#and looking for places to hide in his own home

[humanjarvis]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[m0narche]

Mdni!! Heavy infantilization, Mommy kink, edging, orgasm control, soft/mean dom Suguru, mentions of pussy inspections, and spankings, pussy spankings, dumbification, afab reader.

All of this could have been avoided.

It's a humiliating sight really. You're completely nude in nothing but white stockings, positioned on your tummy, an arched back, head snuggly nested on Suguru's lap, ass in the air and two digits deep inside your wet throbbing pussy. Working, desperately chasing your peak only to let it all crumble down at the simplest command from your boyfriend.

Suguru came home earlier than you had expected, you didn't have time to cover up your tracks. The messy bed, your heavy breathing, the shaky legs, and the horrible attempt at hiding your favorite toy. It was obvious that you were touching yourself, disobeying mommy. He knew, you knew he knew, but he still made you go through it, he still bent you over then pushed your underwear aside before shoving one thick thumb into your entrance, and to his amusement, and your horror, it slid in just as smoothly as he had expected.

"M-mommy.." your desperate mewl is music to Suguru's ears. One large hand rests on your head, gently smoothing down your hair. "Yes, baby?" His thumb and index finger come together to gently pinch your bottom lip before releasing the plumb flesh.

" 'm s-sorry p-ple fu-uck! P-please let m-me cum mmhmm~"

An exasperated sigh followed by a deep chuckle, "No" and it feels like a death sentence. "No, baby. You did enough of that for one day didn't you?" He leans down to place a feather-light kiss on your temple and shivers run down your spine. "You did this to yourself, sweet thing. Mommy told you to wait didn't he? And disobedient babies don't get to make their cummies, right?" "I know bu-" he shoves his thumb into your mouth before pressing down on your tongue.

"We're talking back to mommy now, sweetie?" And just like that. Your brain melts into a puddle, your eyes dilate and you start to mindlessly suck and drool all over his palm. Suguru has got you trained by now, and there's nothing he loves more than reminding his baby of their place whenever they decide to act out.

You shake your head dumbly, and Suguru is satisfied. "Good..." he pushes his thumb deeper, clearly enjoying your messy state. "Good baby..don't stop making yourself feel good, little one"

Taunting.

"Mmm~ bu- i don't mmMhm~ feel g-ah-good mhm~ muh-mommy" his palm cups the side of your face to get a better grip ~"I know, i know"~ he coos "but i know mommy's baby is brave enough to take it". And you recognize this for what it is. A warning that he has no problem bending you over his lap again and spanking you raw. And the flesh of your ass stings and tingles at the memory.

You don't get to dwell on it for too long because your fingers speed up the pace on their own. You can feel that you're close again. An orgasm that you aren't allowed to enjoy is on its way. But maybe there's a chance. Raising your head up, you flutter your lashes and look at Suguru with big teary eyes "Mom-" "No" his dismissive tone and the sweet smile on his face are enough to make you deflate and resort to more begging, but before you get to whine he pulls his thumb with poping noise following close by.

"Get on your back, little one" It takes a second then two to fully register his order, then a third to process the pain of being left high and dry, and a fourth to notice that you had stopped fingering yourself without question simply because he said so, you sit there dumbfounded.

"Don't make mommy ask again" and you're jumping to lay on your back. Suguru wastes no time to position himself on his knees between your legs, he slides two large palms underneath your thighs, his fingers gently caressing the welts of your stockings. And he just looks so fond, so proud of how easily you melt into him, so proud of you.

"You know everything mommy does is for your own good, right?" He speaks slowly, almost concerned that you won't understand him otherwise. "Mhmm!!" You frantically nod, brain still scrambled from what could have been a wonderful afterglow –if you had behaved–, just eager to get this torture over with.

He fully cups your thighs and starts to elevate your legs, up up up up in the air until your knees meet your shoulders. The extreme movement causes a slight cramp, pushing to whine. "M-mommy-!! Gentle.."

He shushes you before adjusting to hold your ankles and hands together with one firm left hand. His right index finger sliding down your body, starting from your jaw, down to your neck, then to trace your collar bone, he takes a moments when he reaches your breasts, two long fingers paying special attention to your sore erect nipples, –relishing in your yelps and whimpers–, then its back to one finger until he reaches your navel, and his palm flattens over your lower abdomen, and he begins to squeeze then release, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, only serving to arouse you further, and it takes everything in you to hold back the urge to cry and beg and plead.

"I'm still so disappointed in my baby..." he releases the fat one last time before traveling down to your core.

Could he be?

A thick digit circles around your clit, massaging down your labia, tending to you everywhere but where you need him the most. But you can salvage that if you play your cards right.

"N-nghh... 'm so sorry mommy..promise I-i'll always behave f-from now on..I'll be g- gah!! Good..I love you.."

He continues to mindlessly trace circles, seemingly deep in thought.

" 'm so so so sorry, it'll never happen again..pinky promise.."

Still nothing, no reaction. Though you can tell you have his ear.

"Mommy..?" Only the lewd wet sounds of your fluttering cunt fill the room. "S-sugu- AH-!!" A loud ~smack!~ stops you dead in your tracks. Four long fingers come down on your pussy hard and it stung, Mommy's not happy, Oh you really did it this time.

"Would you like to try that again?" His voice feels like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped on your naked shoulders. "I'm sorry!" You scramble frantically "I'm so sorry!! I-I u-uh it slipped out!! I'm so sorry I wasn't thinking!" You start to absentmindedly chew on your bottom lip, You can feel your stomach drop, your body is getting hotter and your chest feels heavy.

"Exactly, sweet thing" he coos, then raises his hand again before coming down with another harsh smack on your poor puffy clit, completely ignoring your yelps and squeaks. "You weren't thinking" another smack "you never think, ever." he chuckles fondly "mindless little thing..." your pathetic apologies echo in the background, reminiscent of a mantra. "You need your mommy to guide you through everything, don't you?" "Y-yes!! Y-yes!" "I know, little one, i know" and another "but how else are you supposed to learn? You need this." The force increases, and so does your volume. "And mommy's here to give you just what you need. To make sure you stay in line" Tears are streaming down your face at this point, and you start to sob quickly after

"Dumb little thing, what would you do without me, hmm?"

Suguru seems to have had his fill of spanking you for now. He moves back a little to fully take you in in all of your glory. Warm, flushed, crying, sweating and panting. Suguru knows your poor body can't take anymore teasing, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't dying to stuff you full already, to watch you cry and beg and plead for more, sweetly asking mommy to please tend to you properly to paint your insides and and watch you cream all over his thick mean cock until you pass out.

Suguru lives to fuck you into true and absolute mindlessness, he loves how hazy and dopey you remain the following days, unable to properly function, barely able to process his words or respond at all. A little baby deer with unsteady; wobbling legs leaning on its mother. Just as it should be.

The mental image spreads a cheshire grin across his handsome features. And he decides that you've had enough, he releases your limbs from his hold, –not before making you hold your thighs back– then puts one big knee over your soaking wet cunt. And completely ignoring your mewls for attention, he frees his cock.

And there's your prize right there, your reward for being so patient, so sweet and well behaved springs out of his dress pants and stands pretty and erect, already dripping of pre. Your eyes light up and you start to salivate all over again.

The weight of his knee disappears and you're cold and needy again, and before you can whine. The sweet, sweet stimulation is back once more. Suguru is tapping his plump pink tip on your sensitive aching nub, causing devastating pleasure to course through your entire body. Your juices mix together, leaving a string of your wetness and his slick to connect you together each time he pulls away.

"You're lucky mommy's feeling nice today, baby" he fondles and kneads your thigh with his free hand, "Otherwise you would be in so much more trouble, sweet thing."

Before you can nod, smile, beg, thank him for being so sweet or even for punishing you, do anything really, all your senses are engulfed at once, Suguru thrusts into you at an animalistic pace, effectively fucking the last remnants of your brains out.

You've got a long night ahead of you.

[revelboo]

We’re sharing dog pics?? I’d like to add my contribution! 🫡

Sure! I love puppers!

🔞 dirty thoughts 🌶️

Puppy

ROTB Mirage

• “You’re like a puppy,” you mutter as he trails behind you. And even mass displaced like he is now, he’s taller than you and you can’t figure out why he does this around only you. If Noah’s around, he stays full size. It’s hard to not feel like he’s being condescending somehow as silly as the idea is. He’s always nice, if extremely flirtatious. Sitting on the oversized couch he and Noah had salvaged from who knows where, you flick a finger at him. Because he’s exactly like an overeager puppy following you around.

• “Is that a good thing? Cause going by your tone, I’m guessing not,” he says, frowning before flopping on the couch and you yelp when the legs on his end collapse under his weight and he almost accidentally turns the thing over backwards. “I’d be your puppy if you’d let me,” he adds, covering up his embarrassment with flirting. “You wanna put a leash on me, babe? Teach me to beg?”

• And the couch nearly goes over backwards again when he grabs the back of it and plants his other hand on the arm of the couch so you’re caged by him. Why does he have to be like that? Flirting and lying as easily as you breathe. “Cut it out, it’s not funny,” you mutter, because honestly? It kind of hurts. Painfully driving home the fact that you have a crush on your best friend and he jokes about wanting you because he likes to tease and fluster you, but he doesn’t really mean it.

• Can’t help hiding behind humor, teasing you, because if you knew how badly he’d kill to be on his knees looking up at you? That he really would beg at your feet for just a taste of you. What would you do if he kissed you right now? Slap him? Or would you kiss him back? Let him strip you and put his mouth on you? Spike stirring where it’s trapped behind his plating, he’s so sick of dancing around you, trying to get your attention. Flirting and teasing with a smile when he’s hurting to touch you. Hold you. Be inside you. “I’d be such a good boy for you, babe,” he growls, struggling to keep his smile in place.

• Blowing out a breath, you lay a hand on his helm and push at him. Can’t deal with him crowding you like this when you want him so much. It’s cruel. But it’s not like he realizes you actually like him that way. You’re two different species, so why would he? He’s just being himself and it’s not his fault you’d actually started falling in love with-and you freeze. You don’t actually love him, do you? He’s your best friend. But he looks up at you with a crooked grin and you realize the truth of it. And his smile falters the second he sees your expression.

• Frag. Didn’t mean to upset you, but you look like you’re about to start crying. “Oh, no. I’ll stop. Really,” he says, dragging you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you, chin on top of your head. “Hey,” he adds weakly. “You know me, I’m just teasing.” Hates himself for saying it, but he doesn’t want to drive you off and he can’t manage to make himself admit he wants you. That you’re his everything. And your happiness is more important than his own misery. This is enough. If he just keeps telling himself that, maybe he’ll start believing it.

[reidsism]

➳ DON’T WORRY — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist

spencer reid x fem!reader

in which spencer is having a tough time, and penelope garcia decides to take matters into her own hands, by sending him on a blind date

wc: 3.3k

warnings: none, just wine! all fluff and awkwardness and a shy blind date that’s not really a date but definitely feels like one (also my overabundance of italics)

a/n: my first spencer fic omg hi!!! pls go easy on me, i haven’t written in like three years and im still only on s9 of cm :,) also not beta’d lol

Spencer’s in a slump. He can’t deny it, even with the forced smiles and the constant “I’m fine”s to the team, day after day.

He knows the lack of sleep has manifested itself in his appearance—his undereyes are so dark he looks like he’s been punched, his hair is more unruly than usual, his clothes are rumpled. He’s even been having trouble focusing.  Stumbling over his words. Mixing up numbers when he rambles, which isn’t even all that often anymore.

He knows the team’s been concerned, too.

Hotch has been glancing at him more during briefings and keeping an eye on him when on cases.

Frankly, Spencer’s getting a bit annoyed by it all.

And then, when he’s staring through the report on his desk, Penelope strolls into the bullpen like a woman on a mission, planting herself next to him, her hands on her hips with a wide grin.

Spencer sighs. “Garcia—”

She interrupts him. “I have a proposal for you.” She’s not hiding her excitement well; her legs are jumpy, her heels stuttering in place on the linoleum where she stands, and she’s even slightly shaking, positively vibrating with eagerness. Spencer holds in a groan. “I feel like the Good Doctor needs a bit of a pick-me-up. So, I’ve done what I do, and made some calls, and oh,” she grins impossibly wider. “Long story short, you have a date!”

Spencer blanches. “What…?”

Garcia just nods. “I set up a reservation for you two at Gianni’s—it’s this totally adorable little Italian place, you’ll love it.”

