#What I Would Give For A Moment Of Silence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

odileeclipse · 2 days ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 20

<<<Previous Next>>>

Shadow Milk Cookie stilled as your fingers brushed against his hand. A rare hesitation flickered across his expression, golden eyes flickering between your touch and your face, as if weighing the weight of what you had just done what you had just said. You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around his own before you lost the nerve. “I know you’re not leaving yet,” you murmured. “But when you do… I want to be there.”

His gaze softened, just barely. You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I know, in the grand span of your existence, I’m just…” You hesitated, struggling to find the right words.

“I know I’m small. A fleeting part of something much bigger. But… even if it’s just for a little while, I want to be part of that.”

A breath. A pause. Your heart pounded in the silence. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all, save for the slight way his fingers flexed beneath yours, as if he, too, was coming to terms with what this moment meant. “You think yourself small,” he said finally, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Do you truly believe that?”

You bit your lip. “Aren’t I?” He exhaled slowly, his free hand curling into a loose fist against the desk. His voice, when he spoke again, was measured careful, deliberate.

“Your existence does not need to stretch across centuries to hold weight.” Your breath hitched. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, gently almost hesitantly he turned his palm beneath yours, letting your fingers settle properly against his own.

His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t overwhelming. Just steady. “I cannot promise you eternity, you don’t have eternity” he murmured.

“But… I will not turn you away from the time I can offer.”

You squeezed his hand, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Shadow Milk Cookie studied you, his gaze as unreadable as ever yet, for once, you felt like you understood him perfectly. And, for now, that was enough.Your fingers trembled slightly as they curled around his, grounding yourself in the warmth of his touch. He didn’t pull away didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat behind carefully constructed walls of logic and reason. But he also didn’t answer, not immediately. You exhaled.

“You won’t be leaving for the Spire for a long time…I know that.” Your voice was steadier than you expected, though the weight in your chest only grew heavier with each word. “But when you do… if you do… I don’t want to be just another passing thought in your long existence.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze flickered, something unreadable shifting in the depths of his golden eyes. “I want to be there,” you continued, gripping his hand just a little tighter. “For however long I can be.” A slow inhale. His fingers curled around yours, but his expression remained frustratingly composed. “You have always have a choice,” he murmured. “I would never-”

“I know that,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I know you’d never ask me for anything. But what if I want to be here? What if I don’t care how small a part of your life I am?”

His lips parted slightly, but you pressed on, unwilling to let him slip away this time. “What do you want me to be?” you asked, flipping the question back on him. “Not what I think, not what I assume. What do you want?”

Silence. Not the kind that stretched into avoidance or the kind he wielded like a shield when words became too dangerous. This was different. He was considering it.

You swallowed, watching him closely. “Do you want me to be just another student? Another scholar you’ve guided, another moment in time that passes?” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled, slow and measured, as if he were calculating every possible outcome before speaking.

“You know I don’t waste my time on things that do not matter,” he finally said.

“That’s not an answer.” His fingers tightened just slightly over yours. “It is the only answer I can give.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling beneath your ribs. “No. No, it’s not. You-you don’t hesitate like this. You always know what to say, so why-”

“Because you do matter.” Your breath hitched. His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. “That is what frightens me.” Your grip faltered. He did not let go. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “You ask what we are,” he murmured. “And yet, even if I were to name it, even if I were to claim something beyond what is already unspoken… what would it change?”

“…Everything,” you whispered. He inhaled sharply. The silence that followed was deafening. Then, in a voice barely above a breath, he admitted, “Perhaps that is what I fear the most.”

The weight of his words settled between you, heavy and fragile all at once. He had always known the answer of course he had. But saying it aloud? Acknowledging it, accepting it? That was the truth neither of you had dared to face. You swallowed hard. “Then let’s face it.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s fingers curled more securely around yours, as if anchoring himself. And this time, he didn’t argue. You exhaled, a small, breathy laugh escaping despite the weight pressing against your chest.

“Okay,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, a teasing lilt threading through your voice. “Let’s pretend, then.”

Shadow Milk Cookie blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “Pretend?” You nodded, squeezing his hand just slightly. “Just for a moment. Let’s say you’re not the Sage of Truth. You’re not immortal. You’re just… you. Just Shadow Milk.”

His expression didn’t change at first, but something in his posture shifted something small, nearly imperceptible, like the brief flicker of candlelight in a draft. “And what would that change?” he asked quietly. You shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” You let out a soft hum, letting your fingers brush over his palm absentmindedly. “It means you don’t have to worry about forever. It means we don’t have to think about centuries, or what happens when I’m gone. It means we’re just… here. Right now.”

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. “You always ask me questions,” you mused, tilting your head. “So here’s one for you, Shadow Milk. If we were both mortal, if time wasn’t something hanging over us like a stormcloud… what would you want?” His fingers twitched against yours. His golden eyes, so often filled with certainty, wavered for the briefest second.

“…I do not know,” he admitted.

You let out a quiet chuckle. “Liar.” His gaze snapped back to you, startled, and you laughed outright this time, shaking your head. “You always know, Shadow Milk. You knew the answer before I even asked. But you don’t want to say it, because saying it makes it real.”

His grip on your hand tightened firm, grounding, as if he needed something solid to hold onto. “Words are powerful things,” he murmured. “They shape reality. They define truths.”

You smiled, softer now. “Then define this. Just for today, just for right now. No centuries, no titles. Just you and me. What are we?” Shadow Milk Cookie inhaled deeply, his gaze searching yours as if looking for an escape, a loophole something that would let him evade the truth he had spent so long avoiding. But there was none. For once, the Sage of Truth had been backed into a corner. And you weren’t letting him go.

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, warm and steady, but he had yet to answer. You exhaled, tilting your head slightly, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice as you murmured, “This is where they kiss. You know, like real people do.”

Shadow Milk Cookie froze. It was barely noticeable just the slightest hitch in his breath, the way his fingers twitched against yours, the way his golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled. A soft, measured thing. “Is that so?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way your pulse hammered in your throat betrayed you. “That’s how it usually goes,” you mused, your thumb brushing absently over the back of his hand.

“A conversation like this. A moment like this.” You looked up at him, searching his face. “That’s what happens next.”

His expression didn’t shift, not entirely, but his grip on your hand tightened just slightly, just enough for you to notice. “A logical conclusion,” he murmured. “And yet…”

You raised a brow. “And yet?”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze held yours, unwavering. “You are not speaking in absolutes,” he noted, quiet and thoughtful. “Not this time.”

Your breath caught. He was right. You weren’t saying this is what we should do. You weren’t making a move, weren’t leaning in like this was some storybook ending. You had simply left it in the air, dangling between you like a choice waiting to be made. And he knew that. Of course, he knew that. Your heart pounded as he studied you, the weight of his attention pressing down on you like a question you weren’t sure how to answer. You swallowed. “Would you want that?”

The words were quieter than before, softer, hesitant in a way that made them feel more real. “If we were-” You gestured vaguely between you. “If we were just people.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s thumb ghosted over your knuckles, the barest movement. He didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, he murmured, “Perhaps.” Perhaps.

The word settled over you like a slow-burning ember, curling warm in your chest. It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a no. It was something more dangerous. Something real. Your fingers curled slightly around his, your voice barely above a whisper now.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips parted just slightly, just enough for you to see the words forming behind his teeth, the answer he hadn’t yet spoken. But he didn’t say it. Not yet. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you were, of the way your fingers curled around his without thinking. Where had that boldness even come from? It wasn’t like you wasn’t like you at all to say something so forward.

Your grip slackened, but Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t let go. His hold was steady, grounding, as if he had already anticipated the moment you would retreat into yourself. You exhaled, barely a whisper of a laugh escaping you. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Your voice was quieter now, tinged with something unsure, something fragile. Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement, though there was a softness there too. “Then take it back,” he murmured.

You hesitated. You could. You could laugh it off, call it a joke, shift the moment into something safer, something easier. But the words still hung in the air, lingering like an unanswered question. Your fingers twitched against his. “…Do you want me to?” That was what it all came down to, wasn’t it? His expression remained unreadable for a moment longer before something in him shifted, something quieter, something almost careful. “No,” he said, just as soft. Your breath hitched. You weren’t expecting him to say that not so plainly, not so surely.

You lowered your gaze, heart pounding, the heat crawling up your neck making it impossible to meet his eyes. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.” The confession left you before you could stop it. “I don’t even know why I said that-I wasn’t thinking-” Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, low and thoughtful. “Clearly.” You groaned, covering your face with your free hand.

“You don’t have to agree so fast.” A pause, and then you felt him shift ever so slightly closer.

“And yet,” he mused, “you haven’t let go.” You hadn’t. Your fingers were still tangled with his, caught in that moment of hesitation. Your pulse thundered in your ears. “I-” You swallowed, suddenly feeling impossibly small beneath the weight of his attention.

You shook your head, trying to find something to say, anything that could make this feel less overwhelming. “I just-just pretend, okay? Pretend we’re-” You stopped yourself, heat crawling higher up your neck.

Shadow Milk Cookie arched a brow, waiting. “Pretend we’re what?” You squeezed your eyes shut, mortified. “…Just pretend we’re both mortal.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Pretend you’re not the Sage of Truth. That you’re just-just Shadow Milk.”

Silence. You didn’t dare look at him. Then, after what felt like an eternity, you heard him exhale, something slow and deliberate. “…Very well.”

His voice was softer now, still measured, still precise, but holding something gentler at the edges. You dared a peek at him, only to find his golden gaze fixed on you steady, patient, but different now. Not as a mentor, not as the Sage of Truth. Just him.

Your fingers curled a little tighter around his, your heart hammering in your chest. “Okay,” you breathed.

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tilting his head slightly, his voice quiet as he asked, “And now?” You had no idea. But for now, this the warmth of his hand in yours, the moment held between you was enough.

You let out a shaky breath, your pulse a wild, stammering thing beneath your skin. You couldn't believe you were about to say this couldn’t believe you had even thought it. And yet, the words came anyway, tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. "We should just kiss… like real people do."

The moment the sentence left your mouth, you regretted it. Heat surged up your neck, crawling up your face so fast you thought you might actually die of embarrassment. What had possessed you to say that? Shadow Milk Cookie stilled. The silence that followed was suffocating. You wanted to take it back. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You wanted-Then he exhaled. Soft, measured. A slow release of breath that sent a shiver through you. And when you finally dared to look up at him, really look at him, your stomach flipped. Because he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even giving you that knowing, amused look that usually accompanied your flustered remarks.

No, his gaze was something else entirely. Something bare. Something unguarded. Shadow Milk Cookie who always carried himself with such composure, who always wielded words like blades and knowledge like armor; was not shielding himself now. He was allowing himself this moment. Allowing himself to want. Your breath hitched. His golden eyes, so sharp in their scrutiny, softened not in amusement, not in calculation, but in something deeply, impossibly tender. Something that made your chest ache. “…You say the most dangerous things,” he murmured at last, voice as steady as ever, yet so much warmer than before.

Your entire body burned. “Don’t say it like that-” His lips curled slightly, and yet there was no deflection, no teasing edge. Instead, his fingers, still lightly curled around yours, tightened just enough to hold you here. Just enough to make sure this moment this fragile, terrifying, inevitable moment did not slip away. Shadow Milk Cookie was never one to rush, never one to move without certainty. But this time, there was no hesitation.

No grand declaration. No warning. Just the quiet, steady motion of him leaning in of his lips brushing against yours in a touch so deliberate, so unshaken, that it felt more like a truth than a kiss. A truth neither of you had spoken aloud. But one you had both known all along. Your heart stopped then raced, breath stuttering as you melted into the feeling, as you let yourself fall into it, into him. For just a moment- There was no Sage of Truth. No fleeting mortal life against eternity.

No barriers at all. Just you and him. Your fingers curled tighter around his, a tether between you and something vast, something terrifying. A bridge across the unfathomable expanse of time itself. You held on as if the moment would dissolve the second you loosened your grip, as if he were sand slipping through your fingers, as if he were the wind that would slip away the second you forgot to chase it. Shadow Milk Cookie did not pull away.

He could have. He could have met your touch with the cool distance of a scholar observing, the quiet dismissal of a man who had seen centuries pass and would see centuries more. But instead, he stayed. His fingers flexed once, his palm pressing against yours, grounding you both in something real, something fleeting, something infinite. His voice, when it came, was soft softer than the morning hush before dawn, softer than the reverence of untouched parchment waiting for ink. “You fear letting go.”

Not a question. A truth spoken aloud, as though he could taste it on his tongue. You swallowed, nodding. Your throat ached with words you weren’t brave enough to speak, with the weight of something too fragile to name. “Yes.”

He exhaled, a slow and measured thing, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles, like the stroke of a calligrapher’s pen, careful and deliberate. “You will not lose this.” Your breath shuddered, and you hated how easily he unraveled you. Hated how effortlessly he saw through you, how he could speak the one thing you had tried to convince yourself of and make it sound like it had been written into the stars long before you had the courage to wonder.

“But…” You hesitated, your grip tightening. “I’m afraid that if I let go, this moment will disappear. That I will wake up tomorrow and realize I imagined it. That I will turn back and find you already gone.” Your voice was quiet, a whisper in the space between you, but it landed heavy, enough to pull down constellations. His expression shifted something small, something imperceptible to anyone but you.

The careful composure of the Sage of Truth faltered, peeled back by something older, something deeper. His gaze swept over your face, and then, as if sealing something sacred, something too delicate to disturb he lifted your joined hands, cradling them between his own, reverent as a scholar handling a fragile manuscript, as a believer holding an unspoken prayer. “Then do not let go,” he murmured. It was not a demand. It was not even an answer. It was an offering.

Your breath stilled. Because the truth was there, nestled between the cracks of time, between your fingers laced with his. It was in the way his hands did not tremble but held steady, like an anchor against the tide. It was in the way his eyes softened, no longer gilded with the weight of wisdom, but something rawer, something human.

For the first time, you did not see the Sage of Truth, the scholar who would outlive ages, the man carved into history’s pages. You saw him. And that terrified you. But not enough to let go. Your fingers curled against his, grounding yourself in his warmth, in the undeniable realness of this moment. You swallowed, words gathering at the edge of your tongue, unspoken but waiting aching to be said. “The Spire of Knowledge…” you began, voice quieter than you meant it to be. His golden gaze flickered, watching you carefully, waiting. You took a breath, steadying yourself before continuing, “I want to go with you.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, like the pause between turning pages of a book whose ending you were afraid to reach. Shadow Milk Cookie did not answer immediately. He did not deflect, did not twist your words back on you as he so often did. Instead, his thumb brushed absently along the back of your hand, slow and deliberate, as if considering something weighty, something fragile. “You would leave the Academy,” he mused, the words more observation than question. You nodded. “If it meant being there.”

Another pause. His fingers curled ever so slightly around yours, and for a brief moment, you thought he might say yes. “You seek knowledge?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Or something else?”

You hesitated. You knew the answer. And so did he. “…Both,” you admitted. His lips parted, as if to speak, but then he exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured thing. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“You know that it will not be the same.” You blinked up at him. “I don’t expect it to be.”

He regarded you for a long moment, his gaze searching. “You wish to follow me.”

“Yes.”

“To learn?”

“Yes.”

“To stay?”

Your breath caught in your throat. A beat of silence. Then, carefully, he continued,

“Even knowing that I am as I am?”

You swallowed, nodding. “Even knowing that.”

His expression did not falter, but something in his gaze shifted something small, something you couldn’t quite place. A hesitation, perhaps. Or maybe something deeper, something unspoken, something close to fear. “I do not know if I can allow it.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?” His fingers, still entwined with yours, flexed slightly a reflex, maybe, as if steadying himself. “Because I do not wish to be the reason you leave behind the life you have built.”

You shook your head. “I’m not leaving behind anything.” He exhaled, as if to say, You are. You bit your lip. “You once said you do not waste words,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “So tell me, honestly…if I went, would you want me there?”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression, too brief to name. Then, so softly you almost missed it “Yes.”

Your breath stilled. The word settled between you, heavy and quiet, a truth neither of you had dared to voice until now. You wet your lips, trying to steady yourself. “Then let me prove myself.” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “If you truly cannot allow it now,” you continued, pressing forward before doubt could take root, “then let me earn it. You’re always telling me to seek truth, to strive for knowledge…so let me show you I’m worthy of the Spire.”

A pause. Then, his gaze softened. Not in amusement, not in pity, but in quiet consideration. “…You would do this?” he murmured. “For the chance to follow me?”

You held his gaze. “I would.” He studied you for a long, breathless moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into something small so small, but unmistakably real. “Then prove it.” Your chest tightened, something warm curling beneath your ribs. “I will.” His fingers remained in yours a moment longer before, with painstaking gentleness, he loosened his grip just enough to allow you the choice to hold on or let go. You didn’t let go.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, as he listened. His fingers still lingered in yours, the warmth of his hand grounding you, but his expression betrayed nothing. He was listening, but you knew that whatever conclusion he reached, he would not speak it before he was ready.

Taking a slow breath, you pressed forward. “I have to go with a research lab anyway for the fall semester,” you explained. “It’s part of my studies part of my path. If the Spire is taking in students for research, then… if I applied, if my friends applied, none of us would have to give anything up.” A long silence stretched between you.

You could hear your own heartbeat, the sound of your own breath. Finally, Shadow Milk Cookie’s golden eyes flickered, shifting from yours to some distant place beyond the room, as if weighing the possibility against every law of reason and logic. His thumb brushed absently over the back of your hand, a reflexive movement, slow and thoughtful. “You would truly consider this?” he murmured, voice quieter now. “Not only for me, but for yourselves?”

You nodded. “It wouldn’t be throwing anything away. It would be a step forward. Just… a different one than I originally thought.” He exhaled through his nose, his grip on your hand tightening for the briefest moment before he pulled back not out of rejection, but out of the need for space to think, to weigh, to decide. “The Spire’s research program is going to be rigorous,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Only the most dedicated students will be considered.”

“I know.” You straightened. “And I can prove I belong there.” His gaze flickered back to you, searching, as if waiting for hesitation to crack through your resolve. It didn’t. You had already made up your mind. “Your friends,” he said slowly. “Do they know?”

“Not yet.” You hesitated. “But I know them. They’ll want to go, too.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in his chair, studying you with the same careful precision he always did except now, there was something else, something softer, something almost hesitant. “…It would not be an easy path.”

“It never has been.” You smiled, though your chest was tight. “But that’s never stopped me before.” His lips parted slightly, as if he meant to speak to refute, to agree, you weren’t sure but he hesitated. The Sage of Truth had no immediate answer. You could feel it. The weight of something shifting. The possibility of something real. Finally, he inhaled slowly, deliberately, and nodded. “Then we shall see what the future holds.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze didn’t waver. His fingers, warm and steady around yours, curled just slightly, as if to tether you both to this moment this fragile, trembling thing balanced between truth and uncertainty. “You wish for a name,” he murmured, voice softer than you had ever heard it. “Very well.”

You held your breath. He lifted your intertwined hands slightly, the faintest smile ghosting the edges of his lips not a scholar’s smile, not the measured amusement of the Sage of Truth, but something quieter. Something that belonged only to him. “You are not a fleeting moment,” he said, as though carving the words into existence. “Nor a passing thought. Nor a scholar I merely guide.” His thumb traced absently against the back of your hand, reverent in its slowness. “You are the one who has unraveled me.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching in your throat. Shadow Milk Cookie was not a man who spoke lightly. Every word he uttered was deliberate, measured, a truth only spoken when he was ready for it to be known. And now, here he was, offering it freely, without hesitation.

