”

“I-”

“I’ll admit, my heart is a very delicate thing. I knew I would fall for you from the very beginning, I didn’t really have a say in it — after all, you are so easy to love. I kept it to myself because I knew I had no right to impose and I didn’t think i was worthy of your attention, at least of all your affection.” The villain smiled, as if they were going to share a gentle secret with the hero. “I was ready for vulnerability, but I wouldn’t dare to expect the same from you, I couldn’t bring myself to burden you with the heaviness of my feelings.”

“Please…” The hero closed their eyes, but opened them quickly again to look at their dear villain. Their dear saviour.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t leave much of a choice to you back then,” the villain said. “But I would choose this path again. Every single time, even if it meant I had died right there, even if it meant I could have never said this to you. No matter the outcome, you being alright is everything that matters to me.”

“I am not okay, though,” the hero whispered. Their voice was breaking. “I am really not okay. Don’t you know I like you, too? Don’t you know I…”

“I’m sorry,” the villain said again. “I suppose I am taking the easy way out. I didn’t mean to put all this sorrow onto you.”

They paused and all that echoed in the room were those shattering sobs the hero made.

How on earth were they supposed to move on? Just like that? This was going to haunt them for the rest of their life. They’d never be the same, they would never be able to love again.

They had made a grave mistake by watching the villain from the sidelines, letting life happen to them, not daring to say a word, not being honest about their feelings.

They could have been together. For an entire year, they could have made so many memories, they could have done so much.

“Please, don’t be afraid to love again,” the villain said. Now, their grip had a little bit more strength in it. “Please, don’t be afraid of love. Promise me to love every single breath you take. Promise me to fall in love with rainy days. To love the sound of birds. The way you cook your favourite meal. Please, do not hesitate to love…to love another person. To fall in love with someone, please don’t be afraid of that. Do not abandon what I cherish about you so much. Don’t abandon the love you hold.”

The hero couldn’t do this. They couldn’t take this pain any longer. This was a nightmare they needed to wake up from. This wasn’t true, this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

“Promise me. You have to promise me, will you?”

The hero blinked the tears out of their eyes.

“I do,” the hero said. They stood up and leaned over the bed. They touched the villain’s cheeks with the utmost care. “But only if you promise me to fight. Please, don’t leave me again.”

“I will,” the villain said.

“Alright,” the hero whispered. They leaned over the villain’s broken form even further and kissed them as gently as they could. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The hero stayed with them, even as the villain’s condition worsened. Even as their organs started to fail and as they passed away a week later.

The hero stayed with them and they kept their promise, although they were convinced they could never love another person like that ever again.

[dramagodesss]

twenty one : it hurts to say goodbye

playin' the players

you’re everywhere and nowhere at once.

every new party, every rooftop, every photo someone tags you in — they’re all starting to blur together. you keep the lipstick sharp, the drinks full, the smile just wide enough to fool the right people.

you let cleo drag you to another house show downtown. kie insists you dance. sarah throws her arm around you like a shield. you laugh, you drink, you vanish in the bathroom for a little too long.

you answer texts with half a heart. you leave people on read. you keep your notifications silent.

because it’s easier this way.

no one mentions the bet out loud anymore. no one talks about the rooftop blow-up. and that silence is louder than anything.

you catch yourself zoning out sometimes — like tonight, sitting on a stranger’s balcony with a red solo cup pressed to your lips and someone talking about camera angles beside you. you don’t even remember how you got here.

the sky’s dark. your fingers are cold. and the only thing you feel is tired. not physically. just… tired of it all.

of pretending you’re fine. of pretending it didn’t hurt. of pretending you didn’t care about both of them.

because you did. you do.

you check your phone again. nothing new.

and even though you told yourself you wanted space — that you didn’t want to talk to jj or rafe or anyone — it still stings.

for a second, you almost text him. jj,

i miss you jj,

i’m not okayjj—

or him.

rafe,

i need you rafe,

please come get me rafe—

but you don’t.

you just tip back your drink, lean your head against the cool brick wall behind you, and close your eyes.

and this time, you don’t dream of your brother. you just dream of leaving.

november 23rd

 wes’s birthday.

he would’ve been fifteen today. the same age you were when he died in your arms.

fifteen.

you whisper it out loud, like saying the number might somehow slow the ache in your ribs. it doesn’t.

you don’t tell anyone what day it is. not sarah. not kie. not even cleo, who’s always been the best at noticing when you’re unraveling.

you wake up late, stay curled under the covers, and pretend the sunlight isn’t bleeding in through the curtains. you pretend the world isn’t still spinning.

but your mind won’t shut up.

flash. the car. the metal. your hands shaking too much to call 911 the first time. you still remember the exact ringtone when you finally did. your voice high, breaking, telling them please please hurry.

flash. his blood on your hoodie. his fingers gripping yours. him looking at you like he already knew. like he was trying to make you feel better.

“it’s okay, sissy. i love you.”

you remember how his breath rattled. how the words barely made it out. how you sobbed “no no no no no” over and over and held his face like that could keep him here.

he was twelve. twelve and kind and funny and stubborn and obsessed with superhero movies and used to tell people you were his best friend.

you were fifteen and too slow. too scared. you’ve never forgiven yourself for that.

you don’t cry right away today. you just sit there, wrapped in your blanket, phone in your lap, scrolling through pictures you don’t let anyone see.

one of him in a beanie too big for his head. one where he’s holding your hand at the beach. a video of him singing off-key in the car, making you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe.

and then you do cry. quiet at first. then messier. grief doesn’t knock anymore — it just breaks the door down.

and still, you don’t text anyone. you don’t go out. you don’t even move for hours.

because today isn’t about anyone else.

today is wes’s.

and you just miss your little brother. you miss him so goddamn much you think it might kill you.

but you don’t plan it.

you just wake up, throw on the first hoodie that still smells like home, and walk until your legs hurt.

the tattoo shop’s half-empty. the guy at the counter doesn’t ask many questions, which you’re grateful for. you hand him the lyrics on a crumpled piece of paper.

“time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

it was wes’s favorite. he used to dance like an idiot in the kitchen to it. used to belt the chorus like it was written for him. used to say “this is what i’m gonna sing when i’m famous.”

he never got the chance.

so now it’s on your skin — permanent, etched low across your back where only the people you choose will ever see it.

you don’t flinch when the needle starts. the pain feels good, almost. real. anchoring.

when it’s done, you pay in cash and thank the artist with a hoarse voice, throat tight from holding everything in.

by the time you get back to the apartment, golden hour is stretching lazy over the buildings. your roommates are gone. the world feels hushed.

you go straight to the rooftop.

hood still up.

joint between your fingers.

you light it without thinking, breathing deep. the air’s sharp. the sky’s turning pink. you feel… numb. or maybe just quiet.your phone buzzes once in your pocket. you ignore it. then again. again.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1 @rafes-honey @lilithblackkk @isktfguhn @rafecamssfavgirl @mirellef2001 @jennieonline @coriiiiiiioiii@scne-vampire

[sturnsblogs]

THE OTHER WOMAN (SEQUEL)

Matt Sturniolo X Wife!Reader

Word count- 1650

Warnings- Slight angst.

READ PART 1 HERE

The mirror reflected a version of you you barely recognized.

It had been months since you’d slipped into that little black dress buried in the back of your closet. The one that made you feel something close to beautiful. The one you used to wear when Matt still looked at you like you were the only woman in the room. You carefully did your makeup, brushed out your hair, spritzed on perfume that wasn’t your usual vanilla body mist but something heavier, sultrier.

You told yourself you were doing it for yourself. For your friends. For a night where you could pretend you were someone else. But deep down, a part of you wondered if you wanted him to notice. If you still craved the ghost of his gaze on you.