He can’t quite make out the rest of her rambling. He feels like his hearing is going again, like his headaches have come back full-force. He coughs, successfully ending Garcia’s rant. She just looks at him, a flicker of worry crossing her bright features before she sighs, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. She sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Spencer, you can’t lie to me, like, at all. I know you,” she wiggles his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “You’re, well… you’re struggling. We can see it, and, hey,” she leans down to smile softly, more reassuring. “You don’t need to treat it like a date if you don’t want to. I just know someone who I think you’ll click with, and I think it’ll be fun. Y’know, to let loose for a bit? Eat some good food, drink some good wine, have a fun, not death-slash-kidnapping-slash-totally-terrible-things-based conversation? I mean, honestly, Reid, when’s the last time you had a normal conversation with someone outside of us?”

And, well… that makes Spencer pause. He thinks—really, genuinely thinks. About two weeks and four days ago, he made a call to a semi-local bookstore to see if they had a first-edition copy of The Outsider by HP Lovecraft in stock. (They didn’t.)

Since then, cases have taken up most of his time. He mostly spends his days working on cases at the BAU or reviewing the files at home.

Garcia knows she has him beat when Spencer hangs his head. She grins and claps her hands like she’s won a prize. “Yay! So, head home before it’s dark out, yeah? I’ll text you the details! It’ll be fun, don’t even worry about it!” She grins before heading back to her office down the hall, and Spencer sighs, putting his head onto his desk.

***

Spencer stands outside of the restaurant for, probably, longer than socially acceptable. He really would’ve rather not come, but then he started feeling guilty. He didn’t want to hurt Garcia’s feelings by refusing her, and he didn’t want to potentially hurt whoever she had set up to meet him by standing them up, even if he had no idea who they were.

The sign over the door says Gianni’s in blinking red neon, and he thinks the establishment seems… painfully fine, from his view into the windows. It’s not overly fancy, not exactly the vibe of a romantic first date. He mentally thanks Garcia for that.

He wrings his hands one final time before pulling open the glass door and stepping inside.

The hostess smiles brightly at him. “Hi! Welcome to Gianni’s,” she glances around him for a moment. “Party of one?” The smile turns to pity.

Spencer purses his lips in a tiny smile. “Uh, no. I have a reservation actually, under, uh…” he blinks. “Under Garcia?”

God, this is awkward. Spencer nibbles on his lower lip, glancing around the room as the hostess takes a look at the book beside the register. She nods. “Of course, sir. Right this way,” she grins, leading him to the back of the dining room, to a small table nestled in the corner right beside a huge window, the lights of the city nightlife shining through the glass.

He takes a seat with a small smile. The hostess says she’ll have someone over to take care of him shortly, and Spencer just nods before looking outside. It’s started to rain slowly tonight, small round droplets pattering the concrete sidewalk. He follows the lines they leave on the glass like a lure.

When the waitress comes over, she simply introduces herself—Sasha. She says she’ll come back once he’s settled, before leaving two laminated menus on the table and, strangely, taking the wine menu with her.

Spencer starts skimming over the menu, lower lip locked between his teeth. He worries the corner of the laminate between his fingers. Why is he so nervous? It’s not like this is a real date, after all, Garcia even told him it would just be something casual for him to get his mind off of work for a while. But he can’t help the strange stuttering in his chest when he thinks about it, meeting someone he doesn’t know for dinner. It’s not that he’s worried, no, he trusts Garcia. Even if her methods are, well, blunt, he knows that she knows him well enough not to drop a bomb on his lap in the form of a conversation partner.

He’s lost staring through the laminated cover of the menu when he hears footsteps nearing his little alcove in the corner. He glances up, and, well. Is it dramatic to say his breath catches? He’ll deny it if—or rather, when—Garcia asks.

You’re standing with a slightly nervous smile, the remnants of small raindrops clinging to your hair, with wet streaks shining on your skin. You wave shyly at him. “Hi, uh, are you Spencer?”

Spencer’s standing before you can even finish speaking, the chair scraping against the hardwood. He cringes. “Yeah- yes. Hi,” he smiles. 

You extend your hand to shake before pulling it away quickly. He frowns. “Penelope mentioned you don’t really do handshakes,” you chuckle. “Can I sit?” You point at the chair across from him. Spencer nods, sitting back down in his seat, watching as you shed your coat and hang it on the back of the chair, before taking a seat across from him. You smile at him, introducing yourself. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long? I didn’t expect the rain to hit when it did, and I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh; just the barest exhale from his nose. “Uh, no, don’t worry. I just got here. And I didn’t bring an umbrella either, so,” he grins back at you. “Don’t worry.”

“You said that twice,” you grin, all teeth. Spencer can feel the warmth flush his neck. “Don’t worry,” you echo. “Maybe the rain’ll let up by the time we leave.” You pick up the other menu, so casual, and Spencer watches you like a creature he’s never seen before.

His phone buzzes from its place on the table. You don’t look up from your menu, but Spencer can see a faint smirk on your face with a hint of mischief or mirth in your eyes. He scrambles to look at the screen, only to be met with a text from Garcia.

PG: Is she there yet? Call her pretty! And don’t forget to smile! You’ll be fine, Einstein <3

Spencer sighs, turning his phone off and tucking it into his messenger bag, hanging off the back of his seat. He murmurs a small apology, and you simply shake your head before lowering the menu. “Was it Pen?” At his guilty look, you grin and shake your head. “She was badgering me, too. Don’t worry.”

Spencer can't hold back his tiny smile. “We’re saying that a lot.” You just laugh. Any tension that might’ve lingered over the evening seems to dissipate into thin air.

It doesn’t take long for the waitress, Sasha, to return to the table, this time carrying a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of wine sticking out of the top.  Spencer’s eyes widen comically, and you can only laugh as Sasha sets the bucket down. “A 2003 Pinot Gris,” she explains as she takes the bottle out and begins to fill both your glasses.

“I- I didn’t order any wine,” Spencer says, a strange, pathetic tinge to his voice as he helplessly watches his glass get filled. He hopes it’s not too expensive.

Sasha shakes her head. “It was requested when the reservation was made. Miss Garcia said she had your bill covered tonight.” She places the open bottle back into the bucket, the ice shifting around it. “So don’t worry. I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders,” she winks before stalking off.

You both stare at each other for a breath. The silence is broken with your contagious laughter, picking up your glass and raising it for a toast. “Well then. To Pen!”

Spencer grins, slowly raising his glass to gently clink it against yours. “To Garcia.”

Conversation flows naturally, more easily than Spencer had expected. Even when he went on an unintentional ramble about how fettuccine alfredo isn't really Italian, and how the word “pesto” literally means “to crush”, and how Pinot Gris is a French wine, not Italian like Pinot Grigio, even though they’re basically the same thing, and how a wine like this tends to pair well with pasta because of its dry, acidic profile that can cut through thick, creamy sauces.

When Spencer cut himself off to take a full, proper breath, he freezes. You have the sweetest smile on your face, your head resting on your hand like you’re really listening, like you’re actually interested in his long, unnecessary rambling. He takes a gulp of his wine and cringes. God, he hates wine.

When the food gets to the table, you grin at him. “I thought fettuccine alfredo wasn’t really Italian?” It’s a tease, yes, but Spencer doesn’t hear a trace of malice in your voice.

He shrugs, twirling some onto his fork. “I mean, it was technically invented in Rome, but it’s not the same. This version of fettuccine alfredo is an Americanized recreation from 1920s Hollywood,” he says, taking a bite. “Still, that doesn’t mean it’s not good.”

You chuckle, taking a bite of your own food. You grin at each other across the table like teenagers with a secret. It’s nice. Comfortable.

“So,” you start, pouring the last bit of wine, splitting the amount between your glass and his. “Aside from your impressive knowledge of the wine menu, what do you do when you’re not reading about Italian cuisine?”

Spencer shrugs, setting his fork down. “I, uh, I read. A lot.”

You smile. “Yeah, you seem like a reader. Anything that’s not like, work or Italian food-related, though? I’m sure you have hobbies outside of… well, the obvious.”

He nods. “I guess. I’m kind of a nerd about a lot of things, honestly. Not that that’s a hobby,” Spencer clarifies, his shoulders relaxing at your chuckle. “I’m really into old, out-of-print books. You know, the ones that—”

“The ones that cost a small fortune and have that weird, dusty smell?” You cut in, simpering. Your eyes crinkle. Spencer finds it painfully sweet.

He smiles. “Exactly,” he exhales a laugh before taking a sip of his wine. “I like to collect them. It’s kind of… calming, I guess.”

“That’s really cool,” you grin. “Y’know, I used to be super into photography when I was younger. Like, just… taking random pictures of random things.”

Spencer tilts his head. “Really? Like a hobby, or—?”

“No, no,” you laugh. “Just random moments. Sometimes the best things happen when you’re not looking, y’know?” And if there’s a part of Spencer’s heart that flutters in understanding, that whispers “you, you, you,” like an echo in his chest? Well, that’s between him and his internal organs. “Anyway, I haven’t even touched a camera in years.” 

“Why not?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Life got busy, and now it just feels kind of silly to start again. I do kind of miss it, though, I guess. The idea of capturing something, like… pure. Unfiltered? That’s still pretty appealing.”

Spencer smiles softly. “Don’t worry,” and oh, there’s a warmth in his gut that has nothing to do with the wine. “You still have time.”

“You think so?” There’s a far-off, wistful look of something not unlike hope that swims in your eyes.

He nods, and Spencer wonders if it’s too early to consider buying you a gift.

By the time you’re done, you’ve shared a small plate of tiramisu between you both. The rain outside the window hasn’t let up; if anything, it looks like it’s only coming down harder now. You and Spencer are still mindlessly chatting as you stand, and he helps you put your coat on. You look back at him and smile like a fool.

You walk outside the restaurant, and Spencer stops at the hostess’ station at the front, slipping a fifty to Sasha, and smiling softly as she balks.

The rain is pouring. You groan, “I took the metro here,” you say, raising your voice over the sounds of fat droplets hitting the sidewalk.

Spencer nods, tugging his coat tighter around himself. “Me too,” he glances towards the street. “We can get a cab?”

You nod, watching as he rushes into the rain, out from the cover of the awning, to wave down one of the yellow cars driving past. He beckons you over as one slows to a stop at the side of the road.

You follow Spencer, sliding into the backseat behind him and sitting beside him as the driver turns. “Where to?”

Spencer clears his throat. “Uh, two stops, if that’s alright?” The driver simply nods, and you tell him your address, a faint nervous tremble in your voice.

The ride to your apartment is almost silent, save for quiet murmuring from the backseat. Like you two can’t help the conversation, like you can’t bear not talking to each other for even five minutes.

When the cab pulls up to your apartment complex, you grin at Spencer, about to speak, when he climbs out of the car behind you. He mutters to the driver that he’ll only take a minute. “What’re you doing?” you ask, looking up at him in confusion.

Spencer shrugs, leading you to the doorway to the building. “I wouldn’t be a very good date if I left you to walk to your door alone.” He says it so simply, so easily, it almost shakes him. He can’t believe how nervous he was, not that long ago, refusing to even think of this dinner as anything more than a way to get his mind off work.

You grin widely up at him, letting yourself inside and holding the door open for him. “I suppose you’re right,” you lead him to the elevator. “You wouldn’t be a very good date. But I wouldn’t hold it against you,” you tease, pressing the button for your floor—eight. Spencer tucks that information away. “Don’t worry.”

You wink, and Spencer can’t hold back his soft laughter. He’s quiet on the elevator ride, too busy just looking at you. You’ve managed to shatter every one of his expectations and preconceived notions in no more than a couple of hours. It’s strange, but welcome. You’re welcome, now. Always.

When the elevator opens, and you lead the way to your apartment door, you turn around to face him fully. “Thank you,” you smile softly, looking up at him. “I had a really good evening, Spencer. Thanks for not running off.”

He purses his lips, smiling back at you. “I had a really good evening, too.” His hands start to wring again. “And, I wouldn’t have run off. Don’t worry.”

You chuckle, a glint in your eyes. “Well, still. Thanks. For the company, tonight. And the conversation. And all of the new facts I’ve just learned about Italian cuisine.”

Spencer blushes. He shrugs, his hands moving to clutch at the strap of his messenger bag. “Glad to provide newfound knowledge, then,” he chuckles.

And before he can overthink it or second-guess himself, Spencer bends slightly, pressing a soft, feather-light kiss to your cheek. Your eyes go wide for just a moment before warmth floods your cheeks, and a grin that surpasses even sunshine itself takes over your face. You inhale shakily and unlock your door. You keep your eyes on Spencer as you step inside. “Thanks again,” you breathe. “I’ll um, I’ll text you?”

Spencer nods before beginning to walk backwards toward the elevator. He wishes you a good night and watches you slowly close your door.

He doesn’t step onto the elevator until he hears your door lock, and then he’s rushing back outside, into the pouring monsoon, before throwing himself into the backseat of the taxi.

The driver just laughs at him, at his cheeks all blotchy and red. Spencer clears his throat and awkwardly gives him his address.