“You are the one I have chosen to see,” he continued, voice steady, yet so unbearably tender. “And if you will have me” his gaze held yours, unwavering “then you are mine, as I am yours.” It was not a question. It was an answer. The only answer. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively, and his smile small, barely there softened at the edges, like candlelight flickering in the dark. “You asked me what we are,” he murmured, as if drawing the words from the very air between you. His free hand lifted, the faintest brush of his fingertips against your cheek light, fleeting, as if even he was afraid this moment might shatter if he dared press harder. “We are something true,” he whispered. “Something that will not fade.”

Your heart stilled. And then, before you could even think to stop yourself, you surged forward, closing the distance between you. You pulled away, voice unsteady. “Even when I’m gone?” The words were barely a whisper. “Even then?” His eyes searched yours, as if mapping the shape of your uncertainty, the fear tucked between your ribs like a delicate thing you were too afraid to hold. And then, quietly, he answered.

“Yes.” The weight of it settled into your bones. A truth spoken with the same certainty he had always carried, as if there were no hesitation, no room for doubt. As if the inevitability of time did not change the way he felt. Your fingers trembled against his, but he held firm. “You speak as if my truth is bound by time,” he murmured, his voice something softer than you had ever heard. “As if it will wither in your absence.”

Your throat tightened. “Won’t it?” He exhaled, and though his gaze remained steady, you saw something deep in it, something almost terrifying in its certainty. “No,” he said simply. “Because it is you.”

A shiver ran down your spine. “I will exist for centuries more,” he continued, as if laying the words carefully, reverently at your feet. “And yet, for the first time, I find myself bound not by knowledge, but by you.” You tried to breathe, tried to process the weight of what he was saying, but it was impossible. Because he was looking at you like you were something real, something permanent, despite everything you weren’t.

You swallowed. “That’s unfair.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured. “And yet, it is truth.” Your fingers curled against his palm, your chest tight with something you weren’t sure had a name. You had thought, no feared that one day, you would become nothing more than a footnote in his long, unyielding existence. That he would outlive you, move forward as he always had, and one day, you would be just another fragment of memory.

But this felt different. “…Even then?” you whispered again, afraid to believe it. Shadow Milk Cookie, the Sage of Truth, the one who had always held the answers you weren’t ready to face, lifted your hand gently to his lips. Not in haste. Not in possession. But in a truth so absolute it could be carved into stone. He kissed your knuckles, reverent, unshaken. “Yes,” he murmured against your skin. “Even then.”

"I don’t think I want to study today." The words left your lips before you could second-guess them, barely more than a breath between you. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you with his usual quiet patience, his golden gaze steady, measuring. If he was surprised by your admission, he did not show it. Instead, he simply tilted his head, his grip on your hand unwavering. "Is that so?" You swallowed, nodding. "Just for today. Just… pretend. A little while longer."

His fingers, still loosely tangled with yours, flexed slightly a nearly imperceptible motion, one that sent a shiver down your spine. "And what would you have me pretend?"

You exhaled, tightening your hold on his hand, as if afraid that if you let go, this moment would slip through your fingers like water. "That we aren’t ourselves for a little while. That you aren’t the Sage of Truth, that I’m not just another passing scholar." Your voice softened, growing smaller. "That there’s nothing else waiting beyond today." A pause. Finally, he spoke. "Very well."

And just like that, the weight of study, of the Spire of Knowledge, of all the unspoken things hanging between you faded. You led him through the winding corridors of the Academy, past the looming stacks of books and echoing lecture halls, past the paths you’d always walked with a purpose, a destination. But today, there was no purpose beyond this. No destination beyond him. The Academy Gardens stretched out before you, golden light filtering through the arching willows, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and damp earth.

The reflecting pool shimmered in the afternoon sun, koi-like spirits drifting lazily beneath the surface, undisturbed by the weight of time. You sank onto your favorite bench beneath the willow tree, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

He followed, his movements deliberate, his presence unshakable. For a while, there was only silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, wasn’t empty, but full brimming with the weight of everything left unsaid. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back against the rough bark of the willow. "If we were different people," you murmured, "where do you think we’d be right now?"

A soft hum, thoughtful. "That depends. Who would we be?"

"Anyone," you said, cracking an eye open to glance at him. "Not a Sage, not a scholar. Just… anyone." He was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed on the rippling water before you. Then, so softly you almost missed it "Perhaps we would not be here at all."

Your heart clenched. He did not say it in a way that implied loss, nor longing, nor regret. It was merely a truth, simple and undeniable. A truth that, like all others, he could not ignore. You exhaled, turning your gaze back to the sky, watching as the willow’s golden leaves swayed in the breeze. "Then I’m glad we are who we are."

His head tilted slightly, considering. "Even if it means you must one day leave?" You hesitated but only for a moment. Then, with a small smile, you turned to him, eyes shining with something steadfast. "Yes."

For the first time since you had met him, he looked away first. The quiet stretched, deeper than before, until finally, his hand shifted beneath yours, his fingers curling around yours with a gentleness that felt almost reverent. "Then, for today," he murmured, voice steady but softer, "let us be only this." And so, you sat there together, the afternoon sun slipping lower, time stretching out like an unbroken thread between you. For today, there were no titles.

No responsibilities. No future waiting beyond the edges of the moment. For today, you were just you. And he was just Shadow Milk. You sighed dramatically, stretching your legs out before you, the warmth of the afternoon sun settling against your skin like a familiar weight.

"Alright," you began, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, "serious question."

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tilting his head ever so slightly. "I am listening." "If a koi spirit jumped out of the reflecting pool right now and challenged you to a duel, would you accept?" There was a pause brief, measured before he responded, as though he was actually considering it. "On what grounds does this koi spirit issue its challenge?"

You grinned. "Honor. Obviously." His lips twitched, and you caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his golden gaze. "Then it would be rude to refuse."

You gasped, placing a hand over your chest in mock offense. "You'd fight a koi spirit? Just like that?"

"A challenge is a challenge," he said smoothly. "It would be dishonorable to leave it unanswered."

You scoffed. "Unbelievable. I thought you were above fighting fish."

He arched a brow. "This one appears to be capable of speech. That implies a certain level of intellect and self-awareness. It would not be just a fish."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Okay, fine. Next question: if you had to choose between being turned into a frog or an owl, which would you pick?"

"A frog," he answered without hesitation. You blinked. "Really?"

"Frogs are well-versed in patience," he mused. "They wait, they observe. And should they need to move, they do so with purpose."

You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "You really put thought into that."

"I put thought into everything," he said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "And I thought I could get you with nonsense."

His expression softened slightly, something amused yet fond lurking in his gaze. "Would you prefer that I answer mindlessly?"

You huffed, crossing your arms. "No, but I'd like to win for once." He exhaled a quiet laugh. "Then ask a question you know the answer to."

You squinted at him. "Is that your way of admitting you outthink me every time?"

"It is merely an observation," he said, as though he hadn't just absolutely confirmed it. You groaned again, flopping back against the bench. "You're impossible."

"And yet," he murmured, looking at you with something you couldn't quite name, "you continue to try." Your breath hitched. For a moment, the playful back-and-forth stilled, the air between you shifting into something quieter, something heavier and warmer. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus, grasping at the familiar rhythm between you before it slipped away."Alright, last one," you said, clearing your throat.

"Do you think birds ever get jealous of fish?" Shadow Milk Cookie hummed.

"Perhaps," he said thoughtfully. "They are both creatures of the sky, after all. It is merely that one has chosen the water as its sky, while the other soars above it."

You blinked at him. "That was… strangely poetic." He glanced at you, tilting his head slightly. "Is that surprising?"

You shook your head. "No, it's just… You make even nonsense sound like a revelation." Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled. "Then perhaps nonsense is simply another form of truth."

You snorted. "Now you're just making things up."

"However" he mused, watching you with that same, unreadable softness, "you continue to listen." You looked at him. The golden light of the setting sun caught the edges of his features, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the sharp yet gentle intensity of his gaze. And for a moment, the playful rhythm between you faltered not in discomfort, not in hesitation, but in something else entirely. Something unspoken. Something undeniable. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You licked your lips, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I do." for once he did not have a clever reply.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, hovering just over the space between you. You weren’t sure what possessed you, what made the thought turn into action, but before you could stop yourself, your hand lifted hesitant, reverent. His hair, now unshielded by his ever-present hat, flowed like a celestial river, strands shifting like currents beneath an unseen tide. It caught the fading light of the day, sparkling in its depths, cascading from a deep, endless blue to something lighter, softer like twilight melting into dawn. You had seen the stars before.

Had spent nights gazing up at them, wondering what it would be like to hold something so vast, so distant, so unreachable. But now, as the strands of his hair shifted like galaxies within reach, it felt as though the heavens had unfurled before you within your grasp if you dared. Your fingers finally brushed against the strands, barely grazing at first. They were impossibly soft, weightless in a way that felt unearthly. They moved with an almost liquid grace, drifting as though suspended in water, responding to your touch with a slow, shimmering ripple.

Shadow Milk Cookie remained perfectly still beneath your touch, his golden eyes half-lidded, unreadable. He did not pull away. Did not speak. He only watched as your fingers curled slightly, allowing more of the strands to slip between them, the sensation something akin to holding stardust in your palms.

“Your hair…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, entranced. “It’s like…” You trailed off, unable to put words to something so quietly breathtaking. A beat of silence. Then softly, almost imperceptibly he tilted his head just slightly into your touch. A silent permission. A quiet surrender. Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away. For a moment, there was no weight of knowledge between you, just the quiet ripple of silver-blue strands between your fingers, the warmth of his gaze settled upon you like something endless.

And the realization that, perhaps, this moment was already written among the stars. Your fingers twitched in his hair, the shimmering strands slipping between them like a river of stardust. His breath hitched not loud, not sharp, but there, unmistakable, like the briefest hesitation in an otherwise steady rhythm.

You looked at him then, and for once, he wasn’t composed. Shadow Milk Cookie, the Sage of Truth, the Fount of Knowledge, the one who always knew, always had the answer, always understood was caught off guard. There was color rising to his face, faint but undeniable, dusting his cheeks like the first blush of dawn. His eyes, wide and uncertain, flickered to yours, as if searching for something confirmation, permission, understanding. And for the first time, you had it before he did. The realization struck something deep within you, a warmth blooming in your chest, and maybe that was why you did what you did next.

You leaned in. No hesitation, no second-guessing, no overthinking just a quiet, breathless pull toward something inevitable. Your lips met his, soft and fleeting, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for a whisper. But it was real. He stiffened beneath you, just for a moment, before something in him melted. His hair shimmered beneath your hands, shifting like the tide, and the warmth of him something you had never let yourself imagine settled against your skin. And then, as if the weight of what had just happened had finally hit him, Shadow Milk Cookie blushed.

The blue deepened, blooming across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His lips parted ever so slightly, golden eyes searching yours with something almost lost as if he had spent centuries preparing for every answer but this one. Your heart pounded. “…I-I don’t know why I did that,” you stammered, voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed. You saw it the slow, deliberate motion, as if he needed a moment to process what had just happened. Then, against all odds, his fingers lifted, barely grazing his lips, stunned.

“You…” His voice trailed off, as if the words had left him. His brows furrowed, his breath uneven. “You kissed me.” Your face burned. “Yes,” you squeaked. A pause. Then “Why?” You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “I don’t know! It just-it felt right!” A stunned silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, before you dared to peek through your fingers only to see him looking away, face still stained with color, still lost in whatever thought had rendered him silent. You had never seen him like this before. Shadow Milk Cookie blushing. “…You are impossible,” he muttered at last, voice quieter than usual.

You swallowed, hands lowering slowly. “And?” He hesitated. His fingers curled slightly at his sides. “…And you are infuriatingly endearing,” he admitted, voice just barely above a whisper. That did not help your heartbeat. You opened your mouth maybe to deflect, maybe to tease, maybe to kiss him again…but before you could, he did something you had never seen him do before. He turned his face away from you entirely, one hand lifting to press against his cheek as if he could will away the blush entirely.

Your breath stilled. You had broken him. Shadow Milk Cookie, the ever-composed, ever-patient Sage of Truth had lost his composure. And something about that made you grin, a slow, dazed thing, your heart soaring at the sight. “…You’re really blushing,” you murmured. His shoulders tensed slightly, but he did not refute it. And that was a victory all on its own.

The afternoon slipped through your fingers like grains of sand, the weight of time momentarily forgotten. The golden glow of the sky softened, shifting into the first whispers of twilight, and yet neither of you moved, not really. Conversation had ebbed and flowed, drifting from nonsensical musings to quiet contemplation, yet the lingering warmth between you remained. Neither of you acknowledged the inevitable how the day had unraveled so quickly, how the moment of parting was drawing closer with every breath. You exhaled, fingers still loosely curled around the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s late,” you murmured, though it wasn’t quite an announcement, more of a realization spoken aloud. Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, his golden gaze flickering to the horizon. “Yes.” You hesitated, glancing toward the academy. “My friends… they must be waiting for me.”

You shifted slightly, as if testing the idea of leaving, of untangling yourself from this moment, but your fingers remained where they were lingering, reluctant. “Or… they will be waiting for me.” Shadow Milk Cookie did not immediately reply. He merely studied you, expression unreadable, before exhaling in quiet amusement.

“So which is it, then?”

You smiled, soft and knowing. “Both.” A faint chuckle left him, the sound gentle as the breeze. He made no move to stop you, nor did he urge you to go. He simply existed there with you, silent in his own acceptance. You swallowed, hesitating for one final moment before, with great reluctance, you began to pull away. His fingers twitched just barely.

A movement so minuscule you could have ignored it, could have dismissed it as nothing at all. But you didn’t. Because you felt it. Your breath caught, your eyes flickering to his hand the one that had not quite let go of the space between you. His grip was not tight, not demanding. But it lingered. Just as you had. And for a fleeting second, you thought maybe he doesn’t want this to end either. The thought sent something warm fluttering in your chest, something unspoken, something understood.

Slowly, carefully, you gave his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you murmured. Shadow Milk Cookie inclined his head. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. And with that, you turned away, leaving behind the quiet warmth of his presence, stepping back into the world where time moved forward once more.

You barely felt the ground beneath your feet as you walked, the world around you shimmering with a lightness you couldn't quite name. It filled your chest like air rushing into open lungs after being held under too long, like warmth spreading through cold fingers in the first touch of sunlight. Your steps were lighter, quicker not from urgency, but from something more untethered, something free.

It was as if you were drifting, carried by an unseen current, floating weightless in the afterglow of something you didn’t dare put into words just yet. By the time you reached the dining halls, the buzz of students and the clinking of dishes barely registered. Your mind was still back there, wrapped in the remnants of golden eyes and the way his fingers had hesitated, just for a moment, before letting go. The moment your friends spotted you, Chai Latte Cookie’s eyes narrowed. “Oh,” she said, setting down her cup with an exaggerated slowness. “Oh, you’re glowing.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie turned in his seat, brows lifting as he took you in. “Well, well. Would you look at that.”

Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, barely looked up from his tea but there was the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips. “Fascinating,” he murmured, tilting his head just so. “Would you care to share with the class?”

You blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of the way you must look practically floating, giddy with something obvious. Your face burned. “I-what? No. I’m just…I had a good day, that’s all.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, eyes alight with knowing. “A good day?”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You groaned, setting down your tray with a little too much force. “I swear-”

“You swear you’ll tell us everything later?” Chai Latte Cookie interjected sweetly. You shot her a look, and she only beamed wider, elbow nudging yours. “No need to rush it, of course. But, you know, whenever you feel like talking-”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie smirked. “Preferably now.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate all of you.”

Earl Grey Cookie sipped his tea, thoroughly unbothered. “And yet, here you are, choosing to eat with us.” You groaned again, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade. It remained, steadfast, a quiet certainty. Because even as your friends teased, even as you struggled to find the words, even as you laughed and deflected and tried to fight the inevitable You knew. And he knew. And for now, that was enough. Chai Latte Cookie had been watching you since the moment you arrived, eyes sharp with amusement and something more patient, something waiting. She had given you space, let you have your moment of denial, let you pretend you could dodge the inevitable.

But then you sat down, tray forgotten, fingers twitching against the edge of the table, and she pounced. “So.” She leaned in, resting her chin on her palm, voice deceptively casual. “Are you gonna tell us, or do I have to start guessing?”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie let out a low whistle, propping his elbows on the table. “Oh, this has to be good.” Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, merely raised a brow over the rim of his teacup. “Well?”

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to tell them. They were your friends, your closest friends. They had been there for everything since the beginning, from your struggles in class to your quiet, messy unraveling over the Sage of Truth. They deserved to know. Saying it aloud made it real. Still, the words were already clawing at your throat, desperate to be spoken, to exist.

You inhaled sharply. “Okay,” you muttered. “Okay. But you have to let me say everything before you interrupt.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grinned. “No promises.” You glared at him before turning back to Chai Latte Cookie, whose expression had shifted into something softer, something that told you she knew just how much this meant. You exhaled.

And then, like a floodgate breaking, you spilled everything. How you had gone to his office. How you had started with nonsense, falling into the rhythm of things, trying desperately to hold onto normalcy. How you had asked really asked what the two of you were. How he had somewhat named it. How you had asked if it would still be so, even when you were gone. How you had told him you wanted to go with him, that if you could find a way to do your research at the Spire, then no one neither of you would have to give anything up. How you had reached for him, afraid to let go.

Chai Latte Cookie sucked in a breath, eyes wide. “You kissed him?”

You slammed your hands onto the table. “I panicked!”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie howled with laughter, head thrown back. “You panicked? Oh, that’s rich.”

Earl Grey Cookie, though visibly more entertained than usual, merely exhaled through his nose. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “And his response?”

Your face burned. “He” You swallowed, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. “He let me.”

Chai Latte Cookie pressed a hand to her chest, gasping dramatically. “Oh, my stars.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie smirked. “And let me guess then you ran away.”

You scowled. “I did not run away.”

“Mm-hmm.” Chai Latte Cookie practically vibrated in her seat. “You kissed him.”

“I know.”

She let out a delighted squeal. “And he let you.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are you making it sound worse?”

“Because it’s delicious.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was still grinning like he had won some sort of grand prize. “So what now?” You hesitated. What now? What came after the truths had been spoken, after hands had lingered, after a kiss had stolen the last of your denials? What came after you had dared to hope? You swallowed. “I-I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I do know I want to be there. With him. At the Spire.”

Earl Grey Cookie tilted his head slightly. “And what if you can’t?” You stiffened. Silence stretched between you, the weight of the question settling deep. You had thought about it. Of course, you had thought about it. “I have to try,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Because if there’s a chance any chance then I don’t want to regret not taking it.”

Chai Latte Cookie watched you for a long moment, her teasing gone, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she smiled. “Then we’ll help you.”

Your breath hitched. “You?” She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stretched his arms behind his head. “Guess we’ve got some planning to do.”

Earl Grey Cookie smirked, tilting his cup toward you in a silent toast. “I do love a challenge.” You stared at them, something tight in your chest easing, warmth unfurling in its place. You weren’t alone in this. You never had been. With them at your side, you wouldn’t have to walk this path alone. You exhaled, pressing your hands to the table as if grounding yourself. “Come with me. To the Spire.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nearly choked on his drink. “Wait, what?” Chai Latte Cookie blinked, her teacup hovering just before her lips. “You’re serious?”

“Of course, I’m serious,” you muttered, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I mean, think about it. We all have to pick a research lab for the fall semester, right? If we can apply to the Spire, then none of us would have to give anything up.”

Earl Grey Cookie tilted his head, watching you carefully. “And this isn’t just about your academic prospects, is it?” You hesitated before shaking your head. “No. But that doesn’t make it any less of a good opportunity.”

Chai Latte Cookie studied you, her gaze sharp, dissecting. Then, slowly, she grinned. “So,” she mused, “you’re not just trying to follow him. You’re making it so that we all move forward together.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie smiled cheekily. “Smart.”