You walked into the living room where he sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Probably texting her. Evelyn. The woman with the perfect nails, the French perfume, the smile that haunted you.

Miley was with the sitter. You made sure of that. You made sure he had the night free. You didn’t say it, but he knew. You knew. You always did.

You straightened your dress. “I’m going out tonight… with the girls,” you said casually, like your heart wasn’t shattering just at the sight of him sitting there, looking so detached.

He barely looked up. “Okay.”

“And Miley’s with the sitter… so, if you… if you wanted to go out too. You know, with… her. You can.”

Silence.

The air was heavy. Tense.

You turned, about to leave. You didn’t want to see his face when he grabbed his keys to rush to Evelyn’s arms.

But before you could take a step, you felt it.

His arms around your waist.

Warm. Strong. Familiar.

You froze.

He pressed his chest against your back, his breath tickling your neck.

“What if… I don’t want to see her tonight?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Your heart stuttered.

“What if I want to go out with you instead?” His lips brushed your neck, lingering there, like he was trying to remember the taste of you.

You turned around slowly, confused, searching his face for answers.

“What… Matt… why…?”

He smiled. Not the hollow smile he wore for Miley. This was different. Softer. Sadder. Like he was apologizing for years of damage he couldn’t undo.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “Let me take you out. Just us. No pretending. No acting.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them back. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“What about Evelyn?”

His jaw tensed. “Not tonight.”

You wanted to scream, to tell him you weren’t going to be his second choice for one night of pity. But his touch disarmed you. It always did.

And God, you were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hurting. Tired of not being enough.

Maybe tonight you could pretend you still had him. Just for a little while.

So you let him take your hand, let him kiss you softly—like he used to.

You let yourself melt into the lie.

Because even if he didn’t love you anymore… tonight, he chose you.

And you weren’t strong enough to say no.

—

The city lights shimmered like stars as Matt opened the car door for you.

It almost felt like old times. Like you were on one of those rare, magical date nights you used to sneak away for before everything fell apart. He held your hand the whole drive, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your skin, like he was memorizing the feel of you again.

It was easy to forget, in moments like this, that things weren’t as perfect as they seemed.

He took you to your favorite rooftop bar—the one you hadn’t dared visit since before Miley was born. The one that made you feel like the world slowed down just for you two.

He pulled your chair out for you, ordered your favorite drink without asking, and the way he looked at you under the dim string lights made your breath hitch.

He laughed at your jokes, leaned in close when you talked, whispered in your ear like you were the only one in the room.

It almost convinced you.

But then, every so often, you caught it.

His phone buzzing in his lap.

The quick flicker of guilt in his eyes when he glanced at the screen.

The subtle way he typed back a message under the table.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

You already knew.

You smiled anyway, even as your heart clenched. You laughed louder, drank faster, tried to drown the bitterness with sweet, syrupy cocktails.

And the more you drank, the easier it became to forget. Your giggles turned into real, loud, messy laughter. You leaned over the table, head tipped back, the sound of your joy echoing into the night sky.

Matt watched you.

His gaze softened. His lips curled into something almost tender.

“You’re adorable when you’re drunk, you know that?” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

You rolled your eyes, grinning, cheeks flushed. “I’m not drunk. I’m just… happy.”

Another lie. But what was one more on a night full of them?

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “God, I missed this version of you.”

You wanted to tell him you were always here. That he was the one who stopped looking. But instead, you giggled again, letting him wrap his arm around you, letting yourself lean into his warmth.

Because tonight wasn’t about the truth.

Tonight was about pretending.

Pretending you weren’t the woman he forgot about the moment his phone buzzed.

Pretending you weren’t the woman who had to drink herself numb just to feel loved by her own husband.

Pretending you were still the woman he chose.

You knew tomorrow, you’d wake up to the silence again.

You knew the texts he sent under the table would still haunt you.

But tonight, under the glow of city lights and half-spoken promises, you let yourself fall into the dream.

Because God, it was easier than facing the reality.

And maybe, you could let yourself believe—for one more night—that Matt still saw you.

—

You couldn’t feel your feet by the end of the night.

The drinks had long caught up to you, making everything around you dizzy and sparkling, like the stars themselves had poured into your veins. You stumbled over the curb outside the bar, giggling uncontrollably as Matt caught your arm.

“Okay, okay, lightweight,” he chuckled, steadying you.

You leaned into him, your laughter spilling into the night air, your head resting against his chest as you hiccupped. “I’m not drunk… I’m just, um… happy, remember?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was something soft in his gaze as he looked down at you. Something you hadn’t seen in forever. Like you were still the girl he used to chase barefoot in the rain.

“You can barely stand, baby,” he murmured, brushing your hair from your flushed face.

Before you could argue, he scooped you up in his arms—bridal style—holding you like you weighed nothing at all. You squealed, kicking your legs as he carried you toward the car.

“Matt!” you giggled, nuzzling into his neck. “You’re such a—like—a prince or something.”

He smiled into your hair. “Guess that makes you my very drunk princess, huh?”

By the time you got home, you were an absolute mess—laughing, rambling, falling over your own heels. Matt sat you down gently on the bed, shaking his head like he couldn’t help but find it adorable.

“Stay still,” he told you softly, grabbing a makeup wipe from the drawer.

You blinked up at him, cheeks still glowing from the alcohol, and obeyed.

He settled on the bed, letting you straddle his lap like old times, and as gently as if you were made of glass, he began wiping the layers of makeup from your face.

His fingertips grazed your skin with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re still so damn beautiful,” he whispered, almost like he was mad at himself for noticing.

Your breath caught in your throat, but you didn’t say anything. You just let him take care of you. Let him peel away the paint, the walls, the mask you wore every day.

Once your face was clean, he helped you out of the dress, slipping you into one of his old t-shirts and soft pajama pants. You felt like you were floating—tipsy, drowsy, and wrapped in his scent.

He tucked you into bed, crawling in beside you. For a moment, it felt normal. Safe.

You turned to face him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Why are you… being like this tonight?” you whispered, your voice cracking despite the drunken haze.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, his hand reached for yours, threading your fingers together.

“I don’t want to do this to us anymore,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to keep breaking you… breaking us.”

You blinked, heart pounding in your chest. “Matt…”

“I want to try. I want to fix this. Go to couples counseling. Whatever it takes.” His voice was raw. Desperate. “I don’t want her. Not anymore. I’m sorry it took me this long to see what was right in front of me.”

Tears blurred your vision.

“I love you,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “I never stopped. I just… forgot how to show it.”

The words sank into you like honey, sticky and sweet and slow.

And maybe tomorrow you’d still doubt them. Maybe you’d still wake up afraid.

But right now, lying in his arms, hearing the words you ached for all these years… you let yourself believe.

Maybe…

Maybe you weren’t the other woman after all.

A/N- Did this for the one and only @jacksonsturniolo

[lila-lou]

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 2/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5290

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the soft vibration cutting through the quiet of the room. You glanced at the screen, expecting another message from your aunt Lisa, but instead, Jared Padalecki lit up on the caller ID.

You hesitated for a second before answering.

“Hey”, you said, your voice softer than you intended.

“Hey, kid”, Jared’s voice was warm, familiar. “Just checking in. How are you holding up?”.

You sighed, shifting against the pillows. “I’m… okay”, you said, though you knew it didn’t sound convincing.

Jared hummed knowingly. “Yeah? That sounded real confident”.

You let out a tired laugh. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed some space to breathe, you know?”.

“Yeah”, Jared said, and you could hear the genuine understanding in his voice. “I get it”.

There was a pause before he cleared his throat. “So, have you told your parents yet?”.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “What?”.

Jared chuckled lightly. “You heard me”.

Your mind raced. How the hell did he know? Jensen had made it very clear that no one—not even family—could know about the pregnancy until he and his lawyer had worked out a public statement. That’s why you hadn’t told your parents. That’s why you had spent the last few weeks keeping it bottled up, feeling like you had no one to talk to.