He’s inside his apartment and toeing off his shoes when he realizes he never got your number.

Spencer freezes. He yanks his phone out of his bag with all the decorum of a deer in the road, and notices the abundance of missed texts from Garcia.

PG: How’s dinner going?? Is it awkward??? Did you say anything weird yet????

PG: Guess things are going well!! Don’t worry about the bill, it’s on me!!

PG: And DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT THE WINE!!!!!!!

PG: Oh I’m SO excited to see your face tomorrow, Reid! I told you this was a good idea!

PG: Here’s her number, in case you were too stunned and totally in love with her to ask for it ;)

Spencer sighs, grateful for the inclusion of your number that saves him the awkward embarrassment of asking for it. He can’t keep the smile off his face as he adds it to his contacts, and types out a quick message. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, and leaves his phone on the couch as he heads into his room to change.

Spencer: Hi, this is Spencer. Have a good night, and thanks again for dinner! It was really enjoyable. Hope you don’t mind me getting your number from Garcia, I only just noticed we hadn’t exchanged contact info :)

If Garcia ever asked, Spencer would deny it, but he runs out of his bedroom with his shirt still in his hand when he hears his phone buzz on the couch.

You: hey spencer! you have a good night too, dinner was super fun. you’re a fun conversationalist. and if you hadn’t gotten my number from pen, i would’ve asked her for yours, so don’t worry :)

He grins down at his phone before turning it off and pulling his shirt on. He brushes his teeth with a smile on his lips, crawls into bed with his face sore and his cheeks cramping, and begins to fall asleep to the sound of heavy rain pattering on his window.

It’s not until he’s curled up between the sheets, half asleep, that he realizes he hasn’t thought about work or cases all night.

Well then. Thank you, Penelope Garcia.

[twilightsumu]

woke up thinking about ceo!sukuna

suggestive, mdni, not proofread

word count: 723

ceo!sukuna who despite being a take no shit, mean, borderline psychotic asshole - he has a real soft spot for his sweet, quiet new personal assistant

ceo!sukuna who employees notice will start speaking a little kinder (he’s just not calling them a profanity) whenever you’re within earshot

ceo!sukuna who actually cares what you think of him. sometimes he catches himself changing a tie to a color he knows you like or trying his best not to call gojo an idiot when he messes one little thing up.

ceo!sukuna who shamelessly stares at you and remembers every little meticulous detail about you

“good morning sukuna!”

“did you change your perfume?”

you stare at him for a beat, you’ve barely walked into his office.

“… i tried a new one today, yes?” you try to hide the surprise in your voice.

“i like it,” he gruffly says and you don’t miss how his nose is pointed in your direction trying to pull more of your perfume his way.

ceo!sukuna who took three months to ask you out and masked it in a “professional”, “friendly” way

“we have that meeting in london on friday,” you say, ignoring the way he’s staring at the side of your blushing face.

“have you been?”

“no, first time.”

he turns his head to look out the window of the town car are you guys are in. the city lights making his sculpted face look soft and kissable.

“i know a place we could go for dinner,” his right hand nervously run down this right thigh - a foreign sight. “if you want to go with me”

“oh? just us two or..?”

“we’re networking, don’t make it weird brat,” you don’t miss the softness in the way he says brat and you just nod. turning your head to look out the window and hide your grin.

ceo!sukuna who takes you to that restaurant and literally orders everything off the menu

“sukuna, this too much..”

“what? you said you’ve never been.”

ceo!sukuna who becomes quite touchy at dinner: he pulls your chair towards him stating:

“you’re too far. you should try this rosemary tart here” you have one to left of you - much closer than his.

ceo!sukuna who lets his hand linger on your bare thigh and feels every single sensation a man could feel after touching a woman he likes and take to bed, i mean wants to keep a professional and friendly relationship because she files papers so well and whatever else she does

ceo!sukuna who is surprised when you’re the one who kisses him first. you guys standing outside your hotel room and you think he looks so pretty and dinner was great and you’re a little tipsy and his lips aren’t in their usual scowl (even then you’ll kiss him) but there’s a soft grin and he just looks so kissable

ceo!sukuna who deepens the kiss, his strong hands pulling your waist towards his warm body

ceo!sukuna who feels like a teenage boy about to ‘score’ when he hears your soft moan and your fumbling fingers looking for your hotel key - never taking your lips off his

ceo!sukuna who is a self proclaimed selfish lover but this night but this night he puts you first in every way, over and over again, until you forget your own name.

ceo!sukuna who usually leaves after a hook up with any other woman, but your soft sleepy eyes and your hair tickling his shoulder as your head lays on him keeps him stuck there. and surprise surprise, he gets the best sleep of his life this night

ceo!sukuna who is not a fan of sharing a bed with anyone but after your night in london he is a changed man

“what’s that?” you ask, your stomach doing little flips at the way he’s staring at you. he has a key in his hand, along with some papers he needs to give you.

“a key,”

“to the copier room? i have on-“

“no woman, to my apartment.”

“oh? i don’t clean houses sukuna. im not a maid on top of a per-“

“shut up and take the damn key. be there before i get home,” he walks away dropping the key on your desk and you try your hardest to not squeal.

before he makes it completely into his office he looks over his shoulder, “you should bring clothes for work tomorrow. oh, and that perfume I like…”

[psyfeye]

⋆｡°✩ crawling back to you; ryomen sukuna

★°。a love so beautifully toxic, it transcends centuries

do I wanna know 1 hour ver (this is what I listened to while writing highly recommend mhm)

★°。967 words, NOT proofread, (semi) SCRAP

★°。kinda angsty ig | toxic | suggestive (smut) | f!reader

★°。note(s): this was my first time writing actual smut so forgive me if it's bad I am a smut reader not writer 💔 saw an edit of the mom and dad from how to train your dragon to hozier's cover of do I wanna know and immediately thought what that song would be like if it was about a toxic relationship so here's a scrap this was written in about 2 hours so if there's any spelling/grammar errors pls forgive me !

sukuna's steps echoed through the corridor as he made his way to his bed chambers. he knew you'd be there, you always were. it was the same routine every time. you fight, someone storms off, and then a few days go by until one of you fold and come crawling back. it was a twisted game that had continued on for centuries at this point.

he swung the door open, eyes falling upon your figure perched on the edge of his bed.

"welcome back." his voice was rough, blunt, but deep down there was a hint of something else. he felt a warmth inside of him that he'd been ignoring since the day you waltzed into his life. a comfort in knowing you were safe, that you were home. but as always, he quickly brushed the feeling off before it could settle.

"enough is enough." you murmur, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. "we can't keep doing this, sukuna." you say, the words filling the room with even more tension.

he scoffs, stepping closer as he leans down, his face just inches from your own. "how pitiful." he laughs as he takes in the way you avoid his gaze. "so how do you plan to stop this then? hm? surely you have a solution prepared if you're willing to whine about it so confidently." he says tilting his head and raising his eyebrows mockingly.

"you don't have to be an asshole." you retort, eyes narrowing with a glare as you finally meet his gaze. his smirk gets wider when he recognizes the anger in your voice.

"must we have this conversation every time?" he says, crossing his arms over his chest. his shadow looming over your sitting figure. "you say we need to stop, I agree to disagree, and guess what happens next," he leans down, gripping your chin tightly. "you almost never leave, and the few times you do," he leans in closer, lips brushing against yours, "you always return."

he closes the gap between you, his grip on your chin loosening as his hand moves to cup your cheek. his touch rough, a collapsed thumb brushing over your cheekbone. his lips molded against yours, moving in perfect tandem, as that's what they were made for.

"if this isn't what you want, why do you return?" his voice is low, he dips down kissing and nipping at your neck as he helps you undress with ease. you knew deep down you should say no, let this vicious cycle end here.

but the way his hands moved down your body, practically tearing your clothing off. the way he guided your hand to the growing bulge in his pants before slipping them off with everything else. the way he looked at you as he slowly teased the head of his cock against your entrance, it made you forget why you ever wanted to leave him in the first place.

you hated that he was right, hated the way his touch still gave you butterflies after all this time, the very thought of it made you nauseous. yet in moments like this, the only thing you could think about was his large hands roaming your body. the way his lips feel against your collarbone, his breath warming your skin.

"you will never leave me." his deep voice rumbles into the crook of your neck as his arms wrap around your waist, his hips finding their pace as he finally bottoms out inside of you. "I will make sure of it," he captures your lips in another kiss, "I will find you, no matter where you try to hide. no matter who you try to beg to save you, it's no use." he rambles on as his hips speed up their pace, a shiver running down your spine.

your nails drag down his back, moans muffled against his shoulder. his words barely register in your mind, but you can tell by his tone that it's a promise. there's no where in this world Sukuna wouldn't go to find you, to bring you back to him, where you belong.

"we're destined for each other," he continued, his voice rough as his thrusts become sloppier, "even if I hate it." he gritted out, "even if you hate it."

he leans down, resting his forehead against yours, breath fanning over your face. "let go. submit to me, like you always do." his words no longer carried that familiar sharpness to them. instead they were replaced with a small sense of vulnerability that you'd never get used to hearing. almost like he was begging, pleading with you to just listen. but his strength still loomed over you, the glare in his eyes that reassured you what he'd do if you dared to even insinuate his weakness.

he groaned as he felt your walls flutter around his cock, angling his hips so he could hit that spot you love so much. he lets out a deep moan as your back arches, his head dropping back into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered in their rhythm. his cock twitches inside of you, a moan of satisfaction leaves your lips as he fills you up.

"mine." he murmurs, his voice low and rough as his thrusts begin to slow. he lifts his head to lock his gaze with yours, his eyes narrow, possession filling them as he speaks, "you belong to me. do not forget that." his tone was sharp, leaving no room for second guessing

"what if I don't want to belong to you?" your voice comes out in a raspy whisper, your words shaky as you struggle to catch your breath. his gaze remains locked with yours, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"bold of you to assume you have a choice."

+ extra extra note for the baddies:

sorry I went missing, life is crazy and I'm in college so you can probably imagine. anyways I hope you enjoyed, my posts may be slow and inconsistent but I could never forget about you divas <3 this is a scrap from January (or whenever this hozier cover was trending I can't remember) so lmk if there's any crazy spelling mistakes or something also my first written post being smutty is crazy goodnight

[stylesispunk]

"Blind faith" | part viii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel's name in your mind hurts. Everything inside you hurts. But seeing him again leaves both of you with hearts broken. w.c: 8.5k

warnings: age gap (Joel's is in his late 40s and reader late 20s early 30s), heavy angst, violence against reader, choking, mentions of panic attacks, grief, mentions of mental health, forbidden love. Mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Remmeber english is not my first language and blablabla. Reader is Latina. (She worrying about joel shows how good she is).

a/n: Oh man, I cried a bit while writing this one. There is a lot of pain on reader's heart and mind. I wish I can have next chapter ready for next week but I will busy busy during the next four weeks, so i hope you can enjoy this one a bit. Yes, it's angsty but still. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. If you read and don't leave a comment I will cry.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Since the beginning of time, bad men had existed. You knew that — not in theory, not from bedtime stories or whispered warnings at the dinner table, but in the marrow of your bones. You’d grown up with those same phrases every mother in your country had murmured to their children like prayers: Don’t take candy from strangers. Don’t follow a stranger. Don’t believe their kind words, their empty promises.

But the truth was, you didn’t need the warnings. You came from a place where monsters didn’t bother hiding under beds or behind masks. They wore uniforms. They smiled in broad daylight. And in those years of blood-soaked streets and curfews that fell like iron gates over the city, you learned to be cautious. You learned early what it meant to keep your head down, to lower your gaze when soldiers passed, to hold your tongue and your breath when your father argued with the radio in the kitchen.

Under a dictatorship, there wasn’t a place for soft hearts. You’d watched neighbors disappear. Friends. Family. One by one. Gone in the night or dragged from their homes in daylight with no apology, no explanation. The smell of fear hung thick in the air back then. And you — you had a fire in you that should’ve gotten you killed.

You were young. Brave in the way only the reckless and desperate could be. An activist. A rebel. Smuggling leaflets in your backpack, standing in protests that got washed away in tear gas and batons. And you’d survived. God, you’d survived so much.

You didn’t trust easy. Couldn’t afford to. People smiled and shook your hand with one while holding a knife behind their back with the other. It was just how it was. And yet — Gabriel happened.

Gabriel with his easy grin and the way he lied about freedom like it wasn’t some unreachable star. Gabriel who made you laugh in places laughter wasn’t supposed to exist. He slipped past your walls. You fell in love with him the way you fall asleep after too many sleepless nights, fast, desperate, and without meaning to.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him.

And it cost you everything.