Earl Grey Cookie tapped a finger against the rim of his cup. “Ambitious.” Chai Latte Cookie hummed, considering. “And… if we say yes? What then?” Your fingers curled slightly against the table. “Then we do everything we can to make it happen.” Silence stretched between you, anticipation thick in the air. You swallowed, heart pounding, watching their faces, waiting for something, anything.

Then, after a long, thoughtful pause, Earl Grey Cookie exhaled, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “I suppose,” he murmured, “we’d best start preparing our applications.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snickered, nudging your arm. “Looks like you’re stuck with us.”

Chai Latte Cookie beamed, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “You didn’t even have to ask,” she said softly. “Of course we’ll come with you.” Your breath hitched. And just like that, the weight on your chest, the fear of losing this, of losing them lightened, just a little. Of course Chai always had to ruin soft moments like this with her relentless teasing.

Chai Latte Cookie gasped, clutching your hand dramatically. “Oh, this is perfect. I knew something was up when you came floating into the dining hall looking like you’d just been kissed by the heavens”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie smirked, leaning back in his chair. “More like kissed by the Sage of Truth.”

Your face burned. “I-shut up!”

Chai Latte Cookie ignored your protests entirely, practically vibrating with excitement. “No, no, no, this is huge! You finally, finally got past all the ‘what are we’ nonsense and just did something about it?”

Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, took a slow sip of his tea, watching with quiet amusement. “It seems they did,” he mused. You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I don’t know why I told you all anything.”

“Because you love us,” Chai Latte Cookie said smugly, wrapping her arm around your shoulders. “And because you knew we’d hype you up over this.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie leaned in, grinning. “So… how was it?” You groaned even louder. “Oh my god-” Chai Latte Cookie waggled her eyebrows. “Did he look absolutely ruined? Blushing, stunned, positively devastated by your boldness?”

You peeked at her from between your fingers, warmth creeping up your neck. “…Maybe.” She gasped, shaking your shoulders. “I knew it!” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie laughed, crossing his arms. “Hate to admit it, but she totally called it.”

Chai Latte Cookie pressed a hand to her chest, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Of course I did. I know romance when I see it, and this? This is the slow burn of the century.”

Earl Grey Cookie sighed, setting down his tea. “I am beginning to regret indulging this conversation.”

“Oh, hush,” Chai Latte Cookie shot back. “This is monumental.” She turned back to you, eyes twinkling. “So? So?! Are you together now? Official? Have you talked about it?”

Your stomach flipped. You hesitated, rubbing at your wrist. “I mean… not exactly.” The entire table groaned. “Are you kidding me?” Chai Latte Cookie threw her hands up. “You kissed and you still haven’t-”

“It was a lot, okay?!” You waved your hands defensively. “I wasn’t exactly thinking about having the ‘define the relationship’ talk right after!”

Earl Grey Cookie exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose that would have been too easy.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned in again, grinning. “Alright, fine. But do you plan on talking about it?”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.” She softened, nudging your arm. “Good.” Then her grin returned full force. “And until then, I’ll be gloating over the fact that I was right.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “Oh, she’s never going to let this go.” Chai Latte Cookie winked. “Not in a million years.”

Dinner lingered longer than it usually did plates scraped clean, the flicker of golden lantern light above casting gentle shadows across the table, and your friends in rare form. Chai Latte Cookie hadn’t stopped grinning since you sat down, her excitement still pouring out in wild tangents and dreamy sighs. She was practically glowing. “Do you realize what this means?” she exclaimed, gesturing with both hands as if the stars themselves could be reshaped by your story.

“He kissed you. The Sage of Truth or, sorry, the Fount of Knowledge kissed you. I could write poems about this!” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie laughed so hard he nearly choked on his tea. “I give it a week before she starts putting sonnets under your dorm door.”

Earl Grey Cookie, though more composed, had an unmistakable spark in his eye. His usual air of calm wasn’t gone, but tonight it had a certain crispness to it like the buzz of magic after a spell was cast. “You must admit,” he said, swirling the last of his tea in its cup, “it’s not every day we witness the immortal unshaken. He seems rather… enchanted.”

You flushed, tucking your hands into your lap. “It’s not”

“Oh, hush,” Chai Latte interrupted, leaning across the table. “You’re floating, and we’re living for it.”

Despite your embarrassment, a smile tugged at your lips. It was nice having them here, sharing in this strange, fragile new joy. The warmth in your chest refused to fade, and for once, you didn’t try to fight it. But still Before the table emptied and the chairs scraped back from the floor, before the last flicker of dessert vanished from its plate, you glanced up at them, voice quieter than before.

“Hey,” you said, “before we all go…” The lightness dimmed slightly as your friends turned toward you, alert. You bit your lip. “Can you guys just… keep this private? Just for now?”

Chai Latte Cookie’s brows furrowed. “Of course. Why?” You shifted in your seat, fingers curling slightly around your napkin. “Not that I don’t trust you. I do. But… it’s not just about me.” There was a pause brief but thoughtful.

“You’re worried about him,” Earl Grey Cookie said. You nodded. “He’s respected. Revered, even. If word got out… people might talk. Twist things. I don’t want this to be something that hurts him.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s smirk softened into something gentler. “We’d never let that happen.” Chai Latte Cookie reached across the table again, this time taking your hand in both of hers. “You don’t have to explain. We get it. He’s… big. Important. But so are you. And if keeping this quiet keeps you both safe for now, we’ll guard it like it’s the last drop of honey-drizzled syrup on campus.”

That got a small laugh out of you. Earl Grey Cookie gave a nod of solemn understanding. “No one will hear it from us.”

“Not even a whisper,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie added, tapping his temple. “Scout’s honor.”

You felt something loosen in your chest at their reassurances, your heart full to the brim with quiet gratitude. “Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.” Chai Latte Cookie squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “You’re welcome. But just so you know…” She leaned in again, conspiratorial. “I’m definitely still writing that poem.”

Chai latte waited behind the other two leaving without her, their goodnights still echoing faintly in your ears. You remained in your seat, half-lost in the warmth of the dining hall’s dim glow, fingers still absently tracing the rim of your cup. Chai Latte Cookie sat across from you, propping her chin in her palm as she watched you with that ever-present soft smile, the kind that looked effortless, practiced, but not fake. Just familiar. Just… her.

You felt her gaze and blinked. “What?” She shrugged, her eyes drifting briefly to the window beside you where the twilight had begun to spill its blue haze across the courtyard. “Nothing,” she said lightly. “Just… you look really happy.”

Your lips twitched. “Do I?”

“You do,” she said, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s different. It’s quiet, but it’s there.” You lowered your gaze for a moment, trying not to smile too hard. “Yeah, well… it’s been a weird day.”

“The best kind,” Chai Latte said easily. Her voice was even, casual, no different than a dozen other moments you’d shared over the years. There was no waver, no sigh nothing that would tip you off to the way her thumb brushed across her sleeve under the table, grounding herself. Nothing that would betray the softness in her eyes wasn’t just for the moment, but for you.

She pushed her chair back with a quiet scrape. “C’mon,” she said, reaching for your hand and giving it a familiar tug. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you end up floating away. You laughed softly, letting her pull you to your feet. “I’m not floating.”

“You are,” she teased, looping her arm through yours as you walked. “It’s cute. You’re not allowed to deny it.”

“Fine,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “But only because you’re being unusually agreeable tonight.”

She grinned at that, her gaze fixed forward, watching the way the torchlight flickered along the hallway walls. You didn’t notice the way she looked at you then, just for a moment. Didn’t notice the quiet exhale that wasn’t quite a sigh. Didn’t notice the softness in her steps, or the way her grip lingered around your arm just a little longer than needed. You were happy. And that was enough for her

A/N super tired to give an update...will be checking my inbox tomorrow I'm super tired...<3 pls be patient with me thank you

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

405 notes · View notes

kingkonoha · 1 day ago

Text

♡ — SUMMARY; your ex-husband, Nanami, asks you to meet him at a local diner.

♡ — CONTENT; heavy angst, toxic relationship, mentions of death, illness, loss of child, slight gojo x reader.

“I didn’t think you would show up.”

KENTO NANAMI took a tentative sip of his black coffee. Though he did not show it, his heart was pounding rapidly from the very moment he glanced out of the window and saw your car enter the parking lot of the old-fashioned diner.

“I didn’t think I’d show up either, to be honest.” You mumbled unhappily. You sat down in the booth across from your ex-husband. “Why am I here?”

Your face was as blank as an untouched canvas. Sitting his white mug of coffee down, Kento folded his hands, resting them on the table.

“You know what today is, don’t you?” He asked. As soon as his question fell from between his lips, he hated himself for the way he approached such a sensitive topic.

“Of course I do, and I’d rather spend it alone,” you snapped, speaking in a harsh tone slightly above a whisper. “I don’t wanna talk about this with you.”

“Well,” Kento took a deep breath. “To the rest of the world, today’s a regular day. But to us, it’s . . . his birthday. We’re the only two people grieving him today, so I thought-”

“Thought we’d grieve together? I’ve been grieving alone for four years now. Today’s no different. I needed your help then and you didn’t give it, but I don’t need you now.” Suddenly, you started to scoot out of the booth. “You know what? This was a bad idea, I’m just gonna leave-”

“No, no, wait. Don’t leave yet,” Kento’s words halted your movements, but you glared at him as he continued to speak. “It’s me who needs help. I know you don’t need me anymore, but I still need you.”

“Still?” You settled back down into your seat. “The word still implies that you needed me before now.”

“I’ve always needed you,” Kento said softly.

“You sure didn’t act like it.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Taking yet another deep breath, Kento ran his large hand through a few strands of his blonde hair. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for everything. I was an awful husband. Distant father. I’d do anything to make things right.”

His words were met with silence. Your eyes were scanning him — perhaps for some sign of dishonesty — drifting from his serious expression, white collared shirt, and even down to the laminated menu resting on the table in front of him.

“You’re a couple years too late,” your voice was soft. Filled with regret. “I’m remarried, and our boy is gone.”

Those were two facts Kento knew well. Even so, hearing them sliced through his heart, creating a horrific ache painful enough for him to wonder if he would truly die from heartbreak, here and now.

“Is Satoru treating you well?” He asked with as much composure as he could muster.

“We, um,” you hesitated. “I’m pregnant now, actually.”

Kento looked into your eyes. His eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but his eyes were glassy.

“Oh. I’m happy for-”

“Save your breath. Don’t lie to me,” you interrupted.

“But I am happy for you.”

This time, it was your turn to raise your eyebrows in surprise, but your eyes flickered away from him and down at the salt and pepper shakers. “Really? You’re not upset?”

“I am. I’m heartbroken. Two things can be true at once,” Kento said. “You’ve moved on, and I understand that, believe me. I only wish I was the one to heal what I broke. But, as you said, I’m too late. I’m out of time now.”

A young brunette approached with a kind smile and a notepad in hand. She jotted down your orders. Though it was a little ways past eight p.m., you ordered buttermilk pancakes, while Kento opted to respect the time of day and ordered a sandwich with tater tots for his evening meal — not his favorite, but he wanted to order the first thing that came to mind in hopes of sending the waitress away as quickly as possible.

Her departure sparked a bit of small talk between you and Kento, and it lasted until she returned a while later with steaming plates of food. Your pleasant chatter was rather mundane, but even so, you said, “Seems like you’ve changed. I hope it’s genuine.”

Oh, how he wanted to hear those words more than anything. The left corner of his mouth twitched with the urge to smile, though not noticeably.

“It is. I quit my job,” Kento said.

“Wow, that’s . . .” For a brief second, you smiled, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s great to hear, but at the same time, I wanna slap you right now. Why did our lives have to fall apart for you to finally wake up? Why weren’t the hundreds of arguments we had enough?”

Happy and pissed. Two things can be true at once.

“Our lives would have fallen apart anyway,” Kento said calmly. “Whether I had quit my job sooner rather than later would not have changed what happened to Kenji.”

“No, but when he suddenly took a turn for the worse, I would have had my husband there to hold my hand, and he would’ve been able to see his father one last time.” Pain flashed across your face. There was a slight tremble to your voice. You were trying your hardest to control your anger among the quiet diner chatter from nearby groups and family. “He was scared. He was asking for you. And where the hell were you? Handling stocks while our son was dying.”

“They told us we had time-”

“It was fucking cancer, Kento! Any day could have been his last, and you knew that, and you didn’t care.”

A few heads turned in your direction, but with tears threatening to stream down your cheeks, with the memories of your dying boy replaying in your mind endlessly, drawing attention was the last thing you were concerned with.

“Of course I knew and cared, that was why I worked so hard. Someone had to pay for all of the stays in the most advanced hospitals, the finest treatments known to man, the rarest medication administered by the best team of doctors, surgery performed by some of the best surgeons we could find . . . Kenji had all the help money could buy and only because I worked every second of my life.” A tear fell from Kento’s eyes. He wiped it away quickly.

“And in the end, it was pointless, wasn’t it?” You said quietly. “Wasn’t it? Because he died anyway, and you weren’t there to say goodbye.”

“I know what you’re doing.” Kento’s voice had an unfamiliar, dark tone. “You feel guilty as well. About what exactly, I don’t know, but you’re taking the anger you feel towards yourself and letting it out on me.”

“You’re wrong, you jackass. Do you seriously think you’re blameless in all of this or something?” You glared at him with pure hatred. “I was wrong. You haven’t changed one bit.”

The way you looked at him now, as if he was worthless, as if he was a bug that deserved to be squashed; it snapped his heart into pieces, if it was capable of being broken further at this point.

However, it didn’t stop him from continuing on with his own form of cruelty.

“You can’t bring yourself to say his name. You haven’t said it. Not once.” Kento was as calm as ever. Or, at least, he was pretending to be. “You try to avoid talking about him. You try to pretend he didn’t exist by marrying a man I know you don’t care for, all so you can have another child to replace him-”

“Go to hell.”

“I, on the other hand,” Kento continued to speak despite your bitter interruption as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “I spend my time keeping his memory alive. All of my money goes towards research. Towards organizations dedicated to finding a cure so no parent has to go through what we went through. I wasn’t there for Kenji when he died and I will never forgive myself for it, but you aren’t here for him now, in the present.”

“Here for what? A pile of bones in a graveyard?” You glared.

“A graveyard you never visit, so I’ve heard.”

That was it. Those were the words that finally made your brewing tears fall. They splattered against your half-eaten plate of pancakes.

A long enough period of silence passed, long enough for nosy fellow diners to return to their own conversations.

Kento’s eyes softened at the sight of your crying face. “I’m sorry. Sweetheart, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t call me that. You’ve lost that right a long time ago.” You sniffled. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of trying to erase the memory of our son from my life.”

Kento's brows were pinched as he frowned. “And I can’t believe you’d accuse me of not caring about him. It hurts, doesn’t it? The accusations we keep throwing at each other?”

Your face was unreadable. He knew you well, better than you knew yourself as fate would have it, but even so, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking right now.

Outside, it started to rain. For a moment, you eyed the raindrops coating the street. Neither you nor Kento said anything for quite some time, your food becoming cold, and together, you watched the rainfall.

“I’m sorry.” You said after a while. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m just still so pissed off about it. I know you’ve suffered enough, and I know you only worked so hard to save him, but . . . you didn’t see him use the last of strength trying to call for you. It haunts me every day. I can’t live with that amount of pain, Kento, so I’m just trying to move on and keep on living, not erase his memory.”

“I know, I know. I wish I never said that.” Kento wanted to reach out and touch your hand, but the sight of the wedding ring sitting on your finger stopped him. “I wish I never did a lot of things in general.”

“You need to do what I just said.” You faced him, wiping away a few stray tears. “Try to move on and keep on living. Forgive yourself.”

“Can you ever forgive me?” Kento asked softly.

“I can.” You gave a sad smile. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I already do.”

He matched your sad smile with one of his own.

“God, we’re a fucking mess. I can’t believe I caused a scene.” You buried your face in your hands for only a moment, then looked up at the sound of Kento’s voice.

“I would lie and tell you they won’t ever see either one of us again, but I’ve been coming to this diner for years, and I don’t plan on stopping,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah I know. We went on our first date here, remember? We were dumb teenagers back then.” It was a bittersweet memory, one you regretted bringing up immediately.

Never before had your smile been so bright. If only you could go back to that simpler time.

If only.

“But we were in love with each other back then, weren’t we?” Kento asked. His own question nearly pushed him to his limit.

“Yeah, we were.” You smiled, brighter this time, and continued, “You’ll always have a special place in my heart — you know that, right?”

“I do.” Kento paused. “And, I’m sorry, but you’ll always be my sweetheart.”

“Good,” you mumbled, though your words were guilt-ridden. Avoiding Kento’s gaze, you started to fiddle with your wedding ring. “It’s getting late. I should . . . I should probably go.”

He didn’t want you to leave, but you weren’t his anymore. How he felt didn’t matter.

“Thank you for coming. It meant more to me than you know,” he said.

“Well, I was lying when I said I wanted to spend his birthday alone.”

“I know.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course he did.

“Bye, Kento,” you got out of the booth, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. “I . . . nevermind.”

Kento watched you walk through the chiming exit doors of the diner, your last sentence left incomplete. Raindrops were splattering against your head and clothes, but you were in no rush, not minding the drizzle.

Suddenly, your footsteps halted on the concrete sidewalk. You turned around, peering through the big windows, locking eyes with your ex-husband. At first, you gave him a soft smile — one that meant goodbye, and nothing further.

But then, he saw the corners of your lips fall into a little frown, and your eyes glistened with uncertainty. Hesitation. Regret.

You sighed, turning away from the sight of the man in the booth, the man who you knew for a fact held more than a “special place” in your heart, but still owned it entirely.

Though every step away from him was painful, you dragged yourself to your car, and drove away from the ex-husband you still loved, and home to the current-husband you somewhat liked.

Kento thought about rushing out of the door, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissing you in the rain — passionately and deeply, as you once loved. After all, he knew what your final look towards him meant. He knew your past marriage, though destructive, still held more passion than your current loveless one.

But he stayed put in his seat, taking a sip of his cold black coffee.

Perhaps, he would regret not chasing after you for the rest of his life, but being that he discovered not too long ago that his son’s cancer was genetic, originating from Kento’s side, and would soon claim his life as well — even after he survived all these years — he knew he wouldn’t have to live with his regret much longer.

This was the last time he would ever eat at the diner he once took you to, back when you were both young fools excitedly in love, fools who would die for each other in a heartbeat.

And those couple of seconds in which you locked eyes with him through the diner window? That was the last time he ever saw you.

🏷️: @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @thewondrousdreamer @levisfavoriteteashop @preciousamethyst @iwanttohitmyself @shoyosdoll @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @sonarspace @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @koikohib

#tw death #tw illness #cw illness #cw death #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami angst #nanami x reader angst #kento nanami x reader #jjk angst #jjk x reader angst #kento nanami angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk fanfic #jjk fic

371 notes · View notes

watchtowerlibrary · 17 hours ago

Text

The amount of selected moments should tell you how much I adored that story and how much it's one of my favourite fics 🥰💌 Thank you so much for putting it out there.

He gave you a look, dry and fond. “Don’t get used to it.”

Talk about a memorable first meet 🫠

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he’d appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

*sigh* talk about dreamy 🥹

A scream pierced through the air shouting, “Robby!” Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours. Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

*gasp* the first instinct

They had never seen Robby like that. No one had ever seen Robby like that.

Love when that someone can make you feral like that.

You tried to fill the silence. “Dana said she’d put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—” “Don’t,” Robby said, almost too softly.

When you're already behaving all married and don't want the other to worry.