“He told you?”, you asked, disbelief thick in your voice.

Jared sighed heavily on the other end. “I made him”, he admitted. “After you showed up at my door crying that night, what was I supposed to do? Pretend like I didn’t know something was really wrong? Jensen wasn’t talking, you weren’t talking—someone had to push”.

You closed your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Great”, you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. As if this entire situation wasn’t messy enough, now Jared knew, which meant Gen probably knew, too. You weren’t upset with Jared—you knew he meant well—but it still felt like yet another thing slipping out of your control.

Jared, ignoring your irritation, pushed forward. “So”, he said, his voice softer, more careful. “Did you tell your parents yet?”.

Your stomach twisted. You should have expected this. Jared wasn’t the type to let things go, especially when he thought he was helping. You let out a slow breath. “No”, you admitted, shaking your head slightly. “I haven’t”.

Jared hummed, and even through the phone, you could tell he was thinking. “I really think you should”, he said finally. “It’d be good to have someone to talk to. Someone who actually knows you”.

You swallowed hard. “I know”, you murmured. “I just… It’s complicated, Jared”.

“You mean because of Jensen”, Jared said bluntly.

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah”.

Jared sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t in frustration, it was in understanding. “Look, I know you’re waiting for him to be ready. But what about you?”, he asked. “You’re the one going through this pregnancy. You’re the one carrying the baby. You deserve support too”.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away, pressing your fingers against your forehead. “I know”, you whispered, voice barely audible.

Jared didn’t push any further, but his next words weren’t a question—they were a statement. “I’m coming to see you”.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Jared—”.

“I’m not asking”, he interrupted. “I’m telling you. You need someone, and if you’re not gonna tell your parents yet, then it’s gonna be me”.

You huffed, shaking your head with a small, tired laugh. “You’re so damn stubborn”.

Jared chuckled. “Takes one to know one”.

You swallowed, already feeling exhausted just thinking about it. “Fine”, you muttered, rubbing your temple. “But don’t tell Jensen”.

Jared let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, trust me, I didn’t plan on”.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. You knew Jared meant well, and honestly, the idea of having someone around who knew was… relieving. But at the same time, it made everything feel even more real.

“I’ll be there soon”, Jared added, his voice softer now. “Just sit tight, alright?”.

You didn’t have the energy to argue. “Yeah, okay”.

Jared was right—you needed to talk to someone. You needed support. But telling your parents meant making this real in a way that even Jensen’s avoidance hadn’t. And you weren’t sure if you were ready for that yet.

When Jared arrived later that day, he barely gave you time to say hello before pulling you into a firm, grounding hug. You melted into it, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the steady presence of someone who wasn’t tangled in the emotional mess you’d been drowning in for weeks.

But when he pulled back, his sharp eyes swept over you, and his expression shifted. “Jesus, (Y/N)”, he muttered. “You look exhausted”.

You rolled your eyes, waving him off as you made your way back to the couch. “Thanks for that, Jared. Real confidence boost”.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he grabbed the nearest throw pillow, plopped it on the coffee table, and pointed at it. “Feet up. Now”.

You arched an eyebrow. “Bossy”.

“Damn right”. He waited until you obeyed before he made himself at home, striding toward the kitchen and opening the fridge like he owned the place. He started rummaging through it, letting out an unimpressed scoff. “Seriously? You barely have anything in here”.

You sighed, leaning your head back. “I haven’t really been in the mood to shop”.

Jared glanced over his shoulder. “You still nauseous?”.

“Yeah, but it’s mostly just… everything”. You gestured vaguely, not even knowing how to explain it. “Being alone. Thinking too much. Not knowing what the hell comes next”.

Jared grabbed a bottle of juice and a block of cheese, eyeing them like he wasn’t sure how they ended up in his hands. “You need to eat”. he muttered before looking back at you. “So, where are your parents?”.

You let out a slow breath. “At my aunt Melinda´s place for the weekend”.

He frowned, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And you didn’t go because…?”.

You hesitated, toying with the edge of your sleeve. “Because she’d probably make some comment about my belly, and since no one’s allowed to know, I don’t want to hear her call me fat too”.

Jared’s expression softened, his whole demeanor shifting. He set the juice and cheese on the counter, then walked over, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. “(Y/N)”, he said quietly. “You know you’re not—”.

“I know”, you cut in quickly, forcing a small smile. “I just… I don’t have the energy for it”.

Jared studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Okay”, he said simply. “Then we’re not thinking about that today”.

You gave him a skeptical look. “Oh, we’re not?”.

“Nope”, He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “We’re thinking about what we’re ordering for dinner, because I’m not letting you survive off juice and whatever sad meal you’ve been picking at”.

Despite yourself, you smiled. “You’re very pushy”.

Jared grinned. “Gen says the same thing. Now, tell me what you’re craving, or I’m ordering way too much food”.

Jared sat back on the couch, scrolling through the delivery app, his expression casual—too casual. You could tell he was playing it cool, but his eyes kept flicking toward your belly every few seconds. It wasn’t obvious, but you noticed. You noticed everything these days.

“So”, he said, his tone deliberately light, “has Jensen reached out?”.

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten at the mention of his name. You looked down, brushing your fingers over the fabric of your oversized sweater, a weak attempt at hiding the small but undeniable bump beneath it.

“Not since I told him I needed space”, you mumbled, keeping your voice even.

Jared hummed, his thumb still lazily scrolling, but his attention wasn’t really on the app anymore. “Huh”.

You frowned at his reaction, glancing at him. “Why do you sound like that?”.

“Like what?”, he asked innocently.

“Like you know something”.

Jared smirked, finally looking up at you. “Because I do”.

You narrowed your eyes. “Jared”.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. He’s been… a mess”.

You looked down, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your sweater, the guilt creeping in before you could stop it. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “He made me go”.

Jared sighed, rubbing his palm over his face, his expression softening. “I know”, he admitted. “And trust me, he knows it too”.

Your throat tightened. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one who did something wrong?”.

“You didn’t”, Jared said quickly, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt.

But the lump in your throat didn’t ease. The tears gathered in your eyes again, and Jared must have noticed because his expression shifted—less serious, more gentle. He exhaled through his nose, then suddenly changed the topic, his tone lighter.

“So”, he said, leaning back against the couch. “Are you feeling anything by now?”.

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift, but the change was welcome. The corners of your lips twitched, and you let out a soft breath. “A little”, you admitted, resting a hand against your belly. “Just a few movements, but not really kicks yet”.

Jared smiled, warmth filling his eyes as he watched you. “That’s still pretty cool”, he said. “Five months, right? You’ll probably start feeling real kicks soon”.

You nodded, a small, genuine smile breaking through the weight of everything else. “Yeah. I mean, I know I should feel something more by now, but every doctor says it’s normal for a first pregnancy to take longer. It’s mostly just little flutters here and there”.

Jared’s heart swelled a little, seeing the way your face lit up. It was so clear how much this meant to you, how badly you needed to talk about it—needed someone to share in this excitement with. And he hated that you hadn’t had that. That you’d been going through it mostly alone.

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, I forgot how wild that part is. When Gen was pregnant, she’d wake me up at three in the morning, making me feel her stomach because she swore the baby kicked”.

You laughed, relaxing a little. “That sounds like something I’d do”.

Jared smirked. “You totally will”.

Your smile lingered as you absentmindedly rubbed your belly. The moment felt good—normal. A rare break from the tension that had been hanging over you for weeks.

Then, after a pause, Jared said carefully, “I know it’s not my place, but you should be able to share this stuff with Jensen too, you know”.

Your smile faltered slightly, but you didn’t shut down. You just sighed. “I know”.