In the days leading up to what happened, you’d felt the old warning bells clanging somewhere deep in your chest, but you silenced them. You told yourself you were being paranoid. You believed him when he said you were safe. That he loved you.

But men like him… they don’t love. They own. They devour.

And now, here you were. In a hospital room, bruised and broken. The pain wasn’t just in your body, it was in your soul. In the realization that even after everything you’d survived, it was him — the one you let in — who almost killed you.

The room was too clean. Too quiet. You could almost hear your own voices screaming your name, pleading for a tiny bit of strong, a one more minute of fighting.

You could feel the way your eyes stung by tears that you didn’t allow to stream down your face. You tried to look everywhere but the man who was too close to you.

The pale blue walls, a thin paper sheet stretched over a narrow exam bed. The tray of instruments on the counter, catching the overhead light in tiny sharp flashes. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs dangling, But the weight of Gabriel’s stare pressed against your skin like his own hand around your throat.

You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties with kind, tired features, was trying to get you comfortable, fussing with the pillows behind you, adjusting the flimsy hospital gown over your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” she asked gently, crouching a little to meet your gaze.

You opened your mouth, a flicker of something like your voice catching in your throat—

“She’s fine,” Gabriel cut in smoothly, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a predator lounging in the open. “Just a busted finger. She’s not much of a talker.”

The nurse’s eyes darted between the two of you, catching the tension thick in the air. The bruises. The way your body flinched when he spoke.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the nurse said softly, her voice careful but edged.

Your throat tightened, eyes burning. You wanted to say it. Help me. Don’t leave me alone with him. Get him out. But it was like your tongue had been cut out somewhere along these last five days.

And you hated yourself for it.

Gabriel smiled then, slow and cold. “Ain’t no need for drama. We just wanna get this over with. Don’t we, cariño?”

Your eyes met the nurse’s for a split second — a flicker, a desperate pulse of please. And whether she saw it or not, she gave a small nod and stood.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she said quickly, shooting one last glance at Gabriel before leaving the room.

The door clicked shut.

You could feel him behind you without looking. Could feel his eyes on your face. Could feel the ghost of his hand tightening on your broken finger days ago.

“You always were good at getting people to care,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “But it doesn’t matter. You won’t leave me again to drown on my own. Not this time.”

And something in you, even as your body trembled, screamed against it.

“Estoy harta de ti,” (I’m sick of you) you gritted, voice low but shaking with the weight of every second you’d swallowed your rage.

Gabriel froze mid-step.

But you didn’t stop.

“Estoy harta que estés en cada lugar que veo.” (I’m sick of you being everywhere I look at) Your chest rose and fell with the effort it took to speak, to push the words past your fear. “No soporto tu cara. Quiero que te vayas y me dejes.” (I’m sick of your face. I want you gone. I want you to leave me.)

For a moment, it was silent.

No smirk. Not a clever remark from him.

Just the raw, stunned stillness of a man who thought he still had control, watching it slip between his fingers like smoke.

His eyes narrowed, lips parting like he might say something cruel, something to reestablish the grip he’d had on you for five long, hellish days — but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood, even if your knees trembled, even if your heart was a hammer in your chest. You stood because you could. Because defiance, even in whispers, was still power. “Look at me.” you added, this time in English. “You could have killed my friends, my family and you could kill me at this very same moment, but that won’t erase your pathetic little life because that’s what you are. A fucking nobody, you will die and be forgotten.”

The words tasted like blood and salt on your tongue, but you didn’t stop.

“Look at me.” Your voice was raw, a scrape of glass against the quiet room. “You could’ve killed my friends. You could’ve killed my family. You could kill me right here, right now — but it won’t mean a thing. It won’t fix you. It won’t make you matter.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, a darkening flicker in his eyes — but no clever words came. No sharp reply. Because you’d carved through whatever twisted power, he thought he still held.

“That’s what you are,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure enough, “A fucking nobody. A bitter, useless coward clinging to the scraps of a life no one’s ever going to remember and if somebody does, you will remember as fucking murderer just as the rest of them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fists curling at his sides, his breathing uneven.

And for the first time, you saw him breaking.

You were tearing down, “Your uniform wasn’t worth it. Hell, even your family must despise you. I do despise you, and I will do it until the day I die.”

Gabriel’s face twisted, something feral and cracked in his eyes as you spoke, as you stripped him down to the nothing he’d always feared he was.

“You shut your fucking mouth—”

“Or what?!” you challenged him, after all there was nothing else for you to lose.

And then his hand was on your throat. Fast. Brutal. Crushing.

The air vanished from your lungs in an instant. Your hands clawed at his wrist, nails digging, your broken finger screamed in pain but it didn’t matter. You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of the world blurring, your heartbeat pounding louder and louder in your ears until it wasn’t a sound anymore but a dull, distant thrum.

And you saw it — not rage. Not hate in his eyes but fear.

He was scared. Frightened of you. Of the truth you could see. Of the fact you weren’t even afraid of him anymore.

But your vision dimmed, your body going slack—Memories of your life, of the happy short moments…

Until a pair of hands wrenched him off you.

“Get your hands off her!” Your recognized Carmen’s voice tearing through the suffocating haze, hoarse and furious.

The world spun as you collapsed to the floor, gulping air like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to your own body. You heard shouting. The doctor’s voice. The nurse. And then boots, heavy.

Two police officers pinned Gabriel against the wall, one of them snarling warnings you could barely register over the hammering in your skull.

“Cuff him! Now!”

Carmen was on her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she cupped your face, brushing the hair from your sweat-soaked skin. Her eyes were glassy, filled with so much rage and grief it nearly undid you.

“I’m here, mi estrellita,” she choked. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your chest heaved, throat raw, tears breaking free as the air finally reached your lungs.

“I—” you tried to speak, to tell her you thought you were going to die, that you were so fucking tired, but no words came. Only a wrecked, broken sob.

Carmen pulled you into her arms, holding you like she could put your pieces back together just by sheer force of will.

“Shh, you’re safe. He’s done. He’s done.”

And somewhere in the storm of it, you realized Gabriel’s voice was gone.

And you breathe because he would never touch you again.

You buried your face in Carmen’s shoulder, the scent of her hair, a mix cigarettes and lavender lotion — hitting you like a memory you didn’t know you still had room for. The moment her arms wrapped tighter around you, the damn broke.

The sobs came hard. Ugly. Shaking your whole body. The kind of crying that came from somewhere so deep inside, you weren’t sure you’d ever really stop. You clung to her like she was the only thing anchoring you to this world, your hands fisting in the fabric of her jacket.

“I thought—” you gasped between ragged breaths, voice cracking, “I thought I was gonna die… Carmen, I—I couldn’t—”

“I know, Estrellita.” she whispered, rocking you gently like you were a child again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her hand smoothed over your hair, her own tears falling into the crook of your neck. The world around you — the bright lights, the shouting officers— faded to the background. It was just her and the sound of your crying.

Your throat was raw, every breath a jagged thing, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop clinging to Carmen like if you let go, you’d disappear, like the weight of the last five days would swallow you whole. Her fingers trembled as they ran through your hair, as she whispered soft, broken words in your ear.

 I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But somewhere beneath the wreckage of your heart, past the terror and grief and bone-deep ache, another name clawed its way to the surface.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice barely a whisper, a raw rasp of air and desperation.

“Joel,” you choked out, eyes bleary, still pouring tears. “Carmen—where’s Joel? Is he… is he okay?”

The words hurt to say, like speaking them might shatter what little was left of you if the answer wasn’t the one you needed.

Carmen’s face crumpled, her lips pressing together, fresh tears shining in her lashes. She cupped your cheek, brushing the damp hair from your face. She couldn’t believe that after he had done, you still had the heart to worry about him.

“He’s okay,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “He is well and alive.”

A new, ragged sob burst out of you, part grief, part relief, part everything you hadn’t been allowed to feel. You collapsed into her arms again, your fingers tightening in her jacket, the world spinning and tilting.

“I need—” you stammered, barely able to breathe. “I need…. please, Carmen, I need to—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing your temple, holding you like she’d never let go out of her sight again.

Your body wouldn’t stop shaking. Even as Carmen whispered to you, even as her hands cradled your face and her lips pressed against your hairline like she could will the terror out of you — your sobs kept coming, violent, sharp, breaking your chest open with every ragged breath.

Your vision blurred, your head spinning, the world tilting as the sobs took you under. The panic clawed higher, your heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst, and you clung to her like you were drowning in a deep ocean.

“I know, Estrellita, I know—” Carmen’s voice cracked, tears running down her own face as she tried to hold you together, but even she could feel it — that your body was giving out, your mind fraying at the edges. “Somebody help her! Please!”

The medics were there in seconds. The nurse from before, her face drawn tight with worry, a syringe trembling in her gloved hand.

“We need to calm her down—” one of them said urgently.

“No—” you gasped, shaking your head, your voice nearly gone. “Please, don’t—I need—”

“I promise, estrellita,” Carmen cupped your face again, forehead against yours. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here. And when you wake up, we’ll go to him, I swear.”

Your body gave one last shudder as the needle pricked your arm, a cool wash of sedation flooding your veins. The sobs dulled into uneven hiccups, your muscles going limp in her arms. The chaos of the hospital room blurred, colors bleeding together.

But even as your vision dimmed, your lips still formed his name.

“Joel…”

The quiet of the hospital at night was a different kind of heavy. The hum of fluorescent lights, the steady beep of heart monitors in distant rooms — it all felt like it existed in some other world, one you weren’t fully tethered to anymore.

Carmen sat alone in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside your room, her hands wrung raw, her eyes rimmed red. She hadn’t left. Not once. She hadn’t gone down the hall to see Joel, hadn’t let herself face what state he might be in. Not when you were like this. Not when the memory of Gabriel’s hands around your throat still ghosted against your skin.

When the elevator doors opened, she didn’t look up at first. But she knew those boots. That voice.

“Carmen,” Billy’s voice was low, urgent, his face lined and pale beneath the harsh hospital lights.

She stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the tile. “Thank God,” she breathed, and before she could stop herself, she was in his arms.

Billy held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chest solid and familiar. “I came as soon as you called,” he murmured into her hair.

“I didn’t know who else—” her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do, Billy.”

“It’s okay, you did good,” he said, pulling back to look at her face. “Where is she?”

“In there. They sedated her… she wouldn’t stop crying. She was… she was barely breathing, Billy. I thought—” Carmen swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I thought we were gonna lose her.” She stopped for a moment, “That asshole was chocking her.”

Billy gasped at the thought of you, “How did you know she was here?”

“I didn’t. I promised Joel I was going to go back later and I saw her talking to a nurse…”

“Joel?”

“Come on, calling him father seems really unholy.”

Billy let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, half a huff of a laugh despite the weight in his chest. “Jesus, Carm…” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Of all the goddamn hospitals.”

She gave a broken, crooked smile. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway stretched out quiet around them, only the distant beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses passing by. The kind of stillness where too much had already happened, and more was still waiting.

“She was asking for him, you know,” Carmen said softly, eyes shining again, staring down the hall like she could see through the walls, to Joel’s room. “Even when she couldn’t breathe… even when her face was turning blue… she was still worried about him.”

Billy’s throat tightened at that, his gut twisting. He looked through the window into your room — your small, still form against too-white sheets. “We should’ve protected her better,” he muttered. “We should’ve—”

“Stop,” Carmen cut him off gently but firmly, reaching out to grab his wrist. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”

He swallowed hard, and after a beat, nodded. “I’ll sit with her,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here if she wakes up soon”

Carmen gave him a grateful, weary look and squeezed his arm. “Okay, the doctor said she would sleep for hours though, but I don’t want her alone.” she whispered, turning to go.

She made it two steps before stopping again, Billy’s voice low but fierce. “Tell Joel she is here. But tell him she didn’t need him to save herself.”

She nodded, and with that, Carmen turned and finally made herself walk down that long hallway toward Joel’s room, her pulse a storm in her throat, a hundred what-ifs chasing her with every step.

The door to Joel’s room creaked as Carmen pushed it open, the soft glow of a bedside lamp washing over his face. He was half-sitting against the pillows, an IV line in his arm, his skin pale and drawn but his eyes, those tired, familiar, stubborn eyes, were open.

He looked up when the door opened, and the moment his gaze landed on her, something in his face shifted. A flicker of relief, of dread, of some unspoken, as if he deep-down knew you were okay.

“Carmen,” he rasped, his voice raw like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a second like she needed the support. Her throat tightened, and it took everything she had to stay steady.

“She’s here, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

His eyes went wide. The breath left his lungs like a punch.

“Where?” His voice cracked.

Carmen’s lips trembled, and she crossed the room in three steps, siting in a chair beside his bed, “She’s down the hall. Room fourteen. The bastard got her during these past five days… she was with him. And she—” Carmen had to stop, swallowing back the sob. “She fought him. She was asking for you. Couldn’t even breathe but she still asked for you, can you believe it?”