“Robby,” you said gently. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. “No, it’s not. You’re not.” He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. “Just… give me a second.”

I'm living for moments like these when he just can't help being bothered by the whole ordeal and just needs the adrenaline to go down again.

And Through It All

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: What starts with years of coffee, rooftop conversations, and quiet closeness unravels in the aftermath of a violent patient attack. As the hospital reels, so does Robby—until everything he’s buried comes to the surface. warnings: depiction of violence towards women genre: slow burn, pining, angst, fluff, you both suck at feelings word count: 3.6k a/n: yes this show still has me in a chokehold, this man is old enough to be my father, and protective/emotionally constipated Robby has consumed my every waking thought. also someone please sedate me because I don't know how I'm going to make it between episodes.

p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | Feels Like Trouble) if you're interested

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch always clocked in just after you.

It started as coincidence—years ago, when you were a new year-2 resident fumbling your way through charting and sleep deprivation. You’d arrive blurry-eyed at 5:58 AM, and two minutes later, he'd walk through the side door with two cups of coffee. One always ended up in your hand.

"This is my warm welcome to the pit, I’m not on coffee rounds," he’d grumbled the first time.

"Yet, my savior, here you are," you smiled, taking the cup. "Thanks, Dr. Robby."

He gave you a look, dry and fond. "Don’t get used to it."

Needless to say, you both did.

Now a senior resident, you’ve long since earned your stripes—but the morning coffees kept coming. So did the banter.

"That differential on bed 7 was a mess," Robby muttered one morning.

You sipped from your cup. "I was experimenting with chaos as a teaching strategy."

He stared, deadpan. "Rein it in, Nietzsche."

Late nights sometimes ended on the roof—shoulders nearly touching, silence stretched long between you. The rooftop was a liminal space: above the noise, between shifts, between you and him. You'd talk about patients. About medicine. About what the job takes and what it leaves behind.

One night you’d murmured, "Do you think we make a difference? Or are we just putting out fires that never stop?"

Robby didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing. "Some burning buildings are worth running into," he said eventually, voice low like he was admitting something he'd carried a long time.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not. You were close—so close it blurred. You never noticed how often he drifted into your orbit. But others did.

"So... you and Robinavitch—what’s the deal?" McKay would tease with a grin.

You furrowed your brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

She leaned on the nurses' station, unbothered. "C’mon, you really don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Brings you coffee every morning? Steps in before anyone else can when the ball rolls downhill?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "He just… cares. That’s his job."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Except he doesn’t bring me coffee. Or look like he’s going to deck someone if they so much as raise their voice at me."

You opened your mouth to reply—but the sliding ER doors slammed open. A gurney rushed in, shouting echoing off the walls. Without thinking, you turned and ran toward the trauma bay.

"Saved by the bell," McKay called after you, but you were already gone.

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he'd appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

Earlier that week, Robby had been leaning against the counter in the break room with Dana and a few of the nurses clustered nearby. He was sipping bad coffee and flipping through a chart when Dana nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"You know," she started with a smirk. "You're getting pretty soft on that senior resident."

Robby didn’t look up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

Princess glanced at Perlah, who grinned. The two exchanged a few rapid lines in Tagalog—something teasing and full of mischief. Robby raised an eyebrow.

"Just because I don’t speak Tagalog doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’re saying," he said dryly, finally taking off his glasses and staring at the nurses judgementally.

Dana just about cackled. "Come on, Robby. You bring her coffee every morning, you hover when she’s in a tough case, you barely let interns breathe near her."

Perlah added, "And you always look at her like you’re trying not to."

Princess laughed. "Sir, that’s not just coffee—that’s courtship."

Robby rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. "You all have too much time on your hands."

"We're just saying," Dana said as she turned toward the door. "If you're gonna pine, at least be subtle."

He shook his head and muttered, "Back to work, people."

Then came the day everything cracked.

The patient had come in hostile—angry at the world and bleeding from a cut above his brow—muttering about how no one respected him, how women thought they were better than him. According to his chart, he had a record of violent outbursts and a chip on his shoulder the size of the hospital.

"You think you're smarter than me, don't you?" he sneered when you entered the bay, his arms crossed and chest puffed like a bull ready to pick a fight.

You kept your voice calm and professional. "Sir, I'm just here to update your chart and make sure you're getting what you need."

He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What I need is for people like you to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. All you female doctors think you're so much better."

You froze for just a second. "I'm here to provide care. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to me!" he spat. "I see how you talk to the others. You think you're above me like some queen. But you're not. You're just another stupid cunt—"

"I'm going to get another physician to help with your case," you said quickly, trying to disengage, stepping back toward the call button.

"You walk away from me, and I swear—"

The second he was out of your peripheral vision, he lunged.

You cried out as his weight slammed into you, sending you hard to the ground. Everyone around you scattered, the staff protecting patients and patients protecting themselves.

Your elbow struck tile and pain bloomed across the crown of your skull. Your head snapped back like a slap bracelet. He loomed over you, shouting a string of vile insults, hands grabbing at whatever they could. Another set of fingers clamped around your throat. A scream pierced through the air shouting, "Robby!" Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours.

Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

Robby knocked the patient off of you with brute force that stunned the entire hospital staff. Without help, Robby pinned him to the floor facefirst with practiced strength, knees braced, and jaw clenched. "Security!" his voice thundered.

Subduing the attacker by his wrists, Robby's knee dug into the man's back thigh without mercy, making him cry out in pain. "Collins! Dana!" he barked, voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the trauma bay like a shockwave.

You were on the floor, dazed, breath knocked out of you. The two women rushed to your side in the blink of an eye. All around, med students and residents stood frozen, eyes wide.

They had never seen Robby like that.

No one had ever seen Robby like that.

The patient struggled once more before Robby leaned in and drove his knee harder into the attacker’s thigh, his grip unrelenting, voice low and deadly calm. "Stay down."

Security took over a moment later, but Robby didn’t move until he was sure it was safe. Then he stood, exhaled once, and turned to Dana and Collins.

"I'll be over as soon as I can, brief me later," he said. "I'll assess her myself."

Dana crouched beside you, one hand firm on your shoulder. "We've got you," she said gently, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in 4."

Collins helped you up with care, guiding you slowly down the hall while Dana kept close at your side. You were still disoriented, a sharp ringing in your ears, but you caught a glimpse of Robby speaking to security. He didn’t even glance your way—focused, furious, deadly calm.

In Exam Room 4, Collins set you down on the cot, already checking your pupils with a penlight. "You hit your head?"

"Yeah," you managed, wincing as you moved. "Elbow too. Think I caught most of the floor on the way down."

Dana pressed a cold pack into your hand. "You’re in shock. Just breathe. We’ll handle this."

Collins nodded, gently examining your face and palpating around your ribs. "No obvious trauma, nothing broken. Expect some bruising around your throat the next few days. We should get you in for a head CT just to be safe. You took a hard hit."

"I'll get that booked ASAP," Dana said, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to handle the order. She paused at the doorway just long enough to exchange a glance with Collins—an unspoken check-in—before disappearing down the hall.

Moments later, the door opened again. Robby stepped in, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every mark, every breath.

"I’ll take it from here," he said quietly to Collins.

They exchanged a glance, then wordlessly stepped out.

And then it was just you and him.

He crossed to your side, kneeling. His hands moved automatically, gently tilting your chin to check for swelling, eyes flicking to your pupils, then the scrape along your cheekbone. "Can you look up for me? Good. Follow my finger."

His voice was low and clinical, but his touch was careful—too careful.

"Headache? Nausea? Double vision?" he asked, bringing your hand into his and turning it over to assess for any injuries.

"No, just a little dizzy," you murmured.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your elbow, then the bruising along your neck. Then the questions stopped. His hands stilled.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence took hold.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something but couldn't. Something had cracked open in him. Not just from what happened. From what it revealed.

And you could feel it—the weight in the room. Something unsaid between you, thick as blood and twice as loud.

You tried to fill the silence. "Dana said she'd put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—"

"Don’t," Robby said, almost too softly.

Your words faltered. You watched him—how his shoulders stayed tense, how his eyes didn’t move from yours, how still he was, like saying the wrong thing might make everything unravel.

"Robby," you said gently. "It's okay, I’m fine."

His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. "No, it's not. You’re not."

He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. "Just... give me a second."

It wasn’t the injury that had shaken him—it was the realization. That in those terrifying few seconds, the worst thing he could imagine had nearly happened. And it wasn’t because you were his resident. Or his colleague.

It was because you were you.

You watched him pace as the silence dragged, your heart still pounding faintly in your ears. "Robby," you tried again, softer this time. "I'm okay, really..."

Still, he said nothing.

You gave a half-scoff, half-sigh, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ve had worse nights. Dana and Collins already cleared me—CT’s just precautionary. Nothing to worry about."

His movements stilled and eyes didn’t leave yours.

"What is it?" you asked, finally, your voice gentle but steady—like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

That cracked something in him. He looked away for a beat, jaw flexing again, his breath hitching as if he was holding back something too big to name. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw—nothing like the sharp, composed attending everyone else knew.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that."

He rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture in an effort to hold back whatever threatens to overflow. "Seeing you on the ground. Hearing you scream. For me. I’ve seen worse—God knows we all have. But nothing’s ever felt like that."

You froze.

His eyes met yours again, and the walls he always held in place—stone and steel and professionalism—weren’t there anymore. He looked at you like he wanted something he had never allowed himself to want. Like he was terrified of the feeling and already grieving it.

You felt the shift like gravity tilting. Like the air changed around you. It was as though the ground beneath you had tipped on its axis.

And suddenly, everything between you was different.

Not unspoken anymore, just unbearable to say aloud.

You felt yourself retreating into the space between what you wanted to feel and what you needed to believe. The part of you that ached wanted to lean forward, close the distance, tell him you felt it too—that terrible, awful, beautiful clarity.

But another part held you back. The part that lived in hospital hallways and stared at name badges and remembered what it meant to be professional. To be younger. A resident. His resident. The part that convinced you it could never be more.

You searched his face, trying to decode what this moment was, or if it had always been there, hiding in quiet coffees and rooftops and restrained glances. And still, he said nothing. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he didn’t know how to cross that final line either.

So you just sat there in the quiet with him, suspended between the ache and the boundary—between what was true and what you were still too scared to say.

Eventually, you broke. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed instantly. "For what?"

You shook your head, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. "I don’t know. For not calling for help. For being alone in there. For... allowing this," you gestured between the two of you, "to happen." You sniffled. "For letting myself—"

"Don’t," he cut in sharply, but not unkindly. "Don’t you dare apologize for any of that, you did nothing wrong."

You blinked.

He leaned in slightly, voice steady now, like he needed you to hear every word. "You did everything right. You followed protocol. That man was unstable, and what happened wasn’t your fault."

Your lip trembled, but you didn’t speak.

His voice softened again. "And if this is about me... if you think you’ve done something wrong because of how I feel about you—how I care about you—don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything neither of you knew how to name. It sat heavy between you—thick with the ache of things buried too long and the sharp edges of everything that couldn't be said. You could feel it in your chest, pressing against your ribs and threatening to claw itself out, the unspoken confession of a man who just laid bare more than he meant to, and your own desperate need to pretend you didn’t hear it.

But you had. You’d heard it in his voice, in the way his hands had trembled just slightly when he touched your face, in the way his eyes wouldn’t leave yours even when they should’ve.

And now, as your chest rose and fell too quickly and your heart tried to find steady ground, all the small moments you’d buried—or maybe just refused to examine—rushed back like a crashing wave. His hand guiding yours during your very first incision, firm but not overbearing. The coffees every morning—always your usual, always on time. The time he’d found you on the stairwell after you lost your first patient, sobbing uncontrollably, and he didn’t try to fix it—he just sat there beside you until you could breathe again. The rooftop shifts when you couldn’t quiet your incessant thoughts, he somehow always found you there.

The silence that needed no explanation.

It had always been there. A quiet, steadfast presence. Not loud, not showy—but constant.

And now, undeniable.

And maybe you were still trying to find the line between what had always been there and what had just changed—but the silence was no longer uncertain. It was waiting.

You decided to break it.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, eyes searching his, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Robby didn’t answer. Not with words.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours, one last moment of hesitation flickering there—one last out, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed. His skin was warm against yours, soft in a way that surprised you. Your fingers found his jaw, the roughness of his beard brushing your palms as your hands slid down slowly, until they came to rest at the curve of his neck—right where his pulse thrummed hard beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepened a breath later, quiet and aching, full of everything you’d both held back for far too long. His hands rose to cradle your face, holding you like something fragile, like if he wasn’t careful, you might break. His thumbs grazed the corners of your cheekbones, grounding and gentle, anchoring you both in the impossible tenderness of it.

There was nothing hurried about it. Just warmth and softness and the quiet admission of something real. Something that had lived in the silence between you for years.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He let out a breath, rough and shaky against your cheek. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges—like the truth cost something to say. And maybe it did.

You pulled back enough to see him clearly, your hands resting on his neck, feeling the steady, trembling pulse beneath your fingertips. He looked at you like the moment might vanish if he blinked.

For years, probably. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it. Not through the early mornings or the long nights. Not even when he stood too close, or when his voice turned soft just for you. Not even when your heart always found him in a crowd. But now, with his breath still warm against your lips and his hands still cradling your face like something precious, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You’d been his and he'd been yours, long before either of you were brave enough to say it. You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—and gently stroked his cheek, admiring his freckles like newly formed constellations in the sky.

His eyes drop ever so slightly. "I'm old," he starts. "My work-life balance is absolute shit. You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

You stare at him, puzzled. For a second, you think he’s serious—like he's about to start building walls where they’d only just crumbled.

Then you catch the flicker in his expression. The barely-there smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s only half-serious. Nervous. Teasing you.

You grin, easing the weight with a well-aimed jab. "At least you're not old enough to be my father. And it's not like my hours spent outside work ratio is any better."

He scoffs, ducking his head before shaking it all too lightheartedly.

"And for the record," you add, tapping his chest with a pointed index finger. "This is not some personification of daddy issues, I'll have you know that my father and I have a very healthy relationship."

"Well, that’s a relief," he murmurs, his smile softening as he encloses his fingers around your hand.

You sit back, playful. "I’ll keep you up to date on all the hottest trends the youths engage in. Like cat cafés and strawberry milk matcha lattes. And emotional vulnerability."

He groans, rubbing his face shyly. "God help me."

You grin, careful not to laugh too hard, and lean into him again. "Too late for that, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me."

"Yeah," he whispered. "I really hope I am."

Outside, the hospital buzzed as it always did—pages overhead, heels echoing on tile, lives beginning and ending behind curtain walls. But for a moment, the noise faded. The only sound was your breathing, his.

And the quiet hum of something long overdue settling into place.

You didn’t know what came next—how this would unfold outside the safety of Room 4, outside of bruises and adrenaline and low-lit confessions. But for now, with his forehead still resting gently against yours, and the weight of unspoken feelings finally aired between you, it didn’t matter.

You had time.

Until a round of cheers and high fives broke the stillness like a confetti cannon bursting into the air.

Both of you jerked apart, startled. Just outside the half-closed door to Room 4 stood a cluster of med students, nurses, residents, and paramedics—huddled together like a peanut gallery, barely containing their glee.

Your face flushed tomato red. You buried it in Robby’s chest as he turned around slowly, one hand instinctively coming up to rest on your back as he started to laugh.

Langdon, of course, was the ringleader. He held up a neon orange post-it like a trophy, waving it proudly as the group chuckled and whooped behind him. In black Sharpie were the words:

UNPLANNED CONFESSION - Langdon & King—the bet circled and underlined. And below it: $7/week. Scribbled in tiny pen just beneath that, barely legible, was a date—six months ago.

He high-fived someone out of view next to him just before giving the two of you an exaggerated thumbs-up, grinning like he’d just won the Super Bowl. On cue, Mel stood up from beside him and gave you a quick wave and a shy smile, arms held tightly by her sides.

You groaned, still pressed into Robby's chest. "I swear to God, if they made a bracket—"

"Oh they definitely made a bracket," Robby said, laughing into your hair.

You peeked up at him, still mortified but grinning. "Are we seriously the plot twist in someone’s trauma bay soap opera?"

"Apparently," he muttered, pulling you closer. "Should we give them something to talk about for next week's episode?"

You scoffed, swatting lightly at his chest. "Take me out to dinner first, will you?"

Outside, the group began to scatter—some called back to rounds, others still giggling as they walked off. But you stayed there, tucked into Robby’s side, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chaos. Whatever came next, you’d figure it out. Together.

And if the hospital had front-row seats to your slow-burn becoming a soft landing? So be it.

#fic rec #michael robinavitch x reader #watchtowerlibrary

1K notes · View notes

natalievoncatte · 1 day ago

Text

“Are you ready?”

Kara was at her desk, which was frankly rather unusual. She was plugging away at something, deep in concentration on whatever she was writing. Lena stopped to watch her for a while from the doorway, leaning against the frame. She found herself doing so more and more often now, largely for one reason: Kara Danvers was the prettiest girl Lena had ever seen.

If you asked Lena her type, she wouldn’t have described Kara Danvers, who was more athletic than svelte, built with strong shoulders and a swimmer’s silhouette. For all of Kara’s efforts to hide beneath soft cardigans and corduroy, it was obvious how jacked she was.

There was more than that, though. It wasn’t just her eyes, a peculiar shade of blue that Lena was sure she’d never seen before; it was the intelligence behind them, the curiosity and wit and shy, stammering confidence. Kara had a kind of nervous courage, for lack of a better way of putting it.

And she was gorgeous, of course. Honeyed curls, soft skin and pillowed lips and those gorgeous eyes, radiant eyes even behind a chunky frame.

Lena would never confess that she was a little in love with Kara. Even after the flower thing, and the buying the company thing, and…

Yeah.

“How about lunch?”

Kara looked up sharply. “What? Oh! Lena hi, I’m just-“

“Don’t give me that,” said Lena. “I’m treating you to lunch.”

“As my boss or my friend?” Kara asked, cautious.

“As me. No shop talk.”

Kara brightened; Lena had… put her in her place, not to put too fine a point on it, a few weeks ago when Kara snapped at her over a perfectly normal request to actually put in some time in her office.

It was necessary.

It also hurt like hell.

Kara made some noises about her work but acquiesced, grabbing her messenger bag and walking with Lena to the elevator. They rode in an moderately aggressive awkward silence; Kara seemed to be one of those people who chronically distrusts elevators despite-

The power went out.

The lights went with it. The elevator car dropped a foot in half a second and Lena felt herself crashing into a solid wall of Kara just before the emergency lights slammed on.

Lena took a moment. Kara had gently caught her and pulled her into a loose hug, for which Lena was grateful as it kept her from slamming her knees into the floor of the elevator.

“Lena? You okay?”

“I’m fine, you?”

Kara gently released her. “I’m… yeah. Fine. Are we stuck?”

“Power’s out. We might be here a while.”

Kara’s eyes went comically wide. “Nothing!”

Lena quirked a brow. “Okay.”

“Really, I’m fine. I was looking forward to lunch! You know me, always hungry. I wish I’d brought some snacks! I like snacks. Do you like snacks?”

Lena stared at her.

“Kara?”

“Of course you like snacks, that was so dumb. I’m sorry, I,” she looked frantically around the small space they found themselves in, “I don’t know why I’m… I’ll shut up.”

Lean shrugged and sat down, leaning against the back wall. Kara did not, choosing instead to pace, which was a tad annoying given the space they were in, but she was more worried about Kara than anything else.

She seemed… frantic.

“Are they going to come get us?”

“Eventually, if the power doesn’t kick back on first.”

“Do you think we’re stuck in between floors? I think we’re in between floors.”

“Probably.”