Jared watched you for a moment before nudging your leg with his knee. “Look, I don’t know where you two go from here, but I do know one thing—you’re not in this alone. No matter what happens”.

Your throat tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness. You reached over, giving Jared’s hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you”, you whispered.

He gave your hand a quick squeeze back before grabbing his phone again. “Alright, enough emotions. Let’s get some food before this kid starts kicking your ass for not eating”.

Later that night, you sat in bed, your phone resting on your stomach, the screen dimly glowing in the dark. Jensen’s name sat at the top of your messages, untouched. You stared at it, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, debating.

You had so much to say.

But every time you started typing, your chest tightened, and you erased the words before they could ever be sent.

So, instead, you locked your phone and set it aside, exhaling slowly.

Meanwhile, miles away, Jensen sat at the dining table, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his face. He wasn’t texting you either—but he was thinking about you. More than that, he was thinking about the baby.

He clicked through your Amazon wishlist, the one he had secretly known about for weeks. He’d seen you adding things to it before, little moments when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. At the time, he hadn’t let himself think about it. Hadn’t let himself process what it meant.

But now, he was looking at it properly. And for the past few nights, he had been buying things off of it.

Not everything—he knew you’d want to pick things yourself. But little things. The onesies you had hesitated on but kept going back to. The baby monitor. The ridiculously soft-looking stuffed elephant he had seen you smile at once.

And now, tonight, he was adding more. A bassinet. A diaper bag. A baby book.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before glancing toward the nursery. The crib was already set up, the walls painted. But now, sitting in front of him was his latest project—a mobile he had absolutely no idea how to put together.

He stared at the instructions, completely lost. “This is ridiculous”, he muttered to himself, flipping the paper over like a new angle would somehow make it make sense.

He let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through his hair before dropping the pieces onto the table with a dull thud.

He was trying. God, he was trying.

But it still felt like he was two steps behind, like no matter how much he did, he wasn’t sure if it would ever be enough to fix what had already broken.

He reached for his phone, staring at your name in his contacts, his thumb hovering over it. But just like you had done minutes before—he hesitated. And in the end, he locked his phone and set it aside, exhaling slowly.

Just like you.

The next day, Jensen barely had the door open before Jared was pushing his way inside, taking one sweeping glance at the chaos in the living room and nursery before raising a knowing eyebrow.

"So", Jared drawled, hands on his hips as he surveyed the half-assembled mobile, an open Amazon box spilling out baby supplies, and the clear frustration written all over Jensen's face. "This what rock bottom looks like, or are we finally making progress?".

Jensen shot him a glare before running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Shut up".

Jared chuckled, stepping over a pile of packing materials and nudging the bassinet with his foot. "Damn. Guess we are making progress".

Jensen sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't know what I'm doing".

Jared hummed, picking up the instruction manual for the mobile, flipping it dramatically. "Yeah, I can see that. Mobile’s still in pieces, and I’m pretty sure you put this part on backward". He pointed at one of the dangling plush stars, which was barely hanging on.

Jensen groaned, dropping into one of the dining chairs, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s not just the damn mobile, man. It’s—". He gestured vaguely around him. "All of it".

Jared sat across from him, letting out a slow breath. "You're doing something, though. That’s more than you were a couple weeks ago".

Jensen leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "Doesn’t feel like enough".

Jared studied him for a long moment before nodding toward the pile of baby clothes stacked on the couch. "She doesn’t know, does she?".

Jensen shook his head. "No".

"You gonna tell her?".

Jensen hesitated, staring at the half-built nursery like it held the answer. "Not yet".

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Alright. Then what’s the plan here, man? You finally let yourself start putting shit together, but you’re still sitting here like you’re waiting for something".

Jensen exhaled sharply. "I don’t know. I keep thinking maybe if I get everything ready, if I start acting like I should, then maybe she’ll come back, and I’ll—I’ll finally feel like I can do this".

Jared frowned. "And what if she doesn’t come back, Jensen?".

Jensen's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "She will".

Jared sighed, shaking his head. "You can’t just wait around hoping, man. You need to show her. Not just through baby stuff—not just through fixing a damn nursery—but by being there. By talking to her. By—".

"I know", Jensen cut in, his voice hoarse. He rubbed his hands over his face before letting out a heavy breath. "I know, Jared".

Jared sat back, watching him for a long moment before nodding. "Alright", he said finally. "Then let’s start with this damn mobile before you burn the house down trying to put it together".

Jensen huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as Jared grabbed the pieces.

Later, at night, Jensen sat in the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a warm hue over the freshly painted walls. The mobile he and Jared had wrestled with earlier now hung above the crib, finally assembled, its tiny plush stars and moons swaying slightly in the still air.

The room was coming together. Slowly. Quietly.

But it was still missing something. Or rather, someone.

He let out a heavy breath, leaning forward in the rocking chair Jared had convinced him to buy ealier, his elbows resting on his knees. His phone sat in his palm, your name glowing on the screen.

You.

For over three weeks, he had respected your space, given you the time you asked for—even if it had been absolute hell.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure he could hold out much longer.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitation keeping him frozen. He didn’t know what to say—how to say it. No matter what words he typed, they wouldn’t be enough to erase the damage he had done.

But maybe… maybe they could be a start.

Finally, after a long pause, he exhaled sharply and started typing.Jensen: I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know if you even want to hear from me, if you’ll even read this, but I have to try. I miss you, (Y/N). I miss you so goddamn much, and I hate myself for how I made you feel, for how I pushed you away when all you ever did was love me, when all you ever did was try to bring me in. You were right. I made you feel like you were in this alone, and the truth is, I was just too fucking scared to admit how much this was changing me. How much I let my own fears take over instead of just holding onto you. But I’m trying. I swear to you, I’m trying. It took me too long to get here, but I need you to know that I want this. You, our baby. I want it, and I don’t know if I deserve another chance to prove that to you, but I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying if you let me. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. Just please, (Y/N). Just tell me you’re okay. Tell me you still—

He hesitated before backspacing that last line, his chest aching.Just text me back when you’re ready. Please.

Jensen stared at the screen for a long moment, his throat tight, before finally hitting send. And then, all he could do was wait.

You stared at the message, your phone screen glowing in the dim light of your bedroom. Jensen’s words blurred slightly as fresh tears gathered in your eyes, your chest tightening with emotions too tangled to unravel.

He was trying. You could see that. Every word he had typed carried weight—regret, desperation, love. But it didn’t erase everything. It didn’t undo the weeks of feeling abandoned, of carrying this baby alone while he wrestled with his own demons in silence.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, aching to respond. To tell him that you missed him too, that the loneliness had been unbearable. That you wanted so badly to believe him.

But you couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, you locked your phone, setting it face-down on the nightstand as you curled onto your side. The baby shifted slightly inside you, a gentle reminder that you weren’t completely alone, even if it felt like it.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. You needed more time. You weren’t sure how much, or what it would take for you to fully trust Jensen again, but right now, answering him felt like opening a door you weren’t ready to step through.

So, for now, you let the silence remain.

Two days later, the internet exploded.

Jensen had finally posted the long-awaited, lawyer-approved statement about his divorce from Danneel. It was short, direct, and carefully worded—acknowledging their separation, expressing respect for the mother of his children, and asking for privacy. It was the exact kind of statement the media expected from him.

And it worked.

The moment it went live, the internet caught fire. Articles, speculation, Twitter threads dissecting every word. Some people praised the maturity of the statement, others dug up old interviews of Jensen and Danneel, searching for signs of trouble. Some fans were just heartbroken, unable to believe the seemingly perfect couple had fallen apart.

But nowhere in the statement was your name.

Jensen had deliberately kept you out of it, both to protect you from the first wave of chaos and because, deep down, he didn’t know if he even had the right to claim you anymore. You hadn’t responded to his message, and every passing hour without hearing from you twisted something deep in his chest.