Joel’s head dropped back against the pillow, a tear slipping down his cheek. His hand gripped the sheets so tight it hurt. “Is she… is she okay?”

“They sedated her,” Carmen whispered. “She wouldn’t stop crying. She… was a mess.”

Joel’s face crumpled then, his whole body shuddering with a silent sob. “Goddamn it,” he choked out.

Joel’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling as though the weight of those five days had just crushed down on him in full. His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets, his throat working around the thick lump there.

“I gotta see her,” he managed, voice rough and breaking. “Carmen — I need to see her.”

But Carmen’s hand shot out, pressing firmly to his chest, keeping him where he was. Her eyes were sharp now, her jaw clenched. The grief was still there, but fury — clean and bright — licked at the edges of her words.

“Not yet,” she snapped. “I’ve been really goddamn nice to you because of her. But don’t get it twisted, Joel. All this… this hell she’s been through, it happened because of you.”

His face twisted, stricken. “Carmen, I didn’t—”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to,” she cut him off, voice tight, trembling. “But you left the fucking door open. You let that piece of take her, and you didn’t see it coming. And now she’s passed out in a hospital bed because of it. You don’t get to just go in there like some goddamn savior and make it right.”

Joel closed his eyes, a tear tracking down the side of his face.

“You will stay here,” Carmen said, steel in every word. “And you will wait. Until I say it’s time. Because we still don’t know what the hell happened during those five days, and I won’t let you hurt her again — even if you don’t mean to.”

She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to fight back, to argue like he always did. But he didn’t. He just nodded, broken, his voice barely a whisper when he asked,

“Is she alone?”

Carmen’s jaw flexed, softening a little.

“No,” she said quietly. “Billy’s with her.”

Joel gave a faint, shuddering breath, like some part of him unclenched at the thought.

“Good,” he murmured. “Good… she shouldn’t be alone.”

Carmen’s throat bobbed as she stood from the chair. “I’ll let you know when you can see her,” she said, softer now, though the edge of warning hadn’t left her voice. “And Joel… you better pray she makes it out of this whole.”

He didn’t look up as she left, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

All of this was because he had let his jealousy break the best thing he had ever come to see in his life.

The room was dim, the harsh glare of hospital lights softened by the hour. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound for a while, save for the quiet, tired murmur of Carmen and Billy talking in low voices by the window.

You stirred — just barely — a soft, broken sound leaving your lips as your lashes fluttered. The weight of your own body felt foreign. Heavy. Like gravity had tripled its hold on you. Every breath scraped your throat raw. Your chest ached, your hands ached, your goddamn soul ached.

Carmen was on you in a second.

“Hey, hey—” she whispered, her voice already breaking. “Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe.”

Billy was there too, his face pale and drawn, but his hand reached for yours like he’d been waiting for the smallest sign of life.

The moment your eyes cracked open, blurry and stinging; a tear slid down your temple. Then another. And another. It was like your body remembered before your mind did — remembered the hands at your throat, the words, the terror that felt like it would never end.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your whole-body trembling. “I—” you tried, but your throat felt like sandpaper, every word scraping on the way out. “Hurts…”

“I know,” Carmen whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing sweaty hair back from your forehead. Her hand trembled against your skin. “I know, baby. God, I’m so sorry.”

Billy squeezed your hand, his jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. We got you.”

But nothing about you felt safe. Not your skin, not your bones, not your memories. It felt like you’d left pieces of yourself behind in that room and nothing would ever quite fit right again.

Your body shook harder, a sob hitching in your chest, and Carmen gathered you up against her carefully, mindful of the IV line. She cradled you like you were a small little girl waking up from a nightmare.

"My family is dead" you confessed in a whisper, trying to get used to the idea you would never be with them again.

Carmen’s breath hitched in her throat at your words — a soft, broken confession spoken like a child admitting a secret no one else could fix. You felt her arms tighten around you, her palm smoothing down your hair, a tremor running through her hand.

“Oh, mi Estrellita” she whispered, voice cracking like glass underweight.

Billy turned away, one hand covering his mouth, his shoulders stiff with the effort to keep it together. The room felt smaller, heavier. The air thick with grief too big to name, the kind that clung to your skin and made your chest feel like it was caving in.

You swallowed, your throat raw and aching, your face pressed against Carmen’s shoulder. “They’re gone….and I wasn’t there. I didn’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it, and Carmen held you tighter like she could keep you from shattering. “They knew you loved them,” she murmured fiercely into your hair. “They knew. And if there’s a goddamn heaven, they’re watching’ over you right now, baby. I swear it.”

But the hole inside you stayed. A dark, gnawing thing that no words could fill.

Your voice came again, small and wrecked. “They were killed because they carried my last name and I don’t know how to live with that weight on me.”

Carmen’s whole body tensed around you, like your words cut through her, sharp and merciless. She pulled back just enough to cup your face in both trembling hands, forcing you — gently— to meet her eyes, even as your tears blurred everything between you.

“No,” she said, voice thick, breaking on the word. “No, baby, listen to me. This isn’t your weight to carry. Do you hear me? This wasn’t your fault. Those pieces of shit made a choice — their choice. Not yours. Not theirs.”

Your lips quivered, your breath shuddering as you struggled to hold onto her gaze, the raw grief in your chest threatening to drown you. “If I wasn’t— if I hadn’t been born into this family, they’d still be—”

“Stop.” Carmen’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and soft at once. “You are not a curse. You are not a burden. You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t give the order. You are not to blame for a monster’s sins.”

Billy swallowed hard; his voice rough when he finally spoke. “If anythin’, you’re the reason many people are alive. If you weren’t there, if you hadn’t fought as you did, there would be more people dead—Don’t you dare think for a second this blood is on you.”

You felt your whole-body collapse inward then, a broken sob leaving you as Carmen pressed your forehead to hers, her thumbs brushing your wet cheeks.

“Gabriel?” you asked Carmen.

“He is in custody” Carmen went on, her voice shaking but controlled, “left bruising on your throat… and God knows what else those five days did to you. But he’s done. He’s not getting near you again. I swear it.”

You saw it then, the fire behind her eyes. The barely leashed fury. Carmen had always been a force of nature when it came to protecting the people she loved, and right now you were all that mattered to her.

“He’s going away for the rest of his miserable fucking life,” she added, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “He will be in prison soon and he will face charges.”

Billy gave a rough nod beside her. “I already made a few calls,” he said hoarsely.

“Good.” You said, simply as if you still couldn’t believe it. “But prison but time will be enough for him to pay for everything he had done.”

You tried to swallow, the pain in your throat a sharp reminder of the hands that had been there, of the helplessness. Of what it meant to survive it. Your chest ached, not just from the bruises and the brokenness of your body, but from the weight of the grief still coiled inside you.

“You need to rest. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing until you’re ready, you hear me?”

Billy squeezed your hand. “We’ll stay right here. As long as it takes.”

The pain meds from the hospital, the exhaustion of five days spent in terror, and the sheer grief weighing down your bones — it had all pulled you under like a tide. The last thing you remembered was the nurse gently resetting your finger, the cold of the hospital room, and Gabriel’s sharp voice on the phone outside.

You hadn’t known Joel was there. Carmen neither Billy had told you that.

And Joel’s leg screamed with every step — the stitches pulling, the bone-deep ache of healing wounds making his vision swim. But none of it mattered. Not the pain, not Carmen’s warnings, not the fury in her eyes when she’d told him to stay away.

Because you were here. And he needed to see you like he needed air in his lungs.

He leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way down the hall, sweat slick on his brow, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The world blurred at the edges, the sterile hospital lights too bright, the antiseptic stench thick in the back of his throat.

When he reached your door — Room Fourteen — his hand trembled on the handle. He didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. He opened the door.

The sight of you hit him like a goddamn freight train.

You were asleep, small and broken in the hospital bed. The bruising on your throat stark against your skin, your face pale, a faint frown still etched in your sleep. His chest constricted, a sob catching in his throat before he could stop it.

Carmen was sitting in the chair beside you, her head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion etched deep in her face. The second she saw him, her expression crumpled — like something she’d been holding together for too long finally cracked wide open.

“Joel,” she breathed, her voice barely a sound.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer an apology she wouldn’t accept or a promise he knew would fall short. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing against the tight, burning ache in his throat, watching your chest rise and fall.

Carmen shot to her feet then, her body tense, a thousand words written in her tear-filled eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I told you to wait. You don’t get to just —”

“I need to see her,” Joel rasped, his voice thick, ruined. “I need… I need to know she is fine.”

Carmen’s jaw clenched, tears welling. She looked at you, so small in that bed, and her shoulders dropped, her face breaking again. She hated him for what had happened. For what his mistakes had set in motion. But even now, she knew you. She knew how deep he ran in your blood and bones.

“She doesn’t need more pain, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice hoarse. “If you’re gonna do anything — anything at all —

His hand hovered above yours for a second before pulling back.

“Can I have a moment alone with her?”

Carmen hesitated for a moment, but the heart in her gave up and she ended up nodding, “Okay. I will be outside. If you make her cry I will punch in the face, do you hear me father?”

Joel simply nodded, waiting for her to get out of the room. And when she did his heart was in his throat as he saw you there, so small in that hospital bed, your face turned toward the window. The bruises on your skin, the way your fingers trembled in sleep, it gutted him. He hated himself in a way he hadn’t known was possible. Hated every moment he’d wasted, every jealous word, every time he didn’t tell you the truth.

He didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t speak.

He just leaned down, breath unsteady, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered longer than they should’ve, pouring every apology, every ounce of love he hadn’t known how to say into that one small, desperate act.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so goddamn sorry, baby.”

And then, your eyes opened.

Soft, dazed, but clear. You looked up and there he was — so close your noses almost brushed, your breaths tangled between you. Those brown eyes weren’t filled with fire anymore. No anger. No resentment. Just aching tenderness and the raw, broken kind of love you could barely survive.

For a second neither of you spoke. The world shrunk to just your faces, your breaths, your eyes searching one another like you both needed to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Joel,” you breathed. A word, a plea, a prayer.

His throat worked around a sound, one he choked down because if he spoke now, he’d fall apart.

But his hand cupped your cheek, trembling and rough, and for the first time in five days, you weren’t afraid.

Not of him. Not of anything.

And outside, down the hall, the storm still waited. But for now — for just this moment — you were both here.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, fragile sound in the space between you. Joel’s thumb brushed your cheekbone, careful like you might break under his touch — though you’d been breaking for days, hadn’t you? And still, somehow, you were here.

“You came,” you whispered, voice cracking, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope flickering in your words.

Joel’s eyes shut for a moment, as if the sound of your voice hurt. “Course I did,” he rasped, voice thick and low. “I should’ve sooner. I—I fucked up.”

The tremble in his words split something open in you, a sob caught halfway in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to speak around the ache. “I thought you hated me.”

His head shook before you even finished the words. “Never. God, no.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hand cradling your face like you were something sacred and fragile at once. “I was stupid. I let… I let that jealousy and anger get between us. I let my head lie to me. But I never stopped… I never stopped loving you, not for a second.”

Your lips parted, a tear sliding down your temple. Joel caught it with his thumb.

“I thought you were going to die,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper, breaking in the middle. “And you weren’t… you weren’t there and I thought I was alone, Joel. I thought I was dying out there.”

His jaw clenched so hard you felt it against your cheek. “I know, baby. I know. And I’m gonna fix it. I swear to God; I’ll make it right. Whatever it takes. I’ll tear the whole town apart if I have to, you hear me?”

You closed your eyes against the wave of emotion, feeling his breath against your lips. “I’m so scared.”

“Not anymore,” Joel promised. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads pressed together. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again. Not him. Not anybody. You’re mine, sweetheart. Always have been.”

And God help you, despite everything, despite the fear still clawing at your ribs, you believed him because you wanted to let yourself believe you weren’t alone.

The sob that tore from your chest was helpless, raw, like something dug up from a place too deep to ever fully heal. It shook your whole body, and Joel pulled you into him before you could fall apart completely.

His arms wrapped around you like armor, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you so tightly it felt like maybe he could piece you back together just by being close enough.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, over and over like a prayer. "You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re safe."

You buried your face against his chest, soaking in the feel of him, the way his shirt smelled like him — sweat, earth, something warm and steady. It was like coming in from the cold after being lost in a storm for days.

"It hurts," you choked out. "Everything hurts, Joel."

His voice cracked. "I know, darlin’. I know it does." He rocked you gently, like you were something breakable in his arms, something worth protecting. His fingers slid softly through your hair, his lips pressing into your temple.

"You don’t have to be strong anymore," he whispered. "Not with me. You can fall apart. I’ll catch every piece."