Kara flipped the panel down beneath the buttons and pulled out the phone inside, the plastic creaking in her grip. She pushed at the HELP button, but nothing happened.

“They know we’re in here right? Someone knows. They won’t leave us.”

Lena blinked.

Oh. Jesus.

“Kara,” said Lena. “Why don’t you sit down? We can just wait for help.”

She gave a short, sharp shake of her head in reply, like some frightened creature. She was now hugging herself and trembling.

“It’ll be soon, right? I can get out soon. I have to get out.”

“Kara,” said Lena.

Kara stared at her, and Lena knew.

“You’re claustrophobic.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Y-yes,” said Kara.

“Sit down with me, okay?”

Finally, she sat, shoulder to shoulder with Lena. Lena took her hand and squeezed it softly. Kara’s hand reminded her of an exotic bird quivering in her palm. Her pulse had to be racing.

“It’s going to be okay. They’re working on getting us out right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Kara swallowed.

“I won’t let anything hurt you,” said Lena.

Kara looked at her with big, wide eyes.

“At least it’s not dark,” she said, lamely.

The lights immediately went out. Kara yelped and Lena felt her jump, hugging herself as her head thumped against the all.

“Oh Rao please no,” Kara whimpered, “please not again I can’t do it again.”

Rao? What the hell was a Rao?

“Lena, it’s dark.”

“I’m right here.”

Lena wrapped her arm around Kara’s shoulders, and found she was shaking like a leaf. A strained, choking sob ripped the air and Lena felt Kara plunge her face in her hands.

She was hot, almost feverish, and her coiled muscles felt like steel cables, even as they trembled. Lena could feel Kara’s heart pounding, incredibly fast.

“Get me out, please get me out.”

Her cell had no bars. Lena tried anyway; nothing.

Kara, very softly, began to cry. When something creaked, she almost screamed, jolting Lena.

“They can’t get in, they can’t get in, they can’t get in.”

“They?”

“The phantoms,” Kara choked out. “The other things. They want to get in, they want to get me.”

“Kara, we’re in an elevator. There’s nothing outside but concrete and steel cables.”

“Are you real?”

“Of course,” said Lena.

“It felt like I’d sleep for years, then I’d wake up and something huge would be crushing my pod or the phantoms would be scraping their claws on the canopy and looking at me. They just stared. All they had to do was wait.”

“Your pod?”

Kara froze, going totally still.

“I… uhhh… I mean my… my bed? No, the car, from the accident, my parents died in the accident, I hit my heed.”

“You told me your parents passed in a house fire.”

Kara swallowed hard. “Did I?”

Her voice was thin and hysterical.

“Please, Lena, I’m scared.”

Lena gently guided Kara’s head to her shoulder and rocked her there, lightly carding her fingers through her hair.

“It’s alright, Kara. It’ll be alright.”

“Lena,”

“It’s okay,” said Lena. “Everyone gets scared. Everyone has a fear. Even you.”

Kara sucked in a breath.

“Pod,” said Lena. “Phantoms.”

“Lena I…”

“Shhh,” said Lena. “Hush now. You’ve already saved me at least three times, I owe you one.”

Kara gently wrapped her arms around Lena and sobbed into her shoulder. Lena suspected that Kara couldn’t break them out, so she didn’t press it. She just let Kara hold her and gently stroked her hair and softly sang an old lullaby she half remembered, stumbling back over the same verses.

There was a last a loud bang and Kara jerked, then let out a slow breath as the elevator doors at last spread open, forced apart by workmen.

Lena made sure Kara got out first. Then, Kara reached down and lifted her by the waist, setting Lena gently beside herself.

“Thank you,” Kara murmured.

Lena felt the eyes of the two workers behind her but she didn’t care. She smiled softly.

“I’m not mad. Actually, this explains a lot.”

Kara swallowed, hard.

“I think we missed lunch.”

“Mmm,” Lena gave her a coquettish smile. “Why don’t we get dinner, then? Just us, at my place.”

Kara smiled, wiping away her tears.

“I’d like that.”

#supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #supergirl fanfic #ficlet #elevator #claustrophobia #claustrophobic Kara Danvers #identity reveal #Lena Luthor has a crush on Kara Danvers #lena luthor is secretly soft #protective lena luthor #Lena protects her girl too

274 notes · View notes

httpuckdrop · 2 days ago

Text

PANCAKES – QH43

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x reader

Genre: fluff, suggestive

Warnings: mentions of sexual activities

Author's note: tried something new here with the style aaaaa I think I might be growing out of the lower caps and tiny letters vibe! Not sure! Either way, hope you enjoy this :)

Last night was… definitely something.

It usually did end up like this, to be fair. Whenever Quinn had been away for too long on a road trip, with only pictures and videos of you to satisfy his needs, it was common for him to get like this. Needing to take his time, savoring every moment, feeling every inch of your skin under his palms before he got anywhere close to content.

Not that you minded; you would do anything and everything for him to feel good, especially after such a long period of work. You assumed he would be worn out and sore from all of the games, and yet, surprisingly enough, he had all the stamina and strength to go the whole night if that had been what he wanted.

However, he enjoyed it just as much when he got to pull you up to his chest, nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and cuddle you close for hours.

The following morning, apparently you were the sore and tired one, seeing as you were the only one left in Quinn's big bed at 10am. You didn't want to properly wake up, but you also wanted to spend every second of the day with your boyfriend before he was swept up by his work again. Therefore, you pushed yourself out of bed, tiptoeing over to the drawer by the wall and picking out a pair of boxers to step into. Then, you slipped on the black Canucks shirt Quinn had worn the day before, the fabric covering every love bite he'd scattered from your chest to the insides of your thighs, before making your way through the apartment.

You found your lover in the kitchen, his lean back muscles twitching with his every move. Your nose filled with the aroma of those vanilla protein pancakes he insisted on making instead of regular pancakes – even on his off days, he was so insistent on keeping up his dietary goals – and hunger rumbled in your stomach instantly.

You made your way over to his side in just a few quick strides. "Good morning," you hummed, smiling up at him.

"Morning, sleepyhead." One of Quinn's hands reached for your side as he leaned down to capture your lips in a lazy kiss. Maybe he was just as tired as you, after all. "You slept like a rock," he commented once you parted.

You chuckled, leaning into his side. "Well, what can I say? You wore me out."

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing," he said with a shake of his head. "You enjoyed it."

"Confident, are we now?"

Quinn merely shrugged, flipping the pancakes in the pan before answering. "You sure sounded like you enjoyed it. Think the whole neighborhood can attest to that."

Your cheeks grew so hot they were practically burning, and you turned your face to hide it in his bare chest. "That was foul," you mumbled, letting out a groan against his skin when your boyfriend chuckled. "I don't want your neighbors to know that kind of stuff about me."

You felt a pair of lips against the top of your head and an arm drape around your waist, holding you close. "At least they know you're well taken care of."

After a few moments of comfortable silence, with only the crackling of the pancakes filling the room, you parted from him and instead turned your back to the counter next to the stove. After hoisting yourself up on top of it, Quinn didn't waste any time before stepping between your legs, one calloused palm finding your knee. The other hand reached for a can of whipped cream by the bowl of pancake batter.

"Have you tried this one before? I've never seen it before," he said, popping the lid off and shaking it a couple of times. Then, he tapped your lips with the nozzle. "Open up."

Your lips began curving up in a grin, yet you leaned back slightly and shook your head. "You’re too cheesy, I swear to god," you mumbled back, but Quinn wasn't giving up.

"Come on, just play along with me." He sprayed a little bit of cream on his index finger, quickly spreading it down your nose. You were just about to complain when he added: "It's not usually this difficult to get you to open your mouth for me…"

You gasped. "Quinn!"

"It most certainly wasn't this hard last night." He chuckled at the sight of you wiping your nose clean, reaching forward to give him some payback, but he reacted quickly, grabbing your wrist in his hand and holding it still. "In fact, you were quite eager to get your mouth on me, if I remember correctly."

Your cheeks were tinged with a deep red color now, either from frustration or embarrassment. "I swear, I'm going to kill you if you don't-"

You weren't even allowed to finish the sentence before your boyfriend had leaned down to crash his lips against yours. You sighed involuntarily against his lips, feeling some of the tension leaving your body already. You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your height as you kissed him back.

The kiss was sweet and slow, a complete contrast from the heated way you'd kissed just a few hours ago. He tasted like mint from his toothpaste and his mouth was warm, just like his bare shoulders when you brushed your hands along them. He ran his tongue along the seam of your lips, his hands reaching for your hips to pull them up against his, and a small moan escaped from your lips as a result – a sound that went straight down to his core. He nipped at your bottom lip before gently sliding his tongue into your mouth, humming contently when your tongue battled with his.

"Wait, no, don't tempt me," he mumbled eventually, pulling away ever so slightly to instead trail his kisses down your jaw. "You're making me want to go back to the bedroom and..."

You chuckled, hooking your legs over his hips and caging him in. "Doesn't sound too bad," you answered, head tilting back slightly to give him better access. "Think we might need to fuel up, though."

His answer came in the form of a groan, your words making him suddenly remember the pancakes he had been focused on before you arrived. "You know you're eating yours without whipped cream, though. Just because you acted like an ass."

"Hey!"

#nhl #nhl fic #nhl fluff #nhl x reader #nhl x you #hockey #nhl x y/n #quinn hughes #vancouver canucks #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes suggestive #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes fic #nhl smut #nhl suggestive #vancouver canucks fic

357 notes · View notes

devotedsweetheart · 2 days ago

Text

・❥ SAY IT AGAIN

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: you find out caleb had been logging into your phone at random times of the day to keep track of who you were texting. frustrated, you call him to yell at him only to question what exactly he was doing on the other end.

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , phone sex , sub!caleb (per usual) , masturbation , cnc , use of y/n

a/n :: highkey got this idea from that one scene in twk when cardans kissing jude & telling her to say she hates him..🌝🌝

he had absolutely no right to be invading your personal space. absolutely none.

you were so fucking angry.

caleb was away on a trip with gran. usually, he would simply ask to check your phone, and you'd happily give it to him- knowing he means well. but with the shit he has been pulling, you're starting to question whether or not he really does trust you like he says he does.

you had found out that he was hacking into your phone because the device started acting awfully odd. opening apps you didnt click on, siri turning on without any context, letters on the keyboard being pressed when you never tapped on them in the first place. confused (and frankly a little scared), you took it to a professional to get it checked out. when he asked if anyone else had the password to your socials, thats when the realization dawned on you.

you felt so stupid. utterly dumb. but how were you supposed to know? you had told caleb about the issue multiple times and each occasion you mentioned it he would always say the same thing: "thats so weird, pips.. maybe you should go get it checked out or something." feigning complete innocence.

you had enough.

driving home as fast as you could, you barely reach the front door before you're calling him nonstop until he answers.

"hey pips! i missed yo-"

"you fucking liar."

there's a beat of silence at that. your breathing is heavy, going right into the mic- giving caleb an idea of what he's in for.

"um.. excuse me?" caleb manages, swallowing thickly. he knows exactly what you're going to yell at him for and he's praying to jesus christ himself that he can manipulate his way out of it.

"you know exactly what i'm talking about, don't try to play dumb. you've been going into my phone and looking through my shit. i thought you said you trusted me? what happened to that? i mean, seriously, caleb, i thought we had gotten over this." you say, voice pinched a bit higher than usual. you're pacing around the room in order to keep yourself calm, heart beating at a distressing rate as you don't like to argue with him.

"pips, i really don't know what you're talking about," he utters, licking his lips. "i know whats been going on with your phone has been messing you up, but you don't necessarily have to blame me for it. look, once i get back i'll help you figure out what's wrong with it just to prove that it's not me. deal?"

you can tell that he's trying his best to soften his tone to make his lie more believable, but you aren't gonna buy into it.

"no. no, caleb, just quit the act already. i'm so tired of this. i'll give you two choices," you say, sitting down on the couch; elbows on your knees. "either you stop with the whole hacking thing and we stay together, or i cut things off with you and we never talk again."

for a moment, there's nothing being said. pure silence. he's absolutely speechless on his end of the phone, mouth agape and eyes wide. every few seconds, he'd attempt to say something but nothing would come out- resulting in something that resembled a stutter.

"well? what's it gonna be?" you asked, becoming to grow impatient.

"y/n.." he whispered. "you.. you can't do that to me. i-.. i'm sorry for doing all that crap. i didn't do it because i don't trust you... it's other people that i don't trust. please believe me, baby. i can't stop doing it, it's just my way of keeping you safe."

aaaand now it's your turn to be shocked.

"are you fucking serious?" you yell, and you swear you can see the look on his face regardless if he's visible or not. eyebrows raised up, cheeks as red as roses, eyes backed up with tears. you know how much he hates being yelled at by you... but he deserves it. "you can't be serious. please tell me you're pulling some joke."

" baby, please. i-"

"enough. just quit it. i fucking hate you, caleb."

he swallows. no, practically gulps. he shouldnt be turned on by the sound of that. he really shouldnt. he knows he should be terrified by the threat of you leaving him... but the tent growing in his pants is getting undeniably uncomfortable that he just can't seem to care.

unzipping his jeans, he gently lays his back on his bed, being carefully quiet to ensure you don't hear.

"you're fucking insane and no matter how much i try to talk to you about it you never change. it is draining, caleb. you have absolutely no idea how fucked up you are."

he's nodding against his phone, murmuring small 'yeah's here and there to let you know that he's listening. what you aren't aware of is the fact that instead of really listening, he's actually moving his hand at an insane speed on his dick. it gets to the point that he can't even respond, the pleasure taking over. all he needs is for you to tell him how bad he is and how much you despise him for him to be able to go over the edge.

the fact that you don't even know whats going on keeps him going for even longer.

"...-is so frustrating, caleb! you don't even care for me and... wait, are you even listening? hellooo?" you shout, expecting an answer.

he picks up his phone from where it was sitting on his pillow and takes it off speaker phone to reply. "y-yes, baby? 'm sorry.. i'm, um, listening. keep talking." he responds, stuttering over his words.

you roll your eyes, thinking he simply just doesn't care. "my god, you're so fucking annoying. i hate you so much, y'know that?"

he nods hastily, even though you can't see it. "y-yes. say it again. please." the last word comes out broken as he was embarrassingly close to cumming.

you stop in your tracks, both eyebrows furrowed. "um..." you utter, confused at what he was playing at. "i... hate.. you..?"

"f-fuck!" he whisper-shouts, hips thrusting into his hand as he drops the device back onto where it was initially. he brings his previously free hand down to his cock to stroke the tip, twisting his wrists. biting his lip, hard enough to draw blood, he makes his best effort to keep little whimpers inside of his mouth. it works for the most part... but you already knew what was happening. he does it too many times for you to not know.

"caleb." you warn.

he doesn't answer, he can't answer, mind is too hazy from the force of his orgasm. he's practically like putty on his bed, half asleep and half awake.

"text me in the morning." you say before hanging up and throwing your phone on the bed.

he will not ever learn.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #lads #lnds caleb #lads boys #caleb x reader #lads caleb x reader #caleb lads smut #caleb x you

253 notes · View notes

writerslittlelibrary · 2 days ago

Text

Sharing a safehouse

masterlist

summary: after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?

pairing: Natasha x teen reader

warnings: none

genre: fluff

words: 1645

a/n: I would like a standing applause for the fact that I am posting another fic in the span of a month. it has happened. the apocalypse has struck

also, have I written this trope before? yes, yes I have. will I be writing this trope again? yes, yes I will

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

The silence is unbearable. It’s not like you were against the quiet, on the contrary. You liked a calm, quiet environment to work and relax. No, it was the quiet with Natasha that you couldn’t bear.

You and Natasha never were the best team, mainly because it seemed Natasha just didn’t want anything to do with you.

You didn’t blame her, truly, you didn’t. You weren’t afraid to admit you were a pretty odd kid. You liked stuffed animals, cartoons, and sometimes, when you were certain no one was watching, you’d open your drawer and take out your dolls.

It wasn’t like you got to have any fun things when you were a child, and something as simple as a doll would have been harder to acquire than literal gold.

You weren’t shy about admitting you had a fucked up childhood, and you weren’t shy to be watching Winx Club in the living room of the Avengers compound. It was funny, really, how at first Sam made fun of you, yet slowly started to get more and more invested to the point he would ask you when you were going to start the next episode.

He was a total Winx Club fan now.

The rest of the team seemed to pretty much ignore your childish side. Not in a rude manner, but rather in an uninterested manner. They didn’t think you were weird, and you liked it that way.

Natasha, however, wasn’t at all holding back when she saw you watching a cartoon or coloring at the table.

It wasn’t like she’d get angry, but she would walk away, or give you a look like you were vermin.

You never quite understood where her disdain for you came from. She was your favourite superhero, yet she treated you like dirt under her shoe. She wasn’t gentle when making her comments, either.

Sometimes, when you were drawing, she’d make a comment about how you were far too old for such things, and while you were watching a cartoon she’d scoff like you were insane.

It was a literal cartoon, not the end of the world.

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring her antics over the past year, but you couldn’t deny that they still stung. Why did she despise you breathing so much?

At the moment, Natasha was caught up in writing her mission report while you were curled up on the couch, which doubled as the bench for the table and the bed you would be sleeping in.

Tony was fucking loaded. Why the hell was this safehouse a literal trailer?

You were reading Rainbow Magic; Ruby, the Red Fairy. Occasionally, you’d glance up from your book, and you’d catch a glimpse of Natasha’s disapproving stare before she’d continue working.

Okay, fine, maybe bringing the Rainbow Magic series wasn’t the most strategic plan with such a fairytale hater, but who could blame you? Those fairy books were actually very enjoyable.

You ignored Natasha’s judgement, finishing your book before you got up, walking to the small cupboard and pulling open the doors.

Expecting for some form of entertainment in this trailer was clearly too much to ask.

The cupboard didn’t hold much, safe for a few spiders and a bucket of cleaning supplies that looked to be at least two-hundred years past their expiration date.

And then, at the far top shelf, you could see a chessboard peeking out amongst the shelves.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to reach it, but you got it.

By now, Natasha had finished her mission report and was studying your every move. Of course, you caught up to her staring almost immediately, and you turned to face her while holding up the chess board.

“Do you play?”

Natasha frowned, before sighing and giving you a singular nod. Well, more excitement was clearly too much to ask.

Natasha leaned forward, clearing the table of her papers and reaching for your book. She half expected her to just throw it on top of your bag in the corner, and you were more than surprised when she picked it up gently and handled it with much more care than you thought her to be capable of.

When the table was cleared, you put the chess board down, handing Natasha the box that the white pieces were stuffed in.

“I’m always black,” Natasha said while frowning at the colour of the pieces in the box.

“Sure.” You passed the box with the black pieces to Natasha while arranging the white pieces on your own playing field.

Once all the pieces were put in place, Natasha made the first move, to which you immediately responded by putting her piece back in its place.

“White starts,” you mention as you make your own move.

Natasha huffs but doesn’t protest, instead moving her own pieces to defend against your attack.

The game continued far into the night, and after playing for nearly three hours, you finally made your last move, trapping Natasha in a check-mate.

“I let you do that,” Natasha says before rearranging her own pieces.

“Sure you did,” you respond before placing your own pieces back on the board.

“Don’t you have to go to bed? It’s far past your bedtime,” Natasha asks, glancing at the clock on the whole.

“I don’t have a bedtime,” you remark, making your move with the chess piece.

“You act like a child, yet you don’t go to bed on time?”

To your surprise, you didn’t hear any judgement in Natasha’s tone. Just pure confusion. A genuine question not meant to insult you. You didn’t expect that.

You look up at her, frowning before shrugging.

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares,” you say, counteracting Natasha’s move by blocking her piece. “And even if I wanted to, we’re sitting on my bed.”