Still, he found himself checking your social media. Not obsessively—at least, that’s what he told himself. But enough to make sure you weren’t being dragged into the storm.

So far, you weren’t. But it was only a matter of time.

Sitting in the dim light of the nursery, Jensen ran a hand down his face, his phone in his lap. The mobile he’d struggled to put together hung over the crib, slowly rotating, its soft pastel colors catching in the glow of the nightlight.

He had chosen this alone. Just like he had picked out the crib, painted the walls, ordered things off your wishlist. Things that, until recently, he had convinced himself he’d never do again.

But none of it mattered if you weren’t here.

He exhaled slowly, staring at his phone. The last message he had sent still sat unanswered. He wanted to text again, to call, but he didn’t. Not yet. Because if you needed time, he would give it to you. Even if it killed him.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You ignored it at first, curled up on your side, lost in the haze of your thoughts. But when it vibrated again, and then again, you sighed and reached for it.

Jared: Check out Jensen’s Instagram. Jared: Like, now.

Your stomach twisted instantly. You hadn’t looked at anything related to Jensen in days—not his texts, not the internet chaos surrounding him, not the quiet storm brewing in the back of your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready.

But your fingers moved before your brain could stop them. You pulled up Instagram, hesitating for a long second before clicking on his profile. The moment his latest post filled your screen, your breath hitched.

It was the official statement. The one you had been waiting for. The one you had dreaded.

You read it once. Then again. Then a third time, just to make sure you weren’t imagining it.

It was clean. Professional. Just enough emotion to feel personal but carefully worded to avoid scandal. It said all the right things—acknowledging the divorce, thanking the public for their support, asking for privacy for his family.

But nowhere—nowhere—did it mention you.

Your chest tightened. It was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be kept out of the media storm? To not be dragged into the chaos before you had even figured out where you stood with him? So why did it still sting?

You stared at the post for what felt like forever, your thumb hovering over the screen. Liking it felt… wrong. But ignoring it felt worse.

Finally, you exhaled sharply, your fingers hesitating for only a moment before you closed the app completely. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

Your phone buzzed again. Jared.

Jared: You good?

You swallowed, your fingers typing a response before you could overthink it.

You: Yeah. Just needed a second.

A few beats later, Jared responded.

Jared: You wanna talk?

You stared at the message, your chest feeling impossibly tight.

You: Not right now.

You put your phone on silent and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with too many thoughts. Jensen had made his move. Now you had to figure out yours.

Jensen still sat on the floor of the nursery, his legs stretched out, a pile of tiny, freshly washed baby clothes in front of him. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, trying—really trying—to fold them neatly, but they were so damn small. Every time he thought he had one folded properly, it just ended up looking like a crumpled mess.

Still, he kept at it. Because this was all he could do.

He hadn’t bought much—just a few neutral onesies, a couple of soft blankets, tiny socks that barely looked big enough to fit on his fingertips. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing, but he washed them, dried them, and now he was carefully placing them into the crib. For you. For when you came home… If you came home.

His phone buzzed on the floor beside him. Then again. And again. He ignored it at first, but eventually, the screen lit up enough times that he sighed and picked it up.

Thirty-two unread messages.

Relatives. Old friends. Colleagues. Women he hadn’t spoken to in years suddenly finding reasons to “check in”. His Instagram was still blowing up—thousands of comments, articles already circulating. Everyone had something to say about his post, his divorce. About him.

But none of them mattered. All he could think about was you.

Jensen let the phone drop beside him with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands down his face. How the hell had it come to this? His mind drifted, unbidden, back to the first time he ever saw you.

Jared’s birthday. The liquor store.

Jared, being Jared, had immediately invited you to his birthday party that same night. Just… invited a complete stranger to his party. Because he saw it—even back then—the way Jensen was starstruck by you.

Jensen let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair.

How the hell had they gone from that to this? From stolen glances in a liquor store to separate houses, unanswered texts, an unfinished nursery that might never get used?

His chest tightened. His hands curled into fists. Jensen felt helpless.

Just then, his phone screen lit up with an incoming text, and his stomach twisted before he even looked.

Jared: Heard from her yet?

Jensen exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t need the reminder. The answer was still the same.

Jensen: No.

It took Jared less than thirty seconds to type back.

Jared: Man…

That was it. Just that one word. But it hit Jensen harder than any long-winded speech would have. Because if Jared was feeling the weight of this, then it was bad.

Jensen clenched his jaw, staring down at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His chest felt tight. His head was pounding. His thoughts were a mess. He had spent the last two weeks pouring himself into getting ready—painting the nursery, picking out a damn crib, folding baby clothes like a father should—but none of it mattered if you didn’t come back. And you hadn’t.

Jared was the only one you were still talking to. Jensen knew that. And that fucking killed him.

Jensen hesitated for a long moment, then, before he could stop himself, he finally typed the question that had been eating at him for days.

Jensen: Is she coming back?

He stared at the screen, waiting, his heart hammering in his chest. The message was marked as read. Jared was typing. Jensen swallowed hard, his grip on the phone tightening. His pulse roared in his ears. And then, finally, Jared responded.

Jared: I don’t know, man. But she misses you.

Jensen stared at the message, his heart pounding so damn hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. She misses you.

It should’ve been a relief. It should’ve given him hope. But instead, all it did was make his stomach twist. Because missing someone didn’t mean coming back. It didn’t mean forgiving them. And it sure as hell didn’t mean she was ready to have him in her life again.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but what was there to say? I miss her too? Of course he did. That was the understatement of the century. He felt like he was suffocating without you. Every damn second. Instead, he finally typed:

Jensen: What do I do?

Jared read it immediately. Jensen could picture him, probably sighing, rubbing a hand through his hair, debating whether to give him some tough love or actual advice. A moment later, his phone buzzed.

Jared: You keep fighting for her. If you want her, if you want that baby, you don’t stop showing her that. And you don’t wait for permission to do it. You show up.

Jensen swallowed, his throat tight.

Jensen: What if she doesn’t want me to?

Jared’s response came almost instantly.

Jared: Then at least she knows you tried. But you can’t just sit there and hope she comes back. That’s not how this works, man.

Jensen exhaled sharply, setting his phone down, rubbing his hands over his face. Show up. Not wait. Not hope. Show up.

He looked around the nursery, at the folded baby clothes, the crib he’d built, the stupid mobile he’d fought with for hours. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. Because none of it mattered without you. Jensen picked up his phone again.

Jensen: Where is she?

Jared didn’t respond right away. Jensen’s jaw clenched.

Jensen: Jared.

Three dots appeared. Then—

Jared: You know where she is, man.

Jensen’s breath hitched. Yeah. Yeah, he did.

———————————

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

-

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[landoscarinthefastlane]

Every Missed Call - Landoscar

Summary: After Oscar’s sudden move to Red Bull, Lando is left with a string of missed calls and unsent messages. In the quiet of his motorhome, late nights become a ritual of replayed voicemails and things left unsaid. But when the season winds down and everything slows, a final voicemail changes everything.

Note ⚠️: Contains late-night longing, emotional voicemails, unresolved tension across team lines, and two stubborn hearts learning how to say “I miss you” and "I love you" without breaking.

PART I — Voicemail #1

March – Bahrain GP

“Hey. It’s me. You probably guessed that. Anyway…”

Lando pauses. What the fuck was he supposed to say? One minute, he and Oscar were one. And the next? They feel more like strangers.

“I saw the press photos. You're actually wearing navy blue. Still weird. But you looked… sharp. I guess.”

A beat. A sigh.

“I know we said we'd talk after testing, and I know you’re busy, but… I dunno. It just felt wrong not to say anything. So, good luck tomorrow. You'll nail it in that tractor that Red Bull calls a car. I'm sure of it.”