You clung to him like a lifeline, fists curled into his shirt.

And Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He held you through all of it, silent tears slipping down his own face, his breath shaking.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered once, broken and furious with himself. "I’ll never let anything touch you again."

And in his arms, no matter how much pain still lingered inside you, you were allowing yourself to believe what you knew it was a lie.

Because the kind of love you both shared was the type of love that couldn’t survived the wreckage.

You must’ve fallen asleep in his arms, exhaustion dragging you under like a tide you couldn’t fight. Joel never left, not for a second, holding you until your breathing evened out, his hand resting protectively against the curve of your back as if he let go, you’d disappear.

But morning came anyway.

The weak gray light slipped through the hospital blinds, spilling across the small room, and with it came the ache.

Your eyes opened slow, crusted with salt from the night before. You felt it before you even fully woke — the dampness on your cheeks, the warm trail of tears slipping down to your ears. Your chest clenched, that ugly, hollow ache rising up all over again.

And then you saw him.

Joel was there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees even when one of them was healing from the shot, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. The guilt on his face was bone-deep, and it should’ve meant something. It should’ve comforted you.

But it didn’t.

The memory hit like a blow to the gut.

 him giving you back to Gabriel.

Not with a word, but with silence. With jealousy. With cowardice. You remembered the way you’d begged him with your eyes, how you’d prayed for him to fight for you, and how he hadn’t.

You flinched without meaning to, your body tensing, curling inward like a wounded animal.

"Hey, hey," Joel murmured, reaching out — but you shook your head violently, the tears coming harder now, your breath hitching in short, painful sobs.

"Don’t," you croaked, voice barely there.

His face crumpled, a broken, desperate thing. "I know," he said softly, hand retreating, but not leaving. "I know what I did." His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. "I was a fool. I was weak. And you paid for it."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The grief and betrayal tangled so thick inside you it felt like you were drowning in it.

"I don’t deserve to be here," he admitted, his throat thick. "But I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you tell me to go."

And God, some broken, stubborn part of you still wanted to reach for him. Still wanted to believe in him. But the hurt was too fresh, too deep.

You turned your face away, more tears sliding down, and Joel just sat there in silence, letting you grieve. Because he knew this wasn’t something an apology could fix.

The minutes stretched long and quiet, broken only by the soft, uneven sound of your breathing. You didn’t have the strength to fight anymore — not him, not yourself, not the memories clawing their way up from the dark. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, soaking the pillow beneath your head.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t reach for your hand.

He just stayed there, sitting in that hard hospital chair like it was his penance, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, watching over you like a man guarding a grave.

"You are right to hate me," he rasped, his voice rough from a night without sleep. "I should’ve never let him take you. Should’ve never turned away. I—" his voice cracked, and he dragged a hand over his face like it hurt to keep talking. "I thought I was doing the right thing by allowing him to get close to you. I didn’t know he was a bad person.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t want his words, didn’t want his regret. You wanted your family back. You wanted your old life. You wanted what Gabriel had stolen from you.

And maybe… a tiny, broken part of you still wanted Joel.

You clenched your eyes shut, hating yourself for it.

"You don’t have to forgive me," Joel said quietly, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "Hell, you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it. But I swear to you — nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m still breathing."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But the trembling in your shoulders slowed a little. The weight of those words sinking in, despite everything.

And after a long while, when the exhaustion dragged you under again, you didn’t flinch when Joel pulled the scratchy hospital blanket up over your shoulders. You didn’t turn away when the rough calloused tips of his fingers brushed your hair back from your face.

He stayed.

The next time you woke, the room was quieter than you remembered. No distant footsteps, no beeping monitors, just the steady, familiar sound of Joel’s breathing beside you. He hadn’t left. He was still there, one hand loosely holding yours, his thumb tracing absent, broken circles over your skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw, your body aching everywhere in ways you didn’t have names for. The weight on your chest felt unbearable, and for the first time in days, maybe longer, the words rose up before you could stop them.

"He told me…" you rasped, voice barely audible. Joel’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours like he wasn’t sure if you were really speaking.

"Gabriel… he told me he was gonna kill me," you continued, staring at the ceiling because you couldn’t quite look at Joel yet. "That I’d outlived my usefulness… that no one was coming for me. Said I was already dead, just didn’t know it yet."

Your voice broke on the last word, and Joel flinched like it physically hit him.

"And my family…" the word felt like glass in your mouth. "They're gone, Joel. He told me what happened. I’ve got no one left. No one in this whole goddamn world."

Your voice gave out then, the tears rising so fast they blurred your vision. You felt them fall sideways down to your ears as you lay there, and this time you couldn’t stop the sound that came from you — a quiet, heartbroken sob that cracked something open in the room.

Joel leaned forward, his face wrecked, eyes glistening. "You got me," he choked out, voice hoarse and uneven. "I know it ain’t worth a damn right now… but you got me. And you always will. I swear to God."

You finally looked at him then, and it wasn’t the Joel you remembered — the one who used to smirk and tease and steal glances like he didn’t mean to. This was a man broken open, raw and aching, carrying every ounce of guilt like a stone in his chest.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or foolish, but some desperate part of you believed him. Because you had nothing else left to believe in.

But reality broke harder.

Your throat burned as another sob clawed its way out of you, your whole-body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried — everything you were still carrying. You met his eyes, those shattered, pleading eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you loved in them.

And then you remembered the silence. The betrayal. The way five days had gone by. How jealousy, pride, and his own demons had left you alone in a room with a monster.

“I don’t believe you,” you choked, your voice raw and breaking. The words tasted like blood.

His face crumpled like you’d hit him, his jaw quivering, but you didn’t stop.

“You say I got you? Where the hell were you when I needed you the most? When I was… when he—” your voice cracked, and you covered your face with shaking hands as sobs wrecked you. “I begged for you. I called for you until I couldn’t speak but all this was because of you.”

“I know,” Joel rasped, a tear slipping down his cheek. “God, baby, I know. And I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for it.”

You dropped your hands just enough to meet his gaze again, your eyes burning.

“I want you out of my life, Joel.” The words felt like a knife in your own chest, but you forced them out.

Joel’s face crumbled, he leaned to touch you, carefully. His touch was soft, trembling, when he brushed the hair from your face. His lips grazed your temple, and you felt it like a brand, like it might scorch what little was left of you.

And you shattered.

“No,” you choked, a sob bursting from your throat. “No—don’t you fucking touch me, Joel.”

Your voice cracked and broke, your chest heaving as you shoved weakly at him. He didn’t pull back, not yet, his forehead pressing to yours like he could will you back to him if he stayed close enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick and broken.

“Don’t say that,” you hissed, your hands trembling where they gripped the blanket. Your throat ached, your whole body trembling so hard it hurt. “Don’t you fucking say that to me.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wet and wrecked. “I love you.”

That was it. That was the last thread, the last brittle, frayed string holding your heart together.

“I don’t want you,” you sobbed, shaking your head, the words tearing through you like glass. “I don’t want you in my life, Joel.”

His face crumpled. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“You say you love me?” your voice rose, thick with grief and rage, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You showed me what warm felt like. You made me believe in daylight. And then you left me in the darkest place I’ve ever been. You… you broke me.”

He staggered like you’d struck him. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Loving you hurts, Joel,” you whispered, a sob hitching in your chest. “It hurts so bad I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t breathe with it. And I won’t carry it anymore.”

Joel leaned in one last time, his lips barely brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Get out,” you begged, voice small and wrecked and shaking. “Please, Joel… just go.”

But he still lingered there. His hand lingered a second longer over your face because he knew the moment he pulled away from you he would break.

“I don’t want you!” you sobbed, shaking so hard it rattled the bed. “I don’t fucking want you in my life, Joel. I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want your name in my head—I want you gone. Do you hear me?”

And still, still, he leaned down and pressed another kiss to your temple, one trembling hand holding your face like you were something fragile. “I’ll love you ‘til my last breath,” he murmured against your skin.

“Leave!” you screamed, sobbing so violently the heart monitor started to beep faster. “Get the fuck out of here! Get out!”

Joel's breath hitched, his hand still cradling your face as you sobbed beneath him. He was breaking — shattering right there in front of you, in the dim flicker of the hospital room light.

“I’ll go,” he rasped, voice torn and low. “I’ll go, baby. But listen to me, just this once… one more thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears burning so hot they felt like they might scar. “Don’t—” you begged, but he pressed his forehead to yours, and you were too weak to fight it.

“I’ll love you until the stars burn out in the sky, until this world forgets our names, until the sun quits the sky,” Joel whispered, his voice breaking around every word, his thumb trembling against your cheek. “And if it’s the last goddamn thing I do in this life… I’ll find a way to fix what I broke in you.”

Your sob caught, a sharp, painful sound in your throat, because no matter how much you told yourself you didn’t want him, some part of you still did — some part of you always would. And that made it worse. So much worse.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered, your voice splintered glass. “I can’t… I can’t survive loving you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I know,” he whispered. “But you’re gonna survive without me. You’re stronger than this hurt. And I swear to you… you’ll find your way back to the light.”

Then, so gently it felt cruel, he pressed one last kiss to your hairline, breathing you in like a dying man.

And he left.

The click of the door behind him felt like a gunshot. And just like that, your heart cracked open all over again.

And then he was out the door.

Carmen stepped back inside the room and gathered you up in seconds, holding you against her as your body heaved with sobs so violent it felt like your heart might stop.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”

But you couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop hearing his voice. Couldn’t stop feeling those ghost touches on your skin.

And somewhere deep down, where the blood and the marrow lived, you knew it would never be the same again.

“I will leave this town, Carmen.”

Tags < 3 @jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

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[kerosenee-kisses]

Friend You Can Keep | Zayne

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

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

wc: 3.7k

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

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

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought we were working on accepting compliments.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He most certainly does.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know we can stop at any time,” he says even though his cock is straining against the condom. “You need only tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” 

You place a hand on his smooth cheek and smile up at him. His breath leaves him on a shaky exhale.  

“I know that Zayne. Thank you. But I think I’m ready now.”  

There’s a slight discomfort. A foreign pressure, a pinch, that he lets you acclimate to. There’s so much tension in his body as a result. You can’t help but feel endeared by how considerate he is of you always. Especially now.  

He places his palm on your belly, and you jolt.  

“Try to relax your muscles,” he says. 

You slow your breaths, try to do as he says until the fullness of his cock feels less invasive, almost comforting. You focus on the intimacy of this moment, of your bodies connecting. Of him being the first person to ever give you pleasure of any kind.  

“Mmm, good, just like that,” he groans. Who knew a voice could get you so hot. And not just his voice, those green eyes of his. He stares down at you so intensely you feel like you’ll melt into a puddle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask meekly.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.  

You hide your face behind your hands and whine for him to stop. Zayne laughs lowly and pulls your hands away. 

“You helped me accept a compliment earlier,” he says, kisses one wrist. “And even teased me for being nervous.” A kiss to the other. He rests them on the back of his neck and regards you with an almost mischievous smile. 

“Now it’s my turn to return the favor. Say ‘thank you’.” 

Your chest is heaving. You can’t believe how seductive he’s being. And so effortlessly, too. Where did this side of him come from?  

He lowers his face into your neck and all the air in the room vanishes when he kisses it.   

“Won’t you accept my compliment? Or should I continue to tell you how lovely I find you? Say that your beauty is beyond measure? That you are my greatest treasure.”  

Zayne lightly sucks on your pulse point. How does he expect you to speak? You can hardly function as is. 

“I’m not as patient as you think I am.” He nips at your neck, and you tense up.  

“Thank you!” you yelp. 

You feel his lips pull into a grin. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Or should I give you more compliments so you can practice?” 

“Y-you can move now!”  

Zayne kisses under your ear before he pulls his hips back and slowly grinds into you. His pelvis meets your sticky clit every time your bodies meet. He thrusts into you until your moans and sighs fill the humid air between you both. 

You experimentally squeeze around his cock as he pulls away from you and he moans in concert with you.  

“Did you want to see my like this?” he asks, voice hoarse as his cock pushes deeper into you. You arch up against him, your nipples grazing his chest. Zayne dips his head to take one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth again, sucking and biting at it affectionately. You wrap your legs around his trim waist and try to pull him even closer to you. He’s making you feel so good that you can hardly stand it. All you can focus on is Zayne. The way he fits so perfectly between your legs, the feel of his biceps under your hands. His crisp, clean scent sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You want even more of him.  

You bury your hands in his hair, thick silk between your fingers, and tug. Zayne pulls off your breast with a wet pop and kisses you. He plasters his chest to yours as he rolls his hips into you. Your walls tighten up around him and he grits out your name. He wraps his arms around your waist tight and fucks into you so deep that you swear you see stars. So bright that you clench your eyes shut as pleasure takes hold of your whole body. It’s an ecstasy like no other.  