As if the evening wasn’t surprising enough, Natasha lets out a huff of amusement.

“We can share the big bed. It’ll help with the nightmares,” she suggests.

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the game in the hopes of preventing awkward eye contact.

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno know. Another presence helps with preventing nightmares or something. There’s a study on it.”

“No, I mean why are you so nice? Why offer to share your bed with me when you normally can’t even stand to share the same room?”

At that, Natasha looks up, a hint of guilt mixed into her usual calm facial expression.

“It’s not personal,” she says, moving her chess piece.

“Then what is it? You’ve barely shared one conversation with me since I joined a year ago.”

“You’re a child,” Natasha suddenly says after a moment of silence. There’s venom in her voice, yet you can feel it isn’t directed at you.

“You should be able to play with your dolls without having to feel the need to hide, and you should be able to go to school and make friends and stupid decisions. You shouldn’t live in a compound with superheroes and fight super villains weekly. You are a child, and you should be able to be one.”

You fall silent for a moment, shocked at her revelation of knowing about your dolls, and shocked at the amount of emotion hidden under her confession.

“You don’t hate me?”

Natasha’s head shoots up, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Hate you? What ever gave you the impression that I hate you?”

You shook your head. “You avoid me, you scoff wherever I’m drawing or watching something in the common room. It feels like you judge me, daily.”

At that, Natasha’s facial expression softens, and her expression turns glum.

“I never meant for you to feel like you were in the wrong, and I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t judging you, I was judging the situation you’re in.” Natasha inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to the chess board and making another move.

“Fury gave you a choice. Either prison, or joining the Avengers. You never even did anything wrong. You were just a child, graced with powers that no one understood and everyone feared. You didn’t deserve prison, and you didn’t deserve the threat of prison. You deserved a family.”

You sighed.

“And in a way, I got a family. The Avengers are nice-”

“They’re not your family, they’re your team. There’s a difference. Sure, they care about you, but if they were your family, they’d want you to live a life, rather than become a superhero.”

Natasha fell silent, and at her words, so did you.

Was she right? If the Avengers were your family, would they want you to live a normal, domestic life somewhere else, rather than the superhero life you were living right now?

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like I hate my life. Just the paperwork,” you remark, moving your queen to once again trap Natasha in a check-mate.

“I want to work something out, if you’ll let me,” Natasha then said, pouting when you took her king.

“Like what?” you ask.

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Something that’ll put you off missions, at least until you’re twenty-one or something. Maybe older. Something legal. I mean, you’re not even allowed to drink in the United States. Why the hell are you allowed, or better said, forced, to risk your life daily?”

At that, you snort.

“You make a good point.”

“We’ll figure something out, I promise,” Natasha states, helping you clear the chessboard and standing up from the bench.

“Now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s a bakery or something in this god forsaken place.”

You snicker, taking Natasha’s hand and allowing her to lead you. Maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you thought she did.

Bonus a/n: rainbow magic; Ruby the Red Fairy is the first ever book I read in English.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

#black widow #marvel #mcu #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #avengers #marvel reader insert #reader insert #natasha romanov #avengers x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x you #young avengers #x reader #marvel cinematic universe

230 notes · View notes

captain-huggy-bear · 19 hours ago

Note

Hi! Congratulations on 1,000 followers!

Can I request Clayton Keller and “just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?!”

I preface this with I have never given birth, I have never been at a birth and I have never been in an American hospital. I did some light research but I am not a doctor or expert. I am a firm believer that Clayton is the sort of person who advocates for his partner so strongly. Normally soft spoken, normally calm, but will not tolerate any sort of bullshit when it comes to you, your health and your right to what happens to your body. Also Dad!Clay heals something in me. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You knew labour would be painful, you knew it would be a lot. You can't push an entire human out of your body without pain, you can't push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon and expect it to be pain free or even just mildly uncomfortable. But, you never expected to be in so much pain and denied the pain relief that was so standard for labour; an epidural.

Clayton was besides himself, your grip on his hand so tight it felt like you might fracture a few bones. The worry kept mounting, as did the anger as you were denied the epidural you kept asking for, as he wiped sweat from your brow and watched you try to struggle through.

Every time you asked, you were told to wait, told that you were fine, that women did this every day without an epidural, that the gas and air should be enough. But, God, when you started crying? Started to drop that strong exterior and babble that you couldn't do this, it was too much? Clayton had reached his limit.

“Just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?” The doctor is one of those old, fuddy duddy types. Traditional, cold, not the doctor either of you had been expecting when you'd come into the hospital after realising you were having a lot of contractions and quickly.

"Mr Keller, birth is painful. Epidurals are not necessary for a natural birth." It was dismissive, rude, and old fashioned. Clay dropped the pretence of politeness, the look sent towards the doctor enough to make him take a step back. Clay's brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed and even then he didn't let go of your hand, didn't deny you the comfort as you huffed on that useless gas and air and watched the two through eyes hazy with pain.

"I fucking know that, but you can give her an epidural, that's standard fucking practice and she's been asking for 2 hours." He doesn't care what the doctor thinks, what the nurses think...he cares about you and if he has to be a hardhead, has to be an asshole to get you the pain relief you're entitled to because some old prick thought pain was something women should have to go through? Then so be it.

"Mr Ke-"

"If you don't give my wife the epidural she's been asking for in the next 20 minutes I am going to come down on you with medical misconduct charge like a sack of fucking bricks. Need I remind you I have a lot of fucking money and my own legal team."

There's a pause, a moment of silence except for your pained noises and heavy breathing, a moment in which he stares the doctor down and the doctor stares back. But, there's a change there, a distinct 'oh fuck' moment that the doctor goes through as he remembers who is in front of him. Because Clayton might be normally soft spoken, calm, collected, but he does not fuck around about you. He does not play about you and he's reached his limit of bullshit for the day.

Clay watches as the doctor turns to one of the nurses with a sort of reluctant acceptance that tells Clay that if he hadn't pushed you'd have gotten nothing. That just pisses him off more.

"Leanne, get the epidural ready for me, please."

"Yes, doctor."

Clay watches the doctor like a hawk through the entire thing, still letting you crush his hand when you're asked to sit upright and lean forward. He doesn't let go or look away as the epidural is put into your back. The only time he does is to help you swing back around to lie down.

He brushes the hair from your face, the strands that have stuck to your skin from the sweat that has built and waits...5 minutes, 10 minutes, until it begins to work, until the relief is palpable, until his panic subsides just enough for his jaw to unclench.

"...Thank you," You say softly as you clutch at him as he leans over you and it's loaded, so loaded. You know as well as he does that without him here...if he'd been stuck on a roadie, at a game...without him you'd be in hours of pain with an unfeeling doctor.

It has Clay spending the rest of the birth hyper vigilant, hyper aware of every decision made and whether it aligns with your wishes and what you both had been told and researched over the last 9 months. There's a deep fear in him that if he doesn't the doctor might let something terrible happen to you, to the baby, that he's dealing with someone who just doesn't care...and the relief he feels when he hears that first cry? When your baby girl is placed on your chest so small except for her head which is far too big for her body (a real lollipop baby)? God, he feels like the weight of the world has fallen off of his shoulders.

That is until they go to take her away to get cleaned up and he sees your panic. You don't have to ask him to, he just knows to, as he follows the nurse and your baby girl, watches the entire time as they clean her and get her tidied and he demands to take her back to you, to hold his baby girl because he's certain there is no safer place for her than in his arms.

The relief you feel when you see him bringing her back is so strong that he hates this stupid hospital, the stupid doctor, for making you ever feel scared or doubtful. He's careful as he sits next to you on the bed, scooting so that you can lean against his shoulder as you blink down at your baby girl.

"She's perfect..." Your voice is tired as your baby girl blinks at the two of you with fresh new eyes, your eyes, but her nose? Her nose is all Clay as she scrunches it and wriggles against him, tiny fingers grappling for purchase on his chest and twisting against his chain. A gesture that reminds him of you.

"Mmm, she is, good job, mama. You did so good, baby." Clay presses a kiss to the top of your head, long, lingering, breathing you in. Relieved that you're okay, she's okay, because God, he's not entirely sure what he would do if you weren't.

And for all the stress, the anger, the fear, this was so worth it. Holding his baby girl was worth it.

#Huggy's 1000 celly #huggy bear writes #clayton keller x reader #clayton Keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

163 notes · View notes

bratbby333 · 3 days ago

Text

ੈ♡˳ the space between us — satoru gojo

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ synopsis: the world kept calling him away, and every time, you stayed behind. loving him through the silence. ˙⊹ cw: nsfw mdni, angst + smut, general reader ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ word count: 5.3k + not proofread ˙⊹ author notes: oh hiii ♡ im back my sweet angels !!! and what better way to break my almost year long hiatus than to drop some lovely gojo angst on y'all? xx i hope you enjoy. i missed y'all so much. ps: i cried a lot while writing this. the subject matter made me incredibly emotional. id love to hear your feedback. it's been along time since i've written and i feel super rusty.

You never said it out loud. Not once. But sometimes—on quiet mornings when the bed was still warm from his body, or on long nights when the silence pressed in too close—you wished he’d stay. Not just for a day, not just for a moment stolen from the storm he was destined to chase. You wished he’d stay for good.

And the guilt of it sat heavy in your chest. Because you knew what he was—what he was made for, the duties assigned to him before birth. The sorcerer world called him with open jaws and he, brave and brilliant, never flinched. You loved him for that. That fierce heart. That impossible pull toward danger, or responsibility, or whatever cause demanded more of him than you ever would.

But sometimes—God, sometimes—you wanted to be the thing he chose instead.

You never said it. Could never say it. Because to ask him to stay would be to ask him to become someone else. And you wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t this. If he wasn’t exactly who he was supposed to be. Even if this tore you apart every time he walked away.

You’d smile when he told you goodbye, like always. Said something soft, something sweet. Words filled with love and laced with a longing you could never truly vocalize.

And then, when the door closed, you’d let yourself fall apart for a while.

He belonged to a world you could never tame. One he could never leave. He owed his life to a society that only viewed him as their best kept weapon. And maybe, deep down, you already knew the one sentiment that broke your heart: that world would never give him back. He had a duty to uphold, whether either of you liked it or not.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Satoru hated this part. The in-between. That brief stretch of time where he was still with you, but already halfway gone. He was torn—duty on one side, devotion on the other. He knew what he was walking into, and what he was walking away from. And he hated that the two were not the same.

You didn’t know it, but he always packed last. Left it until the hour was so late, the only thing to keep him company was guilt. Not because he doubted where he had to go—he didn’t. He never did. The world out there needed him. There were things only he could do. People only he could protect. And still…

Still, every time he looked at you, he wondered how much he was asking you to endure.

He loved you more than the silence ever let him say. More than his choices made it seem. More than his job ever allowed him to show. And sometimes—when he saw the flicker of pain behind your smile, or caught your eyes lingering a second too long on his packed bag—he wondered if he was selfish for leaving.

But what was the alternative? To stay? To bury the part of him that needed to help, to run toward the fire, to be what the world demanded of him?

He couldn’t ask you to carry his weight and his shadow. And you never asked him to stay—not once. That made it worse somehow.

You let him go, every time, without guilt in your voice. But he could feel it radiating off your skin when he kissed you goodbye. Could see it swimming behind your irises with every last look you gave him.

You let him go. And he always came back, but was never sure for how long.

He didn’t know how many more goodbyes your love could survive. But if he ever had to choose—really choose—he just hoped he’d be brave enough to admit what he already knew: He loved you more than anything. And one day, maybe… Maybe you’d be the thing he stayed for.

As he zipped up his bag, Satoru felt your presence behind him—like gravity shifting in the room. When he turned, his eyes traced the familiar slope of your silhouette, leaning quietly against the doorframe. You offered him the smallest smile—tight around the edges, a flicker of false light. It might’ve fooled someone else.

But not him. Never him.

He crossed the space between you in a few long strides, stopping just shy of touching. He watched your eyes flicker—from the carpet, to the bags, to the window—and finally, to him. There was so much in that look. Resignation. Weariness. Something like fear. He lifted a hand and touched your cheek, brushing his thumb along your skin like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your sorrow.

You were always like this before he left. And he was always the one leaving.

He wasn’t surprised you were awake. You never slept well without him—not really. Even when he was just down the hall, your body seemed to know when his warmth wasn’t beside you.

“You always look at me like this,” he whispered.

“Like what?” you asked softly. Your voice was gentle, careful. But it held that quiet exhaustion—like grief dressed in calm. Like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but kept walking away anyway.

“Like you’re already saying goodbye.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because the night was thinning too fast, and soon it would be morning, and the silence between you would be all that remained.

He kissed your forehead—tender and lingering—like he could press away the miles before they formed, then rested his forehead to yours. A fragile closeness. A moment stolen from time.

“I hate leaving,” he breathed. And he did. He hated it. But that never seemed to change anything. The world didn’t care what he felt.

Your sigh was soft but full, a quiet crack in the glass.

“I know,” you said. And you saw it—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed slightly at his sides. He was holding back everything. The guilt. The longing. The part of him that wanted to say to hell with all of it and stay.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And you both knew it. So you said the only truth you could offer.

“And you know I could never ask you to stay.”

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

At first, you counted the days. Then the weeks blurred. You would leave the porch light on some nights, pretending it was just for the moths. Pretending you weren't waiting for his shadow to fall across the doorstep.

You had to get used to the undeniable truth that even when Satoru left again, the world wouldn’t stop. The sun still rose, the birds continued to sing. Your feet still touched the floor every morning, and the calendar pages kept flipping like nothing ever changed. But you felt it—you felt him—in the negative space of everything.

The way his side of the bed stayed untouched, the sheets cool no matter how many times you ran your hands along the linens.

The way you reached for your phone on instinct, only to remember there may be no signal, no message, no voice on the other end today.

And you understood. You always had. He wasn’t leaving you—he was chasing something bigger, something necessary. And you’d never ask him to stop. Not really. That kind of love—the selfish kind—had never belonged to you. You had built yours out of waiting, out of faith, out of quiet courage. But even courage frayed when no one was watching.

Sometimes you sat with your coffee and draped yourself in his clothes. Sometimes you cried into the pillow he last slept on. Sometimes you were angry at nothing—at the way his toothbrush still sat in the cup, at how the smell of his cologne didn’t waft through the apartment, at how long the night felt without his heartbeat beside you.

And always, always, you wondered if he was safe. If he was thinking of you. If there would come a day when he didn’t come back.

But still—you held on. Because loving him meant trusting that no matter where he went, no matter what the world demanded of him, he’d find his way home. To you.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You weren’t with him, but Satoru carried you anyway.

In the quiet moments between chaos, when the world stilled just long enough for Satoru to breathe, his mind went to you. The shape of your laugh. The crease between your brows when you were pretending not to worry. The way your voice softened when you said his name like it meant something holy.

You lived in the corners of his days. In the way he reached for his phone and caught himself. In the smell of rain, which always reminded him of the first night he realized he loved you. In the way he still made two cups of coffee in the mornings—then dumped one down the drain.

Some nights, lying alone in places that never felt like home, he’d close his eyes and trace the memory of your body beside him. Not just the touch—but the feeling of being known. That rare, raw thing you gave him: the safety of being seen and still loved.

You haunted him—but it wasn’t painful. Not exactly. It was weightless and warm and devastating. Like nostalgia dressed in your skin.

He didn’t talk about you out loud. But he wore you like armor. Like a secret prayer tucked in his chest pocket. Like if he held on tight enough, he could find his way back.

He hated leaving. Not because he doubted you. You were strong. Steady. Fierce in your love and loyalty. But because every time he walked away, it felt like he was cutting out a piece of himself and leaving it behind in your hands. And you never asked him to stay. You could beg, and he might have actually given in. But you didn’t.

You looked at him with those eyes—full of understanding and heartbreak and unspoken questions—and you watched him leave. Every damn time. And he wished he could tell you how much that cost him. How much it killed him not to choose you. Because he would. For anything else, for everything else, he would drop it all. But this one part of him was carved too deep. It was not just a duty. It was blood. It’s the weight of promises he made long before you ever touched his world. Promises he still carried, even when they burned.

He wanted you to know—to really know—that loving you wasn’t the thing that made this hard. It was the thing that kept him going. That kept his hands steady when they should shake. That gave his name meaning when the rest of the world tried to take it away. To break him down.

And maybe Satoru didn’t always know when he was coming home, and you could do nothing more than just… wait.

But he never once forgot where home was. And you never once stopped waiting.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

The vibrating on your phone nearly stirred you from your sleep. But you were tired, exhausted. Another buzz came through, and you finally roused enough to acknowledge it. A soft groan left your lips as your hand ran along the sheets, across the empty space that should be occupied by him. On your screen, a missed call and a voicemail. It was left by the only person you craved this deeply. You sat up quickly, all the blood rushing from your head and straight to your heart. With shaky hands and a shallow breath, you clicked the notification and held the phone to your ear.

[Voicemail – 3:13 AM]

“Hey… I know it’s late. You’re probably asleep—God, I hope you’re asleep. I hope you’re curled up in that blanket you always steal off my side of the bed. I hope you’re safe, and warm, and dreaming about something soft. Something better than the hours I keep putting between us.

I just… I needed to hear your voice, even if it’s just your voicemail. Needed to feel like I was close to something real. Something you. I keep thinking about the way you looked the last time I saw you—standing there like you were trying not to fall apart before I did. You always try to be the strong one. But I see it. I feel it.

I wish you could see how often I reach for you. Not just physically—God, of course I miss your touch—but in my head. In the quiet. When everything gets too heavy and I need something to hold onto. That’s you. It’s always you.

I hate this part. The leaving. The silence that stretches out behind it. I hate not being able to tell you when I’ll be back. Or how many more times I’ll have to walk away before I can finally stop.

But I need you to know something.

Even when I’m gone… I’m still yours. I still carry you with me, in everything I do. In every breath. In every step.

I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And I promise—when this is all done, when the dust finally settles—

I’ll find my way home. To you.”

You stared at the screen longer than necessary after the voicemail ended. Your fingers hovered over the play button like they didn’t want to let it go. The seconds ticked by. The room felt too quiet now—like the silence had gotten heavier after hearing his voice.

You should’ve been used to this by now. The voicemails. The long stretches of nothing. The ache he never meant to leave behind.

But this one was different. This one felt like him. Like his hand on your back in the middle of the night. Like his laugh in your kitchen. Like his heartbeat beneath your ear when everything was still okay. You pressed the phone to your chest and closed your eyes.

It was almost enough. Almost.

The tears came slowly, not from pain exactly—but from the way he said I love you like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Like the world was pulling him in every direction, and that tether—you—was the only thing keeping him from getting lost.

Your breath hitched when you remembered his last words. I’ll find my way home. You wanted to believe that. You needed to believe that. Because you were tired of counting days and collecting memories like currency for a future that still felt so far away.

Still, you whispered into the quiet, almost like he might somehow hear it— “I miss you. Come home soon.”

And then, because you couldn’t help it, you hit play. Just once more. Just to hear him say it again.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You woke up too early. The sun hadn’t quite cracked through the clouds, and the house was still soaked in that hushed, blue-gray stillness. You reached for his side of the bed out of habit. Cold. Untouched. Your hand lingered there anyway, fingers splayed over the sheets like they could hold onto what wasn’t there.

The morning was slow.

You moved through it on autopilot—coffee, dishes, answering texts you didn’t really want to answer. Music played in the background, something soft and instrumental, but it just made the silence louder. Satoru’s mug sat untouched in the cabinet. His jacket still hung on the back of the chair. There were fingerprints on the mirror from the last time he’d stood behind you, arms around your waist, eyes meeting yours in the glass.

You told yourself that you were okay. Because most days, you were. But today felt heavier.