BEEP

Lando stared at the phone screen long after he had finished the voicemail message. Oscar doesn’t call back.

What had he expected?

PART II — Voicemail #4

May – Miami GP

"Hey, it's me."

A few seconds of silence.

“You waved at me on the grid. That was new.”

Lando sounds out of breath, like he’s pacing. He's very aware, thank you.

“I didn’t wave back, I know. It’s just—there were cameras, and Zak was hovering, and I panicked. Not because of you. Just… everything.”

A pause. A hollow laugh.

He hated this.

“Carlos noticed. Said I looked like I saw a ghost. He doesn’t know it’s because seeing you in Max’s garage still feels like a betrayal. Even when it’s not.”

Another pause. Softer now.

“I hope you’re okay. I hope… you’re sleeping enough.”

Another beat of silence.

"I-" He swallowed the words back. "Never mind. Good luck tomorrow."

BEEP

PART III — Voicemail #7

June – Canada GP

“It rained today.”

Lando doesn’t say hello anymore. Doesn’t say “it’s me.” Just picks up the thread like Oscar’s been listening this whole time.

“You always hated the rain. Said it made your hair frizz and your gloves stick. I forgot until I saw Max throw a towel at you in the cooldown room. You laughed.”

A sharp exhale.

“I miss your laugh. And it sucks that it's not me, who makes you laugh like that.”

Lando was sure he was going to die from heartbreak at this point.

BEEP

PART IV — Voicemail #11

August – Summer Break

“They’re sending me to the sim next week. The MTC feels empty without you there. I saw your name still taped on the locker next to mine. PR forgot to remove it.”

A long silence. Then—

"I hate them for it."

A deep breath.

“I didn’t remove it either.”

BEEP

PART V — The one that wasn’t sent

September – Monza GP

The message begins. Stops. Starts again. Then silence. Then:

“I can’t do this anymore.”

But Lando never hits send.

PART VI — The Call That Changed Everything

November – Abu Dhabi GP

The last race of the season.

Lando finishes P4. Oscar is on the podium, champagne soaking his navy suit. And Lando doesn't even care about missing the top three.

Because after the podium interviews, after the media pen, after everything that needs to be done, there is a voicemail waiting on his phone.

Lando had not thought the day would come after all his unanswered attempts.

It’s from Oscar.

“Lando,”

Oscar's voice is quiet, tired, but warm.

“I listened to all of them. I saved every one of them. I just… I didn’t know how to answer. I thought if I did, I’d want to come back. And I couldn’t. Not yet. I did not want to hurt you even more than I probably already did.”

A pause. Shaky breath.

“But I miss you, too. And I’m still wearing the bracelet you gave me in Singapore. I think that means something.”

Lando's heart flutters as he takes the words in.

“If you want to talk, I’m at the McLaren hospitality. I’ve got twenty missed calls to answer. Maybe more.”

BEEP

Lando bolts from the motorhome so fast he forgets his pass. Again.

Security lets him through anyway.

Oscar is waiting by the McLaren hospitality doors, back leaning against the wall, arms folded. His Red Bull jacket is tied around his waist. He looks exhausted, yet hopeful.

They don’t speak at first. Lando just walks up and punches him lightly in the shoulder.

“You couldn’t have texted?”

Oscar shrugs. “Thought I’d start returning calls in person.”

Lando doesn’t cry. Not really. His voice wobbles, sure. And when Oscar wraps his arms around him and mutters a soft “I missed you more than I let myself admit,” maybe he leans in too hard.

But he doesn’t cry. At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

PART VIII — New Voicemail

December – Off Season

“Hey. Just wanted to say that I got pasta for dinner tonight. Can't wait to have you home with me again. Hurry up.”

A pause.

"I love you. Come home safe, you muppet."

BEEP

[straows]

Love me kindly; Sukuna R.

Request: @sejel

—In which, Sukuna wants to deserve you and your love, but he can't help but be a little bitch sometimes.

A/n: High asf rn, I struggled like a mf on salvia tryna right ts. Hope you like it anyway, got lost in the sauce n forgot what the request was like halfway thru

Sukuna tries. He tries hard, but for someone as old and something emotionally stupid as him, he fucks up.

Like now.

“Baby can I have a hug? My-“ You’d just gotten out of an argument with him. But you just wanted to be held, feel his affection love close to you and your heart.

“No.” It was blunt, and sharp. Fuck man he didn’t even look at you. Just kept doing whatever the hell he was trying to keep busy with.

You could only look at him. Your bottom lip quivering slightly and your throat feeling tight as you try not to cry. With a sigh, you just walk away.

Because you don’t know what he’s thinking,

You don’t know that he’s mentally strangling himself because why the fuck would he say that to you? He knew he messed up. Fuck he did, but he just didn’t feel like he deserved your love, your touch. He’d just got done hollering at you for trying to get in the garden again and help, because why do you keep doing servant work when you are basically his queen?

He could feel your soul quiver.

“Fuck.” Running a heavy hand over his face, he sat down on the bed. Thinking about a way to approach this, approach you.

You, who despite him being a dick 24/7, love and cherish him. You, the woman of his literal dreams.

But Sukuna didn’t apologize. No matter what. Not even when it’s time for bed, and you don’t crawl into his arms like you usually do. You cling to the other side of the albeit massive bed.

He doesn’t reach for you either.

But he can feel it, he can feel how it’s effecting you, and regardless, he doesn’t apologize. He won’t lower himself to that.

Not yet at least.

It was cold that night, but despite everything in you that just wanted to crawl into literal monsters arms beside you, you stay glued to the edge, curled into a little ball as you shiver yourself to sleep. All pitiful, pissed and precious.

It carried on.

And on…

…and on.

You wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t eat with him, wouldn’t be near him. Because of course you thought he was tired of you. He didn’t try to reach for you either, he didn’t approach you. Fuck, at one point you even thought he was entertaining new concubines.

The distance was wide enough that you even started sleeping in the chamber with the servants again.

But after a night or so of that, of you not even sleeping in the same room with him? No no. Something had to change.

Your silence, your absence, your stubborn attitude had broken him down, even his pride couldn’t handle you ignoring him. Even though he really wasn’t any better.

Sukuna had tracked you down the second night you tried to sleep in the servants chambers. He easily pulled you out of there, ignoring your demands to let you go and to go away.

He dragged you literally all the way back up to your shared chambers. Sat you down on that bed and glared at you. Arms crossed and a pissed off look on his face.

“Woman, you have tested my patience and I am at my limit.” His tone was sharp, but it had an almost pleading edge to it.

“What are you even talking about Sukuna?” And there it was. Using his full name and not some loving nickname like you used that really broke the camels back.

“You will cease this. Whatever this is.” Sukuna demanded.

“I’m not doing anything! You clearly don’t want me anymore so I’m making it easier on you and me.” You snapped. It was dangerous talking to him like that, even you knew, but despite his ignoring you, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. At least not physically.

“What made you think that?” Sukuna was emotionally stupid. A fucking idiot.

“YOU! You deny me the littlest affections! You ignore me, you don’t even question it when I stop being near you as a whole!” You were loud now, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

Sukuna blinked down at you. Stared actually. Like some weird ass lizard.

“Woman, it wasn’t like that.” Sukuna felt a headache start to come on. He couldn’t handle this without getting mad. But he was trying really hard.

“Then what’s it like?” Crossing your arms, looked up at like he just pissed in your cereal.

“I didn’t feel like I-… I didn’t want to hug you because I’d just— brat you know what I mean.” Sukuna huffed.

“No I don’t. Explain it to me. Like I’m five.”

“I didn’t think I deserved your affections so soon after making you so upset. I was trying to be gentle with you.” Sukuna glared down at you, feeling unbearably awkward after saying shit like that.

You just stared up at him. Before softening, “are you being serious?”