“I love you, Zayne. I love you,” you babble mindlessly as you cum harder than before. 

Zayne moans and ruts into your body erratically, desperately, until he seizes up and cums with you. Maybe you’re too caught up in the romantic atmosphere you accidentally created– sultry love ballads and low lighting–but you almost wish he had painted your walls instead of the condom.  

He looks ethereal as pleasure contorts and relaxes his features, his muscles. Zayne takes your face between his hands and kisses you hungrily. Like he’ll never have another opportunity to. You’ll make damn sure that’s not the case.  

"I adore you,” he says before he steals another kiss and your breath along with it. You both grip and pull at the other as if you could get any closer. You want to nestle in the marrow of his bones, dwell in the cavern of his heart. 

“I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you whisper between kisses. 

“I have always been yours. Only ever yours.” 

[coriihanniee]

Where the Water Rests - k.lh ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚

𓂃۶ৎ SUMMARY : What if you could stop running? After hours drenched in rain, broken and lost, you hoped to return before him—just long enough to hide the pieces of yourself. But instead, you find Leehan waiting.

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : bf!leehan x gn!reader

𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : angst with comfort

𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mental health issues, eating disorder, mentions of food/calorie counting/skipping meals

𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 1.5k words

𓂃۶ৎ A/N : I was so hesitant in posting this. It was sitting in drafts for a long while now. This came from a place I don’t always know how to talk about. I guess you could say this was self-indulgent, I just needed something to comfort me. I've never exactly been so open about this in such a space before.🥹I just needed to write what it felt like to be in a body that doesn’t always feel like home, and what it might mean for someone to stay beside you. If this resonates with you, I hope this makes you feel a little less alone, you're not the only one trying to remember how to be soft with yourself again.💕

The rain clings to you like a second skin, each droplet a tiny prism holding fragments of streetlights. Your lungs labour beneath your ribs—a caged animal seeking escape—as water traces meandering paths down your face, mingling with salt that could be tears or sweat or both.

You've been walking for three? Four hours? Every step counted, every minute cracked on your watch. You've kept perfect time—measuring each second against the calories you're sure are burning away.

The apartment should have been empty. A sanctuary of silence where you could disintegrate in private. Leehan had schedules, performances, lives unfolding in directions that didn't involve witnessing your quiet collapse.

He wasn't supposed to be here—not today, not when you'd planned your alone time like someone mapping their own vanishing, not when counting calories was the only math that made any sense anymore.

But there's a soft light coming from under the door. 

Your fingers stop on the doorknob, frozen by knowing you can't hide your broken self tonight. 

There's nowhere left to run.

When you step inside, dripping water onto the threshold, Leehan is there.

He sits cross-legged before the aquarium—that ridiculous, beautiful tank he insisted made the sterile apartment feel inhabited. The blue glow bathes his profile in subaqueous light as he watches the fish drift through their private cosmos. A book lays splayed beside him, forgotten. His oversized hoodie pools around his wrists where he's pushed the sleeves up, and some soft melody dies on his lips when he turns.

His eyes find you—translucent with concern.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Like he's trying to understand what he's seeing. Like he's trying to match the person standing there with the one who left this morning saying, "just going for coffee" and "back in an hour.”

"You're soaked through," he says, voice pitched low like a confession.

There's something careful in how he speaks—like he wants to ask a hundred questions but fears the wrong one might break you completely.

"I'm fine," you manage, though the words taste like copper.

You know how you must look. Clothes stuck to your body, showing every bone you've come to measure like territory—counting each one that shows through your skin as a win, each hollow space as success, each visible rib as proof you still control something. Hair dark and heavy with rain, dripping onto the floor in a steady beat. Lips pale, bluish at the edges. Eyes surrounded by shadows deeper than rain could explain, empty in a way that scares even you, yet somehow proves the emptiness you've grown inside. 

Your legs hurt from walking in the storm, but the pain feels right—like you've earned the right to exist today by paying with steps and shivers.

Leehan watches you for a long moment, closing his book without marking his page. 

This small detail somehow breaks your heart. Like whatever story he was reading matters less than the crisis dripping onto the floor he polished last weekend while you watched from the couch, wrapped in blankets against a cold only you felt.

He approaches with that peculiar steadiness that defines him—unhurried yet inevitable, like the tide returning to shore regardless of what has been lost to the depths since its last visit.

He stops before you, close enough that you can feel the subtle warmth radiating from him. His hands remain at his sides, patient.

"I was going to feed them," he says, tilting his head towards the aquarium where fish glide in luminous arcs. "But they've already eaten."

You wait, unsure if you were supposed to respond. Water drips from your sleeve, making a puddle that grows like your silence.

His head tilts slightly, his eyes taking in how tired you look. There's history in his gaze—of finding you like this before, of nights spent whispering to you until sunrise, of meals carefully made only to be pushed around plates, of appointments made and missed, of promises that tomorrow would be different.

 "Have you?"

There it is, the question you were dreading, the question that burns in your throat. Two small words that tear down the walls you've built. The question that means he knows—he has always known.

"Wasn't hungry," you murmur, the lie sitting heavy between your teeth. 

You can't look at him now, because in his eyes you'll see every meal you've skipped, every excuse you've made, every night he's woken to find your side of the bed empty, your running shoes gone.

"You look like you've been running from something that doesn't exist outside your mind."

Your gaze slips to the floor. "I needed space to breathe."

Another lie. You needed space to disappear, to shrink, to burn away this morning's sin of toast and jam that still sits heavy in your stomach.

"You're trembling."

The observation breaks something within you.

He says your name—just once—with such tender precision that you feel the syllables like fingers brushing against you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper to the space between you. Sorry for worrying him. Sorry for walking hours in the rain. Sorry for hating the breakfast you ate. Sorry for becoming nothing but sharp edges and empty spaces. Sorry for believing your worth was measured in calories eaten and burned.

"Don't," he says, finally reaching for your hand. The shock of his warmth against your cold skin doesn't make him recoil. "Come here."

You follow without resistance, as if his presence has become stronger than your urge to disappear.

Your legs, now still after hours of punishing walking, start to shake badly. The math of steps and calories burns behind your eyes like fever.

In the bathroom, he already has a towel waiting—as though he's been anticipating your unravelling for hours. He takes the towel and starts to dry your hair with a gentleness that makes your throat tight.

"You walked for three hours in this," he says quietly, not asking but knowing. There's no blame in his voice, just a deep sadness that makes you want to shatter. He knows why. Of course he knows why.

"The app says I burned—" you start, but he puts a finger gently against your lips, stopping the numbers before they can escape.

"Your body isn't an accounting book," he says softly, and the simple truth undoes you. "It doesn't need to balance debts and payments with every breath.”

You stay quiet, your eyes closed, fighting tears. The bathroom light seems too harsh, too revealing. You feel see-through beneath it, all your careful counting and rituals exposed like bugs under glass.

“You know,” he murmurs, “fish don't force themselves to swim upstream unless they're migrating. Most of the time, they just… go with the flow. Stay alive. Let the current carry them.” 

A broken laugh escapes you. "Are you comparing me to a fish now?"

"I'm comparing you to something that knows when to rest," he answers, voice steady. "To something that trusts its body to know what it needs."

His hands move from your hair to your shoulders, carefully taking off your wet jacket. You tense up, the need to hide your body overwhelming even now, even with him. He notices, and his movements slow even more, giving you time to breathe through the panic.

You remain silent, your eyes are closed, throat tightening against tears.

"You don't always have to wage war against your body," he continues. "You don't have to punish it for occupying space."

A tear escapes, betraying you.

He catches it with the corner of the towel, neither commenting nor looking away.

"I feel heavy," you confess, voice splintering on the words. "Even when I've emptied myself of everything."

Leehan nods with a comprehension that feels impossibly genuine. "That's the water speaking."

A fractured laugh escapes you. "What?"

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Some fish survive by mastering buoyancy—harbouring just enough air to remain suspended between rising and sinking. But when fear finds them, they descend."

Your eyes search his face for what he means, for some clue to navigate this conversation that feels both impossible and necessary.

"You aren't heavy," he says, fingertips brushing damp strands from your temple. "You're exhausted from fighting to stay afloat in waters that were never meant to drown you."

The tears flow freely now, carrying pieces of the self you've been trying to take apart—bit by bit—for longer than you want to remember.

He makes no attempt to stop them.

Instead, he wraps you in warmth—towel and arms creating a bubble of imperfect safety. One hand holds the back of your head where your thoughts scream loudest, where the numbers and measurements and comparisons wage their endless war. His breathing creates a rhythm your lungs slowly begin to follow, like remembering a language you've forgotten.

"You don't need to disappear to deserve love," he murmurs into your hair. "You don't need to empty yourself to deserve safety. You don't need to earn your place in this world through hunger."

"I've forgotten how to stop," you say into the fabric of his hoodie. The words tremble, half-swallowed by the cotton and the weight of everything you've been carrying. His arms tighten around you, to remind you that you’re here. That he’s here. "I've forgotten how to exist without the numbers.”

"You don't have to know yet," he replies, voice steady, like he's trying to anchor you without pulling too hard. 

"You just have to allow me to remain beside you while you remember."

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

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[nicohii]

Sylus x Non-MC plot bunny in my mind where:

You have served him as his right hand. Cleaned whatever mess or potential ones that had come his way. You've been with him for as long as you can remember -- even before Luke and Kieran.

The softness in your eyes when you look at him does not escape him. He is observant, hell, he wouldn't be where he is now if he wasn't. There is a softness and fondness I'm the way you move around him and the boys. There is a part of you that knows that he knows; but you also know that he is here with a mission of lifetimes. There is someone out there he keeps looking for and it isn't you.

You see it -- the longing in his eyes, one that transcends the presence you offer even if he hides it from you. In the moments that the universe allows, there is exchanged softnes. Exchange of something of the heart but you both don't dare call what it is because... because... and you actually can't think of any reason why. And it hurts.

Then comes a hunter, and everything falls into place. The why's. The what's. The mission of his lifetimes. There is a growing distance that both of you hate but choose not to address. She makes him happy and that makes you happy. She makes you happy. You understand why, but understanding doesn't make you numb.

It takes a while before you choose to make ammends with yourself. To make peace that there isn't anything here for you anymore. Your service isn't needed anymore .

It's a party, you don't remember what for. She is on a vacation in Skyhaven so your boss opts to take you. Surprisingly, this isn't a mission. Just a small something that a friend invited him to. You find him in a balcony, just coming off from a phone call with a voice to familiar.

You hand him a glass of wine which he accepts. The N109 zone is harsh, but there is beauty in it during these hours. The illuminating lights, the sounds of the city, the feel of him. There is an ache in your stomach that makes you want to hurl.

"You have been distant... " his voice breaks the silence and you look at him from your periphery before taking a sip of your own drink. So direct, so Sylus.

"Yes. Yes, I have been. I suppose. " You smile. He leans against the railings arms crossed and you know he wants you to tell him more. You think about the plans you have made within your time to yourself. The decisions you have come up with... And where to go from here.

You down the whole drink before letting a small scoff and laugh, eyes wandering everywhere but him.

"Sylus, you have got to know by now. " You're voice starts to crack, and you can't do anything, he makes you vulnerable. He takes you apart piece by piece just by being within reach.

"Know what? "

"That I love you."

He chooses to remain silent. What is there to say to that? He supposes. He knows. That's the thing between the both of you, the deep understanding that transcends words. He caresses your face. You look at him in the eyes, and he swear he doesn't mean to, but there is weakness in the moment, when your eyes yearn and tell him to take a peak at the dreams you have locked away because you both know there is no return from this, might as well lay all the cards on the table.

He sees it, the soft dreams of a future. Two bodies dancing in the living room, early mornings, late nights, a small him, a small you, childlike laughter flooding his home. Something stings within him when he gets down from the illusions, and all that's left is the look of resignation from your eyes. Like you already know what he is going to say.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, I--"

"I know." You tell him as you softly remove his hands from your face. There is a sad smile in your face before you nurse your empty glass between your hands. You hold it close in your hands, cradling it against your chest as the moisture from the glass stains your dress.

"I think... " your breath shakes, a ragged breath before you look at him again, "I think my work here is done."

Sylus is by no means a sentimental man for everyone, but there is a pang in his chest that feels to familiar and foreign at the same time. He takes prides in his well sewn words, they are calculated and factual, well spoken and funny if he tried, but right now there is no words.

You ask him for your freedom that night. You've already done enough for him, you tell him. There is no need for you here and it's time for the move forward.

It's the last time he hears of you.

---------------------------------------------------

It's not everyday that Luke and Kieran leaves important documents haphazardly at the base. But Sylus supposes that boys will be boys. He cleans his gun, a particular habit he picked up to relax. Before he notices a white envelope left opened and read on the deskdesk, intricately designed and scented, with your name written in fancy script.