You stayed busy in hopes to ignore it. Ran errands. Folded laundry. Reorganized the bookshelf for the third time. Anything to stop your mind from circling back to that gnawing ache in your chest—the one shaped like absence and memory.

By late afternoon, the sky had darkened. A storm rolled in, lazy and low. Thunder rumbled like footsteps overhead. You curled up on the couch with a blanket that still faintly smelled like him, watching the rain trace lazy trails down the window.

You didn’t cry. But you felt close. Like the tears were sitting just behind your eyes, waiting.

Evening came and draped itself over the house. You made dinner, barely touched it. Sat in the quiet hum of the kitchen, phone by your side, half-hoping for a message, half-afraid of none.

Then— A knock at the door. Not a dream. Not a memory. A real, solid knock. Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, frozen for a moment in disbelief. Maybe it was a neighbor. A package. A mistake. But something pulled you to your feet, slow and trembling. You didn’t expect him at the door. Not exactly. You had hoped—of course—but hope was a dangerous thing when you loved someone who belonged to the world. Still, when you opened the door and saw him standing there, a little worn around the edges, a messy tousle to his hair, and eyes only for you—your heart stumbled.

“You’re here?” Your voice was barely a whisper, your throat tight from the sudden surge of emotions.

Satoru nodded, slow and quiet, like anything louder might break the spell. He dropped his bag at his feet, but didn’t move right away. He just looked at you—really looked at you—like a man who’d been wandering blind and had finally found light again.

His gaze soaked you in like water after a drought, tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your mouth, the disbelief still soft in your eyes. His chest rose and fell like something fragile had just settled inside it.

His eyes met yours with something like an apology and longing tangled together. A thousand unsaid things lived in the space between you, none of them spoken. He didn’t say anything at first—he just looked at you like he was trying to believe you were real. Like if he blinked too hard, you'd disappear.

And you didn’t say anything more. You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, and the ache in your chest swelled until it broke into motion. Like gravity snapped back into place.

You ran to him.

Threw yourself into his arms like your body remembered him before your mind caught up. Satoru’s hands were already there—one at the base of your spine, the other curling up between your shoulder blades—holding you like he’d been starved of touch. Like he’d been holding back for too long, carrying the weight of absence in every fiber of his being, and only now could finally breathe again.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaled like the scent of you could put his soul back together. You clutched at the back of his coat, fingers curling tight in the fabric as tears stung your lashes.

“I didn’t know when,” he whispered, voice rough against your ear. “I just knew I had to come back.”

And you didn’t let go. You weren’t ready to.

Because this was home. Not the house. Not the walls. Just him. And you, wrapped around him like maybe this time… maybe this time, he'd stay a little longer.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Later, when the lights were low and the warmth of your reunion had softened into something still and quiet, you lay beside each other in the hush of the room. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but full. Full of unspoken questions, lingering touches, and the hum of two heartbeats finally side by side again.

His hand rested over your ribs, thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles against your skin, like he was trying to memorize your breathing. Your leg was tangled over his, your face tucked into the space beneath his collarbone where his pulse beat steady and strong.

You wanted to ask how long he’d be here. The words were right there on the edge of your mouth. Heavy. Bitter. Aching. But you didn’t.

And Satoru didn’t say either. Maybe because he didn’t know. Maybe because saying it would ruin this moment. Maybe because neither of you wanted to admit the clock had already started ticking again.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed your temple. Slow. Thoughtful. A kiss that said I know.

You turned into him just a little more and allowed yourself to pretend that this could be the new normal. That his bag wasn’t still by the door. That the world didn’t need him. That he wasn’t already halfway gone in his mind, even as his arms stayed wrapped around you.

“Did you eat today?” he asked, voice soft, breaking the silence like a hand brushing the surface of still water.

You smiled into his chest. “Eventually.”

He chuckled under his breath, that small, quiet sound that always made your stomach flutter. “Still terrible at taking care of yourself, huh?”

“Only when you’re gone,” you whispered, and immediately wished you hadn’t said it out loud.

He didn’t respond. But his arm tightened around you. And that said enough. Neither of you asked the question. Neither of you had to. Because love like this always knew when time was borrowed. Yet, you held on anyway.

The bed finally felt warm. The house you built together seemed full once more.

The extended silence that settled between you was comfortable, but you knew he was holding something in. You always did. His stillness wasn’t just rest—it was restraint. A quiet kind of tension that curled in his shoulders, even as he held you like he’d never let go again.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you murmured, idly tracing the contours of his bare chest. Satoru managed a quiet chuckle in response.

“Yeah? Thought I was being subtle.”

“You’ve never been known for your subtleties.”

He let out a light laugh at that, he knew that to be true. His fingers traced absent shapes along your spine, a soft and sweet reciprocation of contact.

“I hate being away from you,” he responded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say other than exactly what he was feeling. He knew it wasn’t enough, but what more could he say?

Your response was simple.

“I know.” You wanted to say more, but you couldn’t muster the courage to do so.

“I wish that was enough to make me stay,” he replied. At his words, you shifted a little, tilting your head to look at him. Your eyes searched his, not to change his mind—but just to see him. To see as much of him as you could before he was gone again.

“You don’t have to explain. I knew what loving you meant.”

Satoru almost sighed at your words, but his breath caught in his throat at the look in your eyes.“That doesn’t make it fair,” he noted, holding your gaze.

“Fair’s got nothing to do with it. I’m proud of you, you know. What you do. Who you are.” After you spoke, you hesitated for a moment, for just a bit too long. Too long for his comfort.

“But?”

And there it was. The perfect opportunity to say how you felt. You sat silently for a moment, taking a small breath. Selfishness be damned, it needed to be said.

“But… sometimes I wish you were just mine. Just here. No heroics. No goodbyes. Just… us.”

At your confession, he shifted in bed and turned to face you more fully, brushing your hair behind your ear. His voice was thick and low, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. His response was simple, but his words held so much more.

“I think about that too. More than I should.”

“Then why don’t you stay?” Your reply was quick, laced with a hint of desperation that you couldn’t quite hide.

Silence followed. You almost regretted asking. Almost. Satoru didn’t want to answer, but he knew you deserve the truth.

“Because if I did… I’d be choosing comfort over purpose. And someday I’d look at myself and wonder if I let the world burn just to hold on to something safe. Even if that something was… everything to me.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing down the sting. Your voice was barely a whisper. “And what if I’m the one who burns instead?”

Your words hit him hard. Satoru knew it was coming. He shifted you closer, his breath against your temple. He didn’t respond right away. He squeezed you even tighter than before, not just to comfort you, but also himself. Just to hold onto you. His silence wasn’t empty—it was deafening.

One of Satoru’s hands found yours between the two of you, fingers curling slow and sure. He noticed you were looking down at where the two of your bodies met, undoubtedly lost in thought. With his free hand, he traced the curve of your jaw before lightly tilting your chin so you would meet his gaze. And only when he had your full attention did he speak again.

“Then let me stay with you, like this.”

Because, god, if it were up to him, just him, he’d stay. He’d stay every time. He’d never pack a bag again. Never watch you from the doorway, trying to memorize the way the early light touched your skin. He wouldn't have to keep kissing you like it might be the last time. Wouldn’t have to whisper promises into your hair that always felt too thin, too breakable.

He pressed the softest kiss onto your forehead, lingering there for a breath longer than necessary—as if trying to imprint the scent of your skin and the sweetness of your shampoo into his memory. His lips traveled downward, brushing the shell of your ear, so delicate it sent a quiet shiver through your spine.

You shifted closer, instinctively, impossibly—like there was still space left to close, like you could fold yourself into his very being if it meant not losing him again.

His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and aching, before he whispered again—low, reverent, like a secret meant only for you.

“Let me feel you… while I still can.”

The words sank beneath your skin, deeper than touch, wrapping around your ribs and blooming in your chest. They weren’t just desire—they were desperation disguised as devotion. A plea dressed up as a promise. And in that moment, you weren’t just his lover. You were his anchor. His refuge. The one thing he couldn't carry with him, but couldn’t leave behind either.

You closed your eyes, your jaw tight like you were holding back something you didn’t trust yourself to say. Your hand slipped to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that started soft—careful and delicate—but deepened just as quickly, a desperate need blooming between you like a bruise you never wanted to heal.

You pulled away only momentarily, pausing just long enough to search his eyes, and his yours. Not a single word was said, not that it was necessary. The air was thick with a pertinent need.

Satoru kissed you again, with the kind of reverence people saved for prayers. His touch was steady, but there was tension beneath it—like he was fighting the urge to hold you too tightly, too completely. The sheets shifted around you as you moved closer, bodies finding each other like a ritual—something sacred in its repetition, even if it never got any easier. There was no rush. No wild hands or frantic breath. Just the two of you, learning each other all over again in the silence between heartache and goodbye.

He moved inside you like a promise, deep and passionate, like he never wanted you to forget how he felt. Your breath caught in unison, eyes locked, hands gripping. Everything was soft and needy, then hard and desperate, then soft again. It wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about presence. About staying with each other, fully, for as long as you could.

And then he whispered your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

You held him tighter, legs curling around him, grounding him. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your foreheads pressed together, breath tangled. There were no masks left between you—just the raw, trembling truth of what it meant to love someone who couldn’t always stay.

“I love you.” His voice broke when he said it. A light crack in his cadence that nearly shattered you right then and there.

And you believed him—because it wasn’t just a vow. It felt different from all the other times he had said it. It was a confession. Heavy with all the things he couldn’t give you, and still full of everything he could. In that moment, there was no distance. No responsibility. No leaving. Just two souls clutching at the space where they still touched—desperate to make it last.

You kissed him like you were trying to memorize the shape of goodbye on his mouth. And he kissed you like he’d never let go. Because he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You were far too important for him to ever consider that.

His rhythm slowed again, drawn out like he was trying to stretch time. You cupped his face, kissing him deeply, tears slipping down your cheeks without shame. He caught them with his lips, like he could erase them, like he could kiss away the ache sitting heavy in both your chests.

Your foreheads touched, breathing intertwined. The world disappeared until there was only this– only him, only you.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered against his mouth.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Me either.”

His hands slid along your back, reverent in his touch, like he was relearning the feel of you, memorizing every inch. And maybe he was already grieving the space that would soon grow between you again.

But here, now, in this fleeting pocket of warmth and pleasure, he poured all of it into you. With every word he didn’t know how to say, his body pressed deeper into you. Every apology he couldn’t speak aloud made him grip you even tighter. Every ’I love you’ he wanted you to carry when he was gone was whispered into your ear.

It wasn’t just desire. It was devotion. A silent vow carved into every moment with every rock of his hips. Your legs wrapped around him even tighter as if to hold him in place, like you could anchor him to this moment, to this bed, to you. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if tasting the sorrow on your tongue and offering comfort in return.

“I need you to remember this,” he breathed against your skin, his pace slow as he buried himself impossibly deep within you. “Remember me. Not the goodbyes. Not the distance. This.”

You could only nod in response, tears composed of both pleasure and heartache still falling. He kissed you harder— his own way of begging time to stop.

And for a while, it did. Right there, in the quiet thunder of two hearts refusing to let go.

You held each other as you both came undone, not in fireworks, but in something quieter, deeper—like a tide breaking gently against the shore. The two of you remained like that—forehead to forehead, heart to heart, bodies intertwined—as the room settled around you.

The world was quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breath and the soft hum of the night beyond the windows. His body was still draped over yours, his weight not heavy, but grounding. He felt safe. Satoru’s face was buried in the curve of your neck, his breath warming your skin.

Neither of you moved right away. The room was dim and soft and heavy with everything you felt. And in that fragile, fleeting stillness, you both allowed yourselves to pretend. Pretend there was no morning. No leaving. No missions. No world that needed him more than you did. Just this, just you and him, wrapped up in warmth and want and aching love, breathing together in the quiet aftermath of everything.

And for now—that was enough.

The world outside could wait. Just for a little longer.

˙⊹ author notes: im so happy to be back. i was putting a lot of pressure on myself to write constantly and follow the trends and fit in on here and it took a lot out of me. i can't promise consistent posts, but i can assure you that i will be writing things that im incredibly proud of, and i hope that y'all enjoy it as much i enjoy writing it. also, i know the smut isn't the smuttiest of all time. i was going for a different angle on this one shot. i hope it still tickled y'all as much as it did me. also, i might post a little life update because it has been sooo long since you have heard from me. just wanna keep y'all in the loop despite my absence xx

233 notes · View notes

starmaidengarden · 2 days ago

Text

𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 !

contexts: just some adorable headcanons about the Heartslabyul boys

— Riddle : Trey : Cater : Ace : Deuce: x gn!reader. no cw/tw. cute headcanons. pt1! Pic: Leo08ph on twt, dividers: uzmacchiato

༘˚₊➳❥Riddle

First, I don't think this is a surprise to anyone but he gets flustered very easily. he doesn't know what to do with his hands when you hold them. practically going into full shutdown mode if you kiss him on the cheek.

Riddle tries to come off as strict and respectable, but when he relaxes, he says things like, “You did well… I’m proud of you,” only to instantly stiffen as if to say, “Oh no, was that too much?”

He makes tea for you every morning and you can bet he'll pack you snacks. He'll give you some excuse like, “I thought you might need a boost today,”

He organizes perfect tea parties with fresh scones, fruit tarts (thanks to Trey), and your favorite tea at just the right temperature. preparing everything and acts like it’s no big deal.

He overthinks everything you do. If you brush his hand while walking together, he’ll spiral for the rest of the night wondering, “Was that on purpose? Were they cold? Should I have offered my coat?!”

He’s not so big on PDA. He will probably allow hand-holding but only that. If it's inside then he will give you all the affection you want.

You might be his S/O but you aren’t exempt from being punished accordingly if you break any rules but maybe he’ll go a teensy bit soft on you.

He will be on you 24/7 to make sure you are doing okay in classes. He’s only strict on you because he loves you and wants you to succeed.

༘˚₊➳❥Trey

He makes special desserts just for you based on your preferences. If you casually mention liking strawberry shortcake once, congratulations! That’s now your official treat.

When he's flustered or stressed, he bakes to calm down, and you're always the first person he shares the “test batch” with.

His touches are so gentle and sweet, like the lightest caress, as he playfully brushes crumbs off your face or gently pats your head in a quiet moment.

He notices when you’re tired or when you just need a break from people—he'll helps you without making a fuss.

His gaze lingers longer than you'd expect; he looks at you as if memorizing every detail for later—your eyelashes, your smile lines, all of it.

He quietly does things to make your life easier, like carrying your books, adjusting your schedule, or making your snacks. Yet when you thank him, he just shrugs it off with, “I don’t mind. I like doing things for you.”

He’s like a pocket-sized survival kit, always prepared with tissues, bandages, or spare pens; essentially, he's a walking “prepared boyfriend.”

He listens incredibly well; you mention something just once, and he remembers it months later.

He always walks you home after late club meetings or dorm activities—always.

༘˚₊➳❥Cater

Deep down, he’s a bit worried about being forgotten or replaced, so when he falls, he falls hard.

At first, he flirts casually, but when he realizes his feelings are real, he pauses for a moment and then says, “You… really mean a lot to me. Like, seriously. A bit scary, huh?”

If you tell him he doesn’t have to put on a show around you, he’ll show you his softer side, resting his head on your shoulder in comfy silence.

He’s somewhat into PDA, he’s not necessarily against it and he wasn’t one to deny you whenever you get the urge to touch him. Holding hands? Okay! A kiss on the cheek? Okay! Hugs? Also Okay! He would accept all of that with open arms. And maybe he’ll put in a little kiss here and there when he can, he can’t help but feel a little bit mischievous whenever you’re near.

Sends you sweet random texts like “Thinking of you right now” (Translation: he’s missing you and hoping you’re having an great day!)

He created entire playlists and claims it’s just for fun, but you know it’s special!

Surprises you with flowers or little trinkets saying, “Saw this and thought of you~!” because he loves making you smile.

Personalizes your contact in his phone with cute hearts, sparkles, and a picture of you laughing—his absolute favorite, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

Always capturing candid moments of you—your camera roll is filled with adorable shots labeled “cutie caught off guard!”

༘˚₊➳❥Ace

Constantly teasing you, dropping half-hearted pick-up lines just to see you roll your eyes—but if you ever return the energy? He short-circuits. “You’re blushing!” — “No I’m not, shut up!!”

Give you snacks he “just happened to grab two of” even though he clearly picked them because you mentioned liking them once.

He secretly sketches cute little doodles of you in his notebooks—but denies it if you happen to find them.

He'll lend you his hoodies saying, “Just make sure to give it back!” But deep down, he loves seeing you wear them.

If you’re having a bad day, he won’t make a big deal out of it—he’ll just find some dumb ways to make you laugh.

He’ll argue with you over stupidity things like “who gets the last cookie” just to be bratty… and then sneak some cookies into your bag later.

Loves inside jokes. He’ll start referencing that one moment from two months ago just to make you smile when no one else gets it.

Late-night convos while lying upside down on a couch, Sneaking snacks into class, Mock arguments about who’s cooler (he always says it’s him—but still smiles when you insist it’s you). Him doing dumb magic tricks with cards just to impress you, Secret, soft forehead kisses when you’re half asleep.

He tries. Like, he really tries. And sometimes he messes up because he’s immature or overthinks it, but he always owns up to it. “I was being kinda dumb earlier, huh? …Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

He cares a lot about you! SOS him and he’ll come running as fast as he can to help you with everything you need. He wants you to rely on him whenever you need help.

༘˚₊➳❥Deuce

Not much changes after you start dating. You still hang out with friends, go to classes together and still get into some trouble together just like always. However, he feels happier and more at ease now that you two are dating.

He's excited to explore all the romantic couple activities he's seen in films or read about, enjoying them with you without Ace and Grimm around.

Will walk you to class like it’s a knight’s duty, even if it makes him late.

Tries to act chill when he’s flustered, but ends up stumbling over his words and laughing awkwardly. It’s adorable.

He enjoys hearing you talk about your interests, even if he doesn’t grasp every detail—he loves seeing your excitement and energy.

Loves doing small favors for you. most of the time, he shows his care through acts of service. Carrying your books, walking you home, making sure you eat—but always brushes it off with, “It’s nothing, Just being helpful.” (But then he glows the rest of the day.)

Gets ridiculously excited over small thank-yous or praise—it fuels him for the whole week.

He’s incredibly soft with animals. He’ll crouch down to help a baby bird or carry a caterpillar off the path so it won’t get stepped on.

238 notes · View notes

mintyys-blog · 3 days ago

Note

Hello! I'm here again. Could you ignore my first request? I wrote some things wrong (I think) and I got a little paranoid lol. It's just that English isn't my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes.

I wanted to make a request with Mark and the other variants with a reader who is a magical girl like the one in Madoka Magica. Just like Mami Tomoe, being someone talented in combat but a bit absent-minded. I'd love to see the sinister Mark and the Viltrumite loving his silly magical girl.

By the way, what is your favorite Mark variant?

HEADCANON | mark variants x mami tomoe! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

my favourite mark variant would probably be prisoner mark or shiesty mark. I just absolutely love their design! I really wish they got more screen time

Mainstream Mark:

• At first, he completely underestimates you. You twirl around, shout sparkly catchphrases, and summon weapons out of flowers and hearts? He assumes you’re just for show.

• That assumption does not survive your first team-up. One minute you’re giggling, the next you’re gracefully sniping monsters with giant ribbon rifles from 200 yards away.

• He’s stunned into silence the first time you summon a cannon made of roses.

• Constantly amazed by how you’re simultaneously the strongest magical girl he’s ever seen and also the kind of person who gets distracted by shiny rocks mid-battle.

• He finds your absentmindedness adorable, even if it gives him heart attacks. “Babe, you can’t just walk into traffic while talking about tea blends—there are alien tanks out there.”