“I do not joke.”

“Just hold me damnit.”

“Fine.”

You spent that night wrapped in each others arms. And as punishment, at least as much as you can punish a man as big as Sukuna, you braid tight as shit braids into his scalp.

[kuro8066]

Obedience is taught "patiently".

Dom! Gn reader × brat! Aventurine

Trigger warnings: first time nsfw! We are going WILD people! MDNI. Was inspired by this. Mentioned toys, mostly gn reader but implied cock/strap. degration if you squint. Brat taming aventurine, reader is rough with him. Soft and gentle aftercare tho. Not proofread aventurine might be ooc.

Special thanks to @livelaughlovesubs for the idea. 👉👈❣️

You were exhausted.

Not just physically, but down to the very marrow of your bones. A two-day stretch of back-to-back meetings, endless reports, and a goddamn overnight stay in your office chair with only a lukewarm cup of coffee to keep you company. You had barely changed your shirt when you came home late that evening, your head pounding and muscles stiff.

All you asked was a moment of peace. Just one.

You hadn’t even made it halfway through the living room before Aventurine was on you. Smug grin, arms crossed, leaning by the doorway like he was the picture of casual luxury in his silk robe and wine glass in hand.

“Well, well, the hardworking husband returns. Did they finally let you out of the corporate dungeon?” he drawled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or did you beg them to release you so you could come back and play house with your spoiled brat?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Aven. Not now.”

“Aww poor baby. What now? Too tired to even bark back at me? And look at you—same tired face, same rumpled shirt. Is that my punishment? That I get leftovers of you after the world’s already drained you dry?”

Your jaw clenched.

" Aventurine. I just need a minute,” you said tightly, heading to the bedroom. “Don’t push me.”

Of course, he pushed. He raised his voice and galred.

"Don't think I'm so needy for your attention. I could walk away anytime I want to."

He spotted throught his teeth. That was the last straw for y/n. He just left aventurine there and walked into the bedroom.

Later, when you sat on the couch with a book in hand—trying to decompress, trying to find a sliver of normal—he stood in the doorway again. Pacing, humming, sighing dramatically. When that failed, he pulled your favorite vase off the side table and dropped it. Glass shattered across the hardwood floor.

You didn’t flinch.

He hurled a book next.

You turned the page of yours.

Aventurine’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “You’re really doing this? The silent treatment?” Another glass, this time his wine glass, followed. Red wine splattered on the floor like blood.

Still, you didn’t even blink.

His voice cracked somewhere after the fourth tantrum. “Fine! Be that way, you cruel bastard. See if I care!” But even that sounded hollow.

He walked out of the bedroom and crashing sounds followed after from the living room. Some things are being thrown for sure. And when he realised it wasn't doing anything he came back into the bedroom. Stood at the doorway staring at y/n, who hasn't moved from the same position, still reading.

Hours passed. The air shifted. Desperation began to crawl into his voice, thick and unsteady. At one point, you heard him whisper, “Why aren’t you looking at me…?”

Then—silence.

Until there's a thump sound.

You didn’t look down, not immediately. But you felt the warmth against your knees, the tremble of his breath against your skin.

He was kneeling. In front of you. On the floor.

Face flushed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his usual arrogant air was shattered—replaced by something raw, something achingly human. Aventurine clutched at your wrists, lowering your book with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You like it when I kneel, right? I'm here. I'm here now.”

His forehead pressed against your knee. “Please look at me… Don't ignore me. Touch me. Pet me. Look only at me. Talk only to me.” His fingers tightened. “Make me feel good. Don’t act like you can’t hear me! Please. I’m sorry I acted like a brat.”

Your smirk was slow, deliberate, as you finally looked down at him.

“Took you long enough huh.”

The moment your hand slid into his hair, Aventurine shuddered with relief. Like every tantrum, every wall he threw up, every game he played—was for this. This moment. Your touch. Your attention.

Your control.

“Good boy,” you murmured, thumb brushing the tear tracks from his cheek.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when you stood, not when you left him trembling on the floor like a broken doll clinging to your knee. You just stood up—calm, composed—and walked towards the bedside drawer and took something out.

Aventurine blinked in a daze, confused for a moment. But then you returned. With something small. Discreet. A toy he hadn’t seen in a while.

“You made quite the mess,” you said, voice smooth like sin, gaze pointed as you loomed over him. “I ought to spank you raw for it. But no, that’s too easy. You like that too much.”

He barely registered what was put into his hands. You tapped his cheek lightly, forcing him to look at you. He was flushed, glassy-eyed.

“Put this in. Living room. Sofa. Don’t move a muscle.”

Aventurine came out of the bedroom later and barely made it to the sofa. He collapsed into it, panting. Then you got to work. Clean the mess your lovely baby brat just made.

Shirtless.

Muscles flexing with each sweep of the broom, each lean to pick up broken glass, each bend to gather fallen books. His eyes were wide, lips parted, moans already slipping out of him by the third minute of watching you. The vibrations weren’t rough—they were teasing. Constant. Unrelenting. Not enough to finish, never enough to escape. But just enough to keep him teetering right at the edge.

You didn’t spare him a glance.

And that was the cruelest part.

Aventurine’s hands gripped the sofa’s edge until his knuckles went white. His hips shifted instinctively—but one warning glance from you earlier had him frozen solid. He wasn’t allowed to move. Not even to grind down, not even to twitch.

“Y-Y/N—ah—Y/N, please…”

You stepped over broken glass with elegant ease, veins on your forearms popping deliciously. He whimpered. His toes curled.

“Fuck, I—I’m sorry, okay?! I’ll be good. I’ll listen. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

Your pace didn’t slow. You kept cleaning. You weren’t finished yet. Not even halfway.

By now, Aventurine had lost all sense of time. Hours? Minutes? Centuries? The only thing he knew was the maddening heat in his body and the ache from clenching so hard he thought he might go insane. The soundproof walls helped—his cries were loud, desperate, echoing back at him as if mocking his fall from smug to pathetic.

When you passed him again, glistening slightly with sweat, the toy surged to a higher setting. He choked on a moan. “Nngh—p-please! Please! I’ll do anything. Just—just touch me. Say my name. Something. Anything. I need—fuck, I need you!”

You finally stopped.

The house was clean. The books were back on the shelves. The glasses were gone. You looked at him, finally, after what felt like an eternity. He was slumped, boneless and shaking, a wreck of pleasure. Overstimulated and craving.

You walked over.

Kneeled before him.

Gripped his jaw.

His tear-streaked eyes fluttered open as your thumb brushed the corner of his lips. “Look at you. All this… just because I didn’t pay you attention for a little while?”

He whimpered. Nodded.

“Pathetic.”

A moan left his plump lips.

“Now beg properly.”

He slurred over his words.

"Ple—argh! Please daddy. I listened to you. I've been good. Please."

“You did well baby.”

The words were soft—unlike the firm grip of your hand twisting the toy out of him. Aventurine sobbed, back arching with the sheer shock of the loss, only to gasp as you replaced it with exactly what he wanted.

Yours.

Hot. Real. Thick. Unforgiving.

He moaned—loud, sharp, a sound born from weeks of need and hours of torment. And you filled him in one smooth, merciless thrust, barely giving him a moment to adjust before you started to move.

He wasn’t ready. That was the point.

“Y-Y/N—!” His hands clawed at the sofa, desperate for grounding. “Too much—ah—!”

“Too bad,” you said into his ear, voice breathless from restraint, from holding back the storm that was now crashing down on him. “You made this mess. You begged for this. Now take it.”

The rhythm was brutal.

Each thrust knocked thought after thought loose from his pretty little head. His back curved like a bow, arms limp , pinned over his head, eyes rolled back, brain melting into pure sensation. The overstimulation made his body feel like fire and static, nerves sparking with every movement of your hips.