• Tries to help you focus during battles by giving you a mission kiss on the forehead. It usually works… for like 5 seconds.

Sinister Mark:

• At first? He’s absolutely ready to turn you into paste. Until you float in, all ribbons and pastel chaos, and take down a dozen of his soldiers without blinking.

• The moment you stop mid-air to ask if he wants a cupcake after the fight, he’s obsessed.

• Your duality fascinates him: deadly, elegant combat with a soft, absent mind. It’s the unpredictability that draws him in.

• He’s possessive in a quiet, intense way. No one’s allowed to even look at you funny—he’ll vaporize them.

• Calls you “his little weapon of mass destruction.” It’s said lovingly.

• You once forgot which side you were on mid-fight and asked him if he wanted to team up “just for fun.” He’s still not over it.

• Sinister Mark enjoys watching you break people with a smile. He’ll be hovering above, arms crossed, while you politely destroy his enemies.

Viltrumite Mark:

• You confuse the hell out of him. Magic? Ribbons? Love-based power? What is this nonsense?

• That is, until you parry his punches with sparkly barriers and nearly blow him into orbit with a glitter bomb-lance.

• He ends up fascinated with your power. Not just because it rivals Viltrumite strength, but because it comes from something he can’t understand: pure, chaotic heart.

• You teach him about Earth shows like Magical Petal Squad and insist he helps you practice transformation poses. He does it. Grudgingly. But he does it.

• He secretly likes watching you float around while humming battle music. It’s become oddly comforting.

• If you space out mid-battle, he’s the one who shouts “Focus!” while covering your blind spot.

• He calls you “sweetheart,” and says it with the kind of reverence Viltrumites usually reserve for war gods.

251 notes · View notes

asxgard · 8 hours ago

Text

Semper Fi | [4/8]

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!doctor!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: Jack finally pulls you in. You try not to fall too quickly.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: trying to combine my initial thoughts of Abbot and all the things we learned in the finale lol (plus the comment that he’s a widower) it took a hot minute

I had such an urge to go back and edit the three previous parts so I did lol it didn’t feel good enough. I wanted it to be better for you guys and I think it is now.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: age gap, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, jealous!Jack, unwanted advances (not from Jack), hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, Jack is a widow, alcohol

not beta read

Jack arrived at your door promptly at 7:30 in the morning, and you were thankful you had the day off. You weren’t sure how you would have found a private moment otherwise in the hallways of the hospital.

He came with breakfast and coffee, with that look you were slowly learning to read: longing.

When he placed the bag of food on the counter, along with the two cups of coffee — one shockingly sweet and the other unfathomably bitter — his hands found you immediately after. His fingers dug into your hips and pulled you flush against him.

Staring into your eyes, you felt like his body was coiled tightly in restraint, stuck between bracing for a hit and holding himself back. You held your hand to his chest and waited, hoping he might find the words.

“I don’t want you to look back on this in ten years and—”

“I won’t.” You said, so definitively, watching him with wide doe eyes.

His eyebrows furrowed and he struggled, “You’re young, and I’ve got a fuckin’ mess of skeletons in my closet—”

“And if I wanted you anyway?”

His eyes snapped to yours, his grip tightening. The air was thick, and at the sight of his darkening eyes, it seemed like he had struck a match in your stomach. His silence lingered.

“I like this.” You said, like it was a secret. Perhaps it still was, but now you had a craving for it to be real. To be revealed.

His grip on your tightened, eyes flicking between yours, studying you. All sharp edges and vice; you wanted him to devour you.

“I want you, Jack.” You whispered, your fingers tightening on the hem of his scrubs, looking down at your hands. “I’m just waiting for you to want me back.”

He curled a finger under your chin and forced you to look him in the eyes. “That’s what you think? That I don’t want you?”

You nodded absently, holding his gaze, heart thumping wildly inside your chest. You hoped your ribcage would contain it. His eye contact was sending a buzz throughout your system — heavy and close and so scarily intimate — like an exposed livewire thrumming just beneath your skin.

“You keep pushing me away whenever I get close.”

“I’ve been trying to spare you. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t want this to be some big mistake for you. I don’t want you to look back and think you fucked up, giving your attention to some guy nearly twice your age, and I think you might.” He paused, though never broke eye contact, “It’s not a lack of want, sweetheart, it’s the overwhelming urge of it. I just don’t want to dive into the deep end before you know what you’re doing.”

His words, whispered huskily to you, went straight to your core and all your desire for him bubbled over, like a pot of water left boiling too long.

“I know what I’m doing. I have since we started…whatever this is.” You said, eyes looking over his face. “I don’t want to live in fear of what could be, or what I could think in ten, twenty years. I’m an adult and I trust myself to know what I want. Right here. Right now.”

“Then say it again. Mean it. Say it again and I’m yours.”

You were glad you were flush against his chest, back against the kitchen counter, otherwise your knees might have buckled. It was a new feeling — a rush of emotion flooding through you to be wanted so completely, so carnally.

You knew what the words would mean. It was more than a simple string of words, it would be a declaration of a promise. A promise you had every intention of keeping.

“Jack, I want you.” You breathed out, hoping the intensity of your gaze would give away how serious you were about those words.

His lips were on yours, rough and hungry, hand on your jaw moving to the back of your head to hold you close. A small noise of surprise echoed in the back of your throat, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. He was not gentle and you did not want him to be, finally letting go of all the restraint you had tried to hold onto waiting for this…waiting for him.

Your top rode up just enough to where Jack’s hands met the skin on your hip, and it sent your heart into a race. You gripped his shirt and held him to you, needing something to steady you, your thoughts in a frenzy.

Jack’s hands were everywhere, clouding your mind with the feeling of his skin on yours. Tight on your hips, lingering over your thighs before gripping them hard, kneading at your ass before moving up to caress over your stomach. The smell of him — something warm and woodsy — mixed with the feel of him made you dizzy. The moment was quickly barrelling further than you had gone with him in the past, and it felt like something finally clicked into place.

You unraveled, attempting to mold yourself to him, clinging tightly so he couldn’t slip away. Tongues met and he tasted like desire made flesh, moving in a synchronized dance you had never learned, but with him, did not need to. It felt effortless, swallowing his breath and heat, and you begged for it to consume you.

“Bedroom.” You murmured, soft and urgent.

He hummed, low and irresistible, rumbling equally through your chest.

You stayed tangled while you made your way to your bedroom, Jack’s hands never leaving your skin. You pulled at his top and he quickly discarded it to the floor of your room, your hands eagerly taking in the new canvas of skin. Hard muscle dappled with freckles, a soft pink scar just below his collarbone and another near his navel met your gaze. He only let you marvel for a moment before his lips were back on you.

Once on your bed, you pulled off your shirt and did not watch where it landed, while Jack helped you with your pants. Deliberate and rushed, but no less caring. He hovered over you, attaching his mouth to your throat, his tongue licking at your pulse point. His scruff scratched at your skin as he moved, making you moan.

“We can stop here—”

“No.” You protested, “Please.”

He smirked, all knowing and eyes all heat. A shiver ran down your spine, pooling in your abdomen. You pulled him back down to meet your lips in a searing kiss and unfiltered lust invaded your senses.

Jack was quick to remove his pants before crawling on top of you, kissing up your body. You moved your hips up in search of friction, hoping he might have mercy on you. One hand gripped your hip and held it down while his lips kept exploring your skin.

You let out a tiny whine, “Jack.”

“You say my name like that again, and I won’t be able to control myself.” He said, wolfish and raw.

You met his gaze, clouded with the hazy desire running wild through your system, “Then don’t.”

He was only you again, pulling at your underwear until they were off. His fingers met the wet heat between your legs and he cursed, low and devine, before moving them through your folds. He paused long enough for you to know why.

You reached for your end table, and Jack moved over you to pull a condom from the drawer. He sat back long enough to put it on, quick and precise and not leaving you to want long.

His mouth met your breast, sucking on the nipple until you let out a breathless moan. You gripped his shoulders, knowing you would likely leave behind crescent shaped indents of your nails, but you had no room to care. Your hips moved back up, and you felt the heavy weight of his cock, eliciting a whimper.

He gripped your waist again and pushed your hips back down. You whined again, needing to know what he would feel like inside you. You felt him smirk against your skin.

You tugged at his curls, and it seemed his resolve finally snapped, finding your mouth again. He braced an arm next to your head, bringing the other to help guide himself inside you, but not before rubbing a few circles on your clit. It drove you mad.

His eyes were on yours, steady, consuming and intense.

“Please, Jack,” you said breathlessly, “Need to feel you.”

He indulged you, pushing his hips forward and allowing you to feel the stretch of him. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you tried to find purchase, gripping his shoulders, the sheets, his back. He pushed in until he was at the hilt, nestled perfectly in your tight heat, and he let out a low groan.

“Fucking Christ.”

The coil in your lower abdomen tightened and you unintentionally clenched around him. He hissed at the sensation, bringing his hips back enough to snap back to yours. The pace he set was brutal, rough without being too much, and the drag of his hips made your eyes glossy as the feeling steadily got overwhelming.

He brought the pad of his thumb between you, circling your clit until you were a moaning mess beneath him. The heat coiled through your belly, twisting impossibly tight, and you brought your legs around his hips to hold him to you. Your eyes closed tightly, trying to focus on the feeling — so full, so complete, so wrecked.

He tsked lowly, voice like velvet, “Nuh uh, eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You met his hazel eyes, eyebrows drawn in, “Feels so good, oh my god.”

He kissed you, sucking on your bottom lip before dragging his teeth across it, like he was trying to commit your taste to memory. He moved his head back to look at you, taking in your wide-eyed gaze, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

The rhythm that he fell into was steady, hard and precise. Each thrust winding that coil tighter, making you feel like you might explode, as he brushed something inside that you had never felt before. Deep and unexplored. The burning expanded through your system, licking up your insides and scorching you.

“Please…please.” You begged, eyes screwing shut again. “Jack…”

Jack bit down on the skin of your neck, sucking, before working his way up your throat and across your jaw. Each snap of his hips feeling more exhilarating than the last.

“Let me see those pretty eyes, come on, let me see.”

You moaned, trying to open your eyes so you could look at him, but the precipice of heat was growing far too strong, coiled and blistering.

“Let go for me, sweetheart, come on. I can feel how close you are.” He told you, face above you, nose nearly touching your own. “Give it to me.”

That white-hot euphoria overwhelmed your senses and sent you hurtling over the edge. You could not contain the sounds that left your mouth, delectably sinful, while you opened your eyes to look up at him. Eyebrows pulled tight, you did everything to focus on his eyes. You felt yourself clench tightly around him as he fucked you through it, the burning pulsing orgasm, and you fully surrendered under the waves of it.

His thrusts steadily grew sloppy, his breath ragged against your throat and you squeezed your legs around his hips. His features contorted with pleasure with his own climax approaching, saying soft praises in your ear.

“So good f’me, fuck.” He breathed.

You grabbed his face to pull him into a kiss, hands in his hair as you held onto him, aftershocks making you drunk on him. His kiss was wet and messy, equal parts hot and languid, before his hips stuttered and you were swallowing his low groan. The sound alone made you tighten around him again, making a stream of curses exit his mouth.

The next kiss he gave you was passionate. Like a confession translated by tongue.

You tried to control your breathing when you met his eyes, and something seized in your heart. You tried not to whine when he removed himself, laying on his back and pulling you close.

Nothing needed to be said as you laid there together. You listened to his pounding heart as his chest moved up and down with his breathing. You splayed a hand on his chest and savored him. Neither of you moved to get up.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your smile came easily, “You can’t be rid of me that easily.”

He kissed the crown of your head, something so simple feeling scarily intimate.

You hummed, tracing a finger over his chest lazily, trying to memorize each contour, each scar to memory. You shifted, attempting to get closer, but his grip tightened.

“Not yet. I don’t want this to be over yet.”

“It’s only just begun.” You smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly on the mouth, but you stayed put. Settling your head back onto his chest, you relished in the moment, in the aftermath, in the afterglow.

With one arm wrapped around you, he drew circles onto your skin. The quiet was warm and comforting, but as your senses returned, you began to wonder what this all was. You wanted to give it a name.

“My therapist says I find comfort in the dark.”

Your breath caught, not trying to startle the moment — fearing it might flee. You waited.

“That’s why I only work nights, I think.” He swallowed, “And then you came along and made me think the daylight might not be so bad.”

You found it incredibly endearing and your cheeks heated, “And you make me think that nights can be just as good.”

He smiled.

—

After spending the majority of the weekend curled up in each other, you knew something was blooming. But you didn’t want to overwhelm it, or smother it, so you let it grow in the moments you shared. Unhurried, but not wholly uncomplicated.

You found you were glad to be back on nights, for despite how hectic they were, it had your grumpy old man. ‘Your’ sent tingles down your spine, fuzzy and electrifying.

If anyone at work noticed the shift, they didn’t say anything. How you fell into pace with each other with an effortless ease, handing him an instrument before he even asked. Or how he anticipated your needs without any words, placing a coffee in front of you midway through your shift or pulling over the crash cart before you called for it.

It was Ellis who picked up on it first, after you had coded a patient and brought them back without needing to say more than two words to Jack.

She raised an eyebrow at you, “So, you and Abbot?”

You sipped your coffee and tried to act nonchalant, typing away on your keyboard. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I really don’t.” You lied, trying to ignore the heat creeping in.

You and Jack had not really discussed what you were, not with titles at least, but neither of you were seeing anyone else. It was serious between you, with an officiality that did not need words. You both also just did not want HR sniffing around, so it went unsaid to keep it to yourselves.

Ellis huffed out a laugh, “Don’t look now, but he’s coming this way.”

You immediately turned to look behind you, but Jack was nowhere to be found.

Ellis chuckled, “Yeah, you definitely don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You scowled, but it was light, “There’s a bowel obstruction in South-10, you should go check on that.”

She frowned, “Now that’s just cruel.”

You raised an eyebrow, shooing her.

Jack walked out of one of the rooms to your right, watching Ellis walk away and stopping next to you.

“What was that about?”

You gave a shrug and you barely concealed your smirk, “Ellis seems to think there’s something going on between us.”

His eyebrows raised, but there was that crack of a smile. Your chest warmed at the sight of it.

“I wonder what gave her that impression.” But his smile was knowing.

You got back to your charting, eyes lingering on Jack’s retreating form, watching as he disappeared into Central-8.

Shen rolled over on the stool, sipping his iced coffee, “So, is there? I’ve got a Benjamin riding on it.”

—

Jack felt like there was something to say about what your relationship was — his therapist always suggested naming a feeling to take away its power. But did he want to take the power away from the feeling in his chest?

He supposed the advice was more partial to the negative feelings, but he still felt like he was failing at navigating the good ones. Frankly, it had begun to scare him — to feel something so real and raw. It had been years since his wife passed, and it had carved out a part of himself. A piece he had long forgone, never fully believing therapy would help him find it again. He was okay with that, until your light hit his face and warmed his skin. He had tried to shy away from it at first, close the curtains and shut it out.

There was a gratitude in himself for allowing it in.

Once he had a taste, it was all he craved. From pecks and longing kisses to soul-devouring make-outs, he had found the thrill in finally giving in to the tide. In allowing himself to be wanted so wholly, but he still wanted to take small steps in — even though he knew he was falling in deep.

The way he desired you was bordering on primal. It messed with his head and any logical thought that told him to push you away. He didn’t want you to get cut on any of his edges, or realize your mistake when you both fell too deep. It pained him to think you could ever regret him. He really was trying to allow you in, fully, but there was the fear it would swallow up your light until there was nothing left.

On a rare night out with several other attendings, accompanied by a few residents, he watched you. The bar was not quite overpacked, but certainly lively. It was nothing fancy, simple bar stools and booths, with a pool table and dart board.

Despite being engaged in the conversation with Robby, his eyes found you, laughing with Ellis. Protective without being possessive, and certainly not just a gaze reserved for friends. Robby picked up on it immediately.

Robby sipped his beer, eyes flickering between you and Jack. “You wanna tell me about that?”

Jack looked back at him, hiding his surprise well. He schooled his expression and scoffed, “That’s not vague at all.”

“Right,” he breathed out a small laugh, raising a challenging eyebrow, “so you wouldn’t mind if I go and buy her a drink?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed into slits, taking a sip of his beer. There was a heaviness in his gaze, a challenge all their own as he grit out, “Go for it.”

Robby seemed to find what he had been looking for and grinned. “Good for you, brother. Really. You deserve to be happy.”

“Not gonna chastise me? I’m half expecting someone to call out the elephant in the room eventually.” Jack said, looking away from the man and finding you again. His age. Your age. He frowned.

“I’m sure you’ve done that to yourself already and come out on the other side. Plus, you’re both adults.” Robby shrugged.

Jack took a long swig of his drink, watching as you approached the bartender, empty drink in hand.

He watched the man come up behind you, leaning close to you, placing his own drink on the bartop. No warning and a heat collected in his chest, hot and angry, swirling together until there was a storm. He could barely blame the man, you were gorgeous — and the man seemed much closer in age to you, and a tight feeling seized his stomach, like a cold seeping in.

You weren’t looking at him, but then your face contorted in disgust when the stranger’s hands lingered and Jack was out of his seat before he knew what he was doing.

When you looked to see him approached, he treasured the way relief washed over your face at the sight of him. Jack’s hand was on the man’s shoulder and pulled him back.

“Hands to yourself.” Jack said, tone like a knife’s edge — all danger and ice.

“Whoa buddy, we’re just chatting here—” the stranger scoffed, looking back to you in disbelief. But the way you were looking at Jack had the man look back to him with eyebrows raised. “Wait, you her boyfriend or something?”

“Or something.” Jack’s anger was controlled, the quiet kind, coiled up and ready to strike when necessary.

The stranger scoffed, looking between you, “Whatever, man,”

Jack released him and set his intense gaze on him until he backed off, walking back to the table with his friends.

You had a look on your face that took Jack a second to read: eyes half lidded with a wicked grin spreading across your lips, half desire, half teasing.

“I could’ve handled that.” You told him lowly,

“Yeah, well, I did already.”

The teasing smile remained, “You jealous, Jack?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, and your eyes flickered across his face.

“You really have no reason to be.” You said earnestly, “There’s only one man here I’ve had my eye on.”

There was that feeling again, curling around his heart and squeezing, warm and comfortable.

“Can’t blame a guy for not suspecting you to be with a guy like me.”

You saw right through it, “Ruggedly handsome? Devilishly charming?”

One side of his mouth lifted a touch at the compliment. The word sat on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I’d appreciate it if you respected my choice enough not to doubt it at every turn.” You told him, suddenly serious. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear I don’t care for the age thing, or the skeletons in your closet. Some random at a bar doesn’t change anything.”

He cleared his throat, “You’re right.”

A smile quickly turned into a smirk, “I know.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

You hummed, “Please.”

You ordered another drink, brushing your hand along his arm.

“You know, despite it all, I still found that kinda hot.” You whispered, leaning towards him, edging far too close for sultry in front of all your co-workers.

Though, if his open display just a few minutes prior had not clued them in on the budding relationship, your bedroom eyes would surely not faze them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shen and Ellis exchange a few bills.

He sipped his new beer, raising an eyebrow, “That right?”

The smile you gave him should have been a sin.

[ Next ]

Semper Fi taglist: @rosiepoise88 @stelliferousphoenix @fancyvoidtragedy

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @woodxtock @rachel2494

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69

All content taglist: @nixandtonic

I still feel like I’m not getting his characterization right. But maybe that’s just me being too hard on myself lol

#the pitt #the pitt max #jack abbot #jack abbott #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbott #dr jack abbot x reader #semper fi series #asxgard writes

139 notes · View notes