And through it all—

Your lips were on his.

Not demanding. Not harsh.

But sweet. Addictively sweet. Devastatingly deep. You kissed him like you owned him—like you were carving your name into his soul through each glide of tongue and teeth. He mewled into it, lips parting willingly as you devoured every broken sound he made.

His body was yours.

His mind was gone.

And you used both like a composer with a violin—each thrust, each shift, each kiss dragging louder and louder cries from his lips. You pushed him down, held him in place, shaped him like clay. Your brat. Your reward. Your punishment.

“Look at you now,” you muttered against his lips, licking up the taste of him. “So good for me. Finally.”

“I—I’m yours—” Aventurine gasped, mind a hazy swirl of light and heartbeat and you. “Only yours—please, 's too deep. I can't—”

“You can. You can take it baby.”

And he did.

He broke for you, body shaking, ruined around you. Still, you didn’t stop. You kept going, pushing him past his peak and into something raw and mindless, something where words didn’t matter anymore. He was sobbing, begging for mercy, clinging to your shoulders like a lifeline, nails digging into your back as soon as his hands were freed and taking everything you gave him.

When he finally climaxed, his body was twitching, chest heaving with aftershocks, you kissed his temple. This time, softer. Slower.

“Good boy.”

He whimpered.

The storm passed. The house was quiet.

Aventurine lay limp against your chest, the fight bled out of him, replaced by soft shivers and muffled whimpers. His cheeks were still flushed, his hair a damp mess stuck to his temples. You carried him gently, carefully, as if he was glass—even though he'd spent the past hours proving just how much he could take.

The bathroom was already warm. You’d turned the lights low, letting the soft golden glow dance across the tiles, the tub filled with soothing, floral-scented water. You lowered him into it slowly, and he winced at first, overstimulated nerves twitching, but then—he sighed.

“Mmh...”

You sat behind him in the water, pulling his back to your chest, wrapping both arms around his middle, letting him just rest. Your chin rested lightly on his shoulder as your hands ran down his arms, grounding him. One of your hands reached for the cloth and dipped it into the water before gently wiping along his chest.

“You really went all out, didn’t you, Aven?” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. He squirmed slightly, half a protest, half a plea for more contact. You smiled. “My little kakavasha... throwing tantrums, breaking things... just because you wanted attention.”

“Wasn’t—” He tried to argue, but his voice cracked. His pride was too fragile to admit it fully.

You chuckled low in your throat, and kissed the side of his neck, letting your lips linger. “My little spoiled princess,” you whispered against his skin, making him whimper. “You didn’t just want my attention, did you? You needed it. You wanted your thoughts shoved right out of your bratty little head.”

He hid his face in his hands, trembling. Whether it was embarrassment or satisfaction, even he didn’t know.

“Y-Y/N...”

“Shh,” you hummed, rubbing slow circles into his thigh. “I know, baby. I know. That’s why I gave it to you. You earned your reward... but you also earned your punishment.”

You shifted forward slightly, arms tightening. Aventurine melted into you, pliant and quiet now. His breathing steadied, slow and soft. He was safe.

“You did good, Aven,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his eye. “My pretty little baby. My lovely disaster. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

And in the stillness of that bath, with your arms around him and your voice so warm in his ears, he truly believed it.

He was yours.

Morning came slowly, with warm golden light bleeding through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the bedroom.

And you were everything he needed.

Aventurine lay on his side, half buried in pillows, the blankets tangled around his waist. His hair was a soft mess—less styled, more honest. His lashes trembled slightly, brows furrowed in a stubborn little frown even in sleep, like he was having a dream he refused to lose.

And you? You were already awake. Had been for a while.

One arm tucked under your head, the other wrapped loosely around his waist, fingers lazily tracing idle circles against his bare skin. You didn’t have work today. You made sure of it. Your phone had buzzed more than once, emails stacking up—but they could rot. You already had your biggest priority in your arms.

A brat. A menace. A sharp-tongued little beast who broke vases when ignored—

But also the man who curled into you like he was scared to lose you.

Your lips pressed against his forehead , just a soft, lingering kiss.

“Still pretending to be asleep, princess?” you murmured into his hair.

Aventurine didn't answer. Of course he wouldn’t.

You grinned, your voice low, teasing, “You think I don’t know? That you only throw tantrums when you’re desperate for me? That you think needing someone is the same as losing?”

He shifted—just slightly. Barely a twitch. But it was enough. His mask always cracked when you were gentle.

“You’re so ridiculous, Kakavasha,” you whispered, voice dropping into that tender, velvet tone he hated loving. “I work late one night, and suddenly you’re flinging wine glasses like a man scorned. What, you thought I’d forget I have a spoiled little husband at home?”

“You’re annoying,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Shut up.”

“Oh? So you can speak?” You chuckled, pulling him closer by the waist. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were just panting my name last night like—”

“Y/N!” His voice was firm this time, but the tips of his ears were pink. He wouldn’t look at you.

You softened. Kissed the apple of his cheek. Let your hand slide up to cradle his face. “You’re the love of my life, Aven,” you said gently. “Not my job. Not the world. You. You always come first. Even when you’re being impossible. Job exists purely so that I could earn money to buy you gifts and spoil you.”

He didn’t respond right away but he muttered something under his breath.

"Who even wants your money? I already have enough you dumbass."

He will never admit but all he wants is for you to be always near him. Vulnerability didn’t sit easy with Aventurine—it itched under his skin like an allergic reaction.

But he curled into you. Just a bit. Let you hold him tighter.

That was his way of saying it.

I missed you.

Please don’t make me need you this much.

I love you too.

And you heard every word in that silence.

Bonus scene:

The sheets were warm, tangled around both their legs, and just as you began to shift—muttering something about needing to make breakfast—slender fingers traced along your abdomen.

“Aven,” you warned lightly, voice still laced with sleep.

But he didn’t stop. His hand splayed across your chest now, trailing up to your collarbone, his pink-stained ears betraying his nonchalance. He didn’t meet your gaze as he whispered, “ Hold me again.”

You paused, eyes narrowing just slightly as you caught the tension in his jaw. The slight tremble in his voice. “After last night?” you asked, one brow raised. “You should try walking first, kakavasha. I might’ve rearranged your spine and hips.”

Aventurine looked scandalized for a brief second—but only because you were right. Then, as if determined not to be teased out of his moment, he leaned closer and murmured against your throat, “This time… do it slowly.”

That made you pause. The weight of his request settled gently in the air.

He reached up, fingers touching your cheek. His thumb grazed the corner of your lips. “You didn’t cradle my face like you used to,” he said softly. “Didn’t kiss on my eyelids, or here—”

He tilted his head, showing you the barcode-like mark the side of his neck. The same mark that proves the troubles and hardships he had faced his whole life. The same mark that he had learned to not want to tear it out of his skin just because you treat it so gently. Always a kiss on the mark, just to prove you don't mind his past, just to prove that he's still worth loving after all he had done to survive.

“You missed the steps,” he added, voice petulant. Dangerously close to pleading.

And what could a man do when his lovely male wife, who’d throw a tantrum before ever admitting he needed to be cherished, looked at him like that? When he asked—so gently, so miserably—for affection like it was a rare gem?

You cupped his face instantly.

“Oh, baby…” you sighed, brushing your thumb under his eye, then leaning in to kiss the soft corner there. “My precious little beast really wanted to be loved properly, huh?”

He didn’t answer, but the way he clutched your back said enough.

You kissed his eyelids, one at a time. His cheeks. His lips. His throat. The mark on his neck got the softest, lingering kiss, followed by a whisper of, “There. Was that better, love?”

He nodded, face flushed, breathing shaky.

And when you finally moved to hold him again—slow, deep, every movement paired with a kiss or a soft whisper—you made sure not a single step was missed.