Your hand writing is on the card,

Boys,

I don't really have family to walk me down the aisle. So I figured and hope, will you to do it? It would mean the world to me.

(But if there's an important mission Sylus assigned you to do please for the love of all things holy, don't bail on him.)

P. S: Please don't tell him.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 182 (A Pleasant Surprise)

Following the meeting with the Bankses, Felix and Emit soon received confirmation that the judge had recused herself from Ash's custody trial, handing it off to her colleague, Judge Morrison, in Brindleton Bay. Just as she'd promised. While Felix took care of informing Heather and Conrad of the good news, Emit headed to Britechester.

He hadn't seen or spoken to Angela since the wedding, but while he was in her time he couldn't avoid her. He didn't want to. But he was still unprepared to see her growing belly - confirmation that life, as he knew it, would never be the same. He'd been avoiding this feeling.

"How did it go with the time thief?"

"It went well," he said. "I think it's over."

Angela smiled. "That's great," she said, but she wasn't really interested in the time thief. "Did Felix tell you it's twins?"

He nodded. He didn't know what to say.

"The doctor says everything's good. We're all healthy."

"That's good."

She waited for him to say more. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"Angela, I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do about it. I haven't slept in months. The night you told me you were pregnant, I went for a walk through the glen and sat outside an old pub. This woman walked out like she came straight from the 1920s and sat down next to me. Talked my ear off for an hour about her husband - 'the Admiral', she called him - and their daughter. Finally, I told her you were expecting and she knew I wasn't happy about it. 'Maybe you shouldn't have been such a gigolo,' she said."

"What are you talking about? What woman?"

"I don't know who she was, but she made me think about things I've done, and rules I've broken...Ange, you're not the first woman I've slept with...on the job. There was only one other woman, six hundred years ago, but I looked into her genealogy because I got scared. I don't even know how this works, but I'm my own 22nd great-grandfather!"

"You're what?"

"I don't even want to know, and it scares me. But being a time traveler is all I know. As soon as I turned thirteen I left home to start my training. I don't think I can quit."

Angela looked at him with earnest green eyes. "Is there something you want me to say? I told you I would never force you to stay."

"I just...I wanted to see you. And I want to come back. I don't know when..."

Angela sighed, placing a hand on her growing stomach. "I'm not going anywhere, Emit, but if you have to ask me if you should stay, I think you already know what you want to do."

While Emit left Angela with an awkward goodbye, loner Lilith was getting acclimated to life at the chateau, feeding a burgeoning interest in tarot with a deck she'd found. Felix' boss was yet to open an office in Ravenwood, so he was commuting to work every few weeks and scoping out potential new clients when he was home.

But the loved up newlyweds still managed to spend as much time as they could together, and while Felix was out of town for Ash Landgraab's new custody hearing in Brindleton Bay, Lilith took a pregnancy test. Positive! She grinned with excitement.

From the minute Lilith met Felix, she knew she'd be happy to have a child with him, and she couldn't wait to tell him the great news. The chateau's pet crow, Rowena, came with the house, and Lilith entertained herself watching the mysterious black corvid while she waited patiently for her husband to return.

It was dark when he came home, exhausted and complaining about the flight from Brindleton Bay, but he couldn't hide the smile on his face as he tucked into dinner. "Did Judge Morrison give custody back to Heather and Conrad?"

"Of course he did. Nancy didn't even show up - just Malcolm and his wife. Judge Morrison didn't believe Malcolm when he said they had no knowledge of what Landgraab Engineering had been working on, and Ash will be home by the weekend."

"That's the second best news I've had all day," she said, standing next to him at the picnic table outside. He raised an expectant brow. "Felix, I'm pregnant."

(She told him this herself. He came home and I tried to queue up her telling him, but the option wasn't there because she did it just as I was looking for the option in her menu!)

The former ghost's eyes bulged as he registered the news, a wide grin pulling from one cheek to the other. "You are? We weren't trying yet. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I've been nauseous for days and my period was late, so I took a test this afternoon."

"Lilith, this is the greatest news I've ever had in any of my lives." He struggled to find the words to express the warmth exploding from his skin, standing from the bench to caress her small belly. "We're going to have a baby? Our baby!"

The newlyweds shared a romantic embrace as they celebrated their impending parenthood, and Felix ran a hand through his beloved's red hair. "What else did you get up to while I was away?"

"I've almost got my podcast schedule set for the new season, and I called a local adoption agency about a cat. They're bringing a black kitten over tomorrow to see if he suits us. He's called Patches."

"What will Rowena think about a cat?"

"My friend Cassandra says her mother has a crow and two cats, and the cats never bother Obsidian."

Felix smiled, reaching for her hand to kiss the soft tips of her fingers. "We'll hope Rowena and Obsidian have the same disposition, then."

Their friends would finally be reunited with their son in Brindleton Bay, and Patches joined the growing Psyded clan as the newlyweds began prepping for the arrival of their first child. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Rowena won second place in the official poll to name Grimbella's crow, Obsidian, so she was automatically bestowed the name when I first loaded up the lot in-game.

NOTE 2: Baby boom incoming. It's not just the Pleasant twins...Also Emit definitely saw Lady Ravendancer('s ghost?), but she knows enough magic to make herself look completely alive to anyone she wants, probably. Emit didn't jump back far enough in time to run into her in 1920, and the Landgraab curse has nothing to do with the time thief. (That's why he didn't recognize her, in case you did!)

NOTE 3: We're skipping the second custody hearing. It's summarized, we won! But we knew they would win because the Landgraabs were being shady with biometric time travel and Felix could prove it. Ash is coming home!!

[the-fiction-witch]

Beauty Often Hides… Such Fury

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aemond Targaryen (Regent Post Rooks Rest) Couple - Aemond X Reader Reader - Y/n Baratheon Rating - 17 Word Count - 1136

Plans and politics of the realm were always complicated, with alliances and allegiances taking precedence over all other matters, needs and desires. So when Aemond received the scroll from his mother, bidding him to take flight to Storms End and proclaim his brother Aegon king, and to ensure that house Baratheon aligned with the crown by offering up his own hand to one of the Lord’s daughters.

Regardless of his distaste for such an idea, he obeyed.

Once the babes were slain, and Aegon and Sunfyre fell from the sky, the throne sat without an obvious heir.

The wedding was needed to be a far quicker and less grand afair. Their wedding was fast and simple, in the sept below the grey rain. And the two were husband and wife.

Aemond was, of course, thrilled to have captured himself a little doe, to make her beg and obey. However, he was unaware he had, in fact, released a true daughter of a stag into his bed. Aemond turned down the bedding ceremony, wishing to have the sick joy himself. He brought Y/n to his chambers, slammed the door, and turned happily to his new wife, a wicked grin on his face.

Y/n stood in her long black wedding gown embroidered with gold thread. Her hair was in a long braid with yellow ribbons. She held her hands together at her waist as she looked around the chamber that was to be her home.

The fire crackling, the candles flickering and a soft gentle silence filled the rooms. The place was well prepared for their wedding night, even if a table of plans was still laid out but pushed aside for tonight.

"Finally, my little Doe, I have you all to myself." he slowly stalked towards her, his eyes raking over Y/n's body.

"Does such a concept being you joy my prince? To know we are alone?" She asked innocently, her face turned away from him, looking over the maps and tapestries,

"The idea of being alone with you in our chamber, my little Doe, yes. That does bring me a a great deal of joy." he licked his lips and stared at her as he would at a piece of succulent meat. “Mother says I am to do my duty to you. And I will.” He smirked, moving closer almost against her back, “And I will… seek to enjoy myself as much as possible.”

Y/n turned in a flash. The only sound was the fabric of her wedding gown shifting,

Aemond let out a quiet gasp as the cold steel touched his throat, the edge of her blade against his neck, and he froze immediately. His eyes glared at her, surprised anger burning in them. He stayed still, not making a sound. "My, my, what a clever girl," he said between gritted teeth.

"Always hide a weapon in your wedding dress." She nodded. "My mother taught me that."

Aemond laughed, his eyes still glaring at her. "I suppose I shouldn't have been shocked; such beauty often hides… such fury."

"If you hurt me. I will hurt you too." She warned him,

"Of course you would little Doe. I'm not foolish enough to think otherwise." he smirked and raised his empty hands up in surrender.

She slowly lowers her knife. Returning it to a holster sewn into her dress's cleavage,

Aemond watched, his hand coming to rest at his neck where her blade had touched him. Drawing his hand back, he noticed that there was a droplet of blood. "It seems my little Doe made me bleed." his eyes turned back to her, looking at Y/n, and he took a tentative step forward. Almost like a predator testing the limits of his trap. "Little Doe," he growled, "What does this marriage mean to you?"

"This marriage means, I understand, it keeps me alive."

“It makes you my queen.”

“I do not care to be queen,” She shook her head, “I care to survive. And as a woman in this world, that is all I can ask the gods for.”

Aemond grins, "You are a true Doe, my little wife, no doubt. Very smart." he brushes her hair from her face, gently running his fingers over her chin. "So my little Doe, tell me. Is your loyalty given, or will you continue to plan on stabbing me in the back while I sleep?" his fingers lightly traced her neck, almost teasing his fingers down her throat allowing her to feel the strength in his fingers.

"… I will give my loyalty." She nodded. "If you give yours."

Aemond's fingers continued to trace down her body, over her shoulders, moving across the material of her dress, "My loyalty is yours, little Doe." he said the words softly, as his fingers gently traced the line of her cleavage. “You and I are in this together.”

"Truly?" She asked. "If you wish me to be loyal, then be loyal to me. I will not harm you, so long as you don't harm me. Be my husband… And I'll be your wife."

"I shall give you what you want.” He said, “But understand, this will not be easy, nor will it be clean. There are things… You and I shall have to do things that may make you wish to weep, may make your stomach turn.”

“You underestimate me.”

“I’m sure I do,” He smirked. "You will have me as a husband, I shall be a husband, and you my wife. I will be loyal to you, and you will be by my side. Always. So long as you understand that I am your king. You are my queen. And the rest of the world is below us."

“Below us?”

“I will lay kings landing low for you. And I would expect no less from you.”

“But you are my king. You ask me then to lay myself before the flames for you when you would not do so for me.”

“My sweet Doe.” He growled. “I would let the world burn for you,” he whispered. “You and I are above all else, and I would walk into the flames to show my loyalty to you. Now? Are you my loyal Queen, or not?”

She nodded and slowly untied the lace of her gown, letting it hit the floor and leaving her naked. "Then I am loyal, pet the Doe as long as you desire. But don't be surprised if you invoke my rage and find antler spikes lodged in the dragon’s throat."

Aemond stared as her gown fell to the ground, drinking in her form, watching over her naked body. His lips curled into a wicked smile, and he felt his desire burn as he gazed upon his wife. He raised a hand, tracing it over her bare skin, feeling the warm flesh. One hand gently held her hip, pulling her into him. The other hand ran over her back. “Perfect.” He growled,

[nightghoul381]

S-Tier Mission: Sadistic & Sweet

Ellis Twilight ~ Premium End

This a fan translation so it is definitely not 100% accurate. I do not own anything related to Ikemen Villains. Support Cybird by buying their amazing stories!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

While he was flustered by the restraints, a black blade was swiftly placed against Oliver’s neck.

Oliver: “Eeek…!”

Ellis: “Be quiet.”

Ellis: “I know everything you guys have been doing.”

Oliver: “!”

Ellis: “Who ordered it?”

Oliver: “I-I don’t know. I was just invited by some guys who said I could have some fun with girls and get paid!”

Kate: “…You don’t know what happened to the women you invited afterwards, do you?”

Oliver: “I don’t care, it was just time to hang out with girls with no strings attached!”

Oliver: “What’s so wrong with taking advantage of what’s available!?”

Kate: “…How selfish…”

(There are so many women who have become victims of this man’s selfish desires…it’s unforgivable.)

As if responding to my anger, Ellis’ hand gripping the knife tightened.

Ellis: “Kate, close your eyes.”

Kate: “! … Thank you. But I can’t do as you ask this time. This is my mission, so I want to see it through to the end.”

Ellis: “…Okay, I understand.”

The next moment, fresh blood splattered in front of my eyes.

Kate: “…”

Suspiciously dressed man: “What’s up with all this commotion? How hard can it be to bring in a woman…”

Large, inattentive man: “Huh? Why is there a man here?...Oh, Oliver!?”

Kate: “!”

Their friends emerged from the building and were shocked by the sight of a pool of blood.

Suspiciously dressed man: “Y-You did this!?”

Large man with a scruffy beard: “Haha, so you’re this woman’s man then? He’s jealous because his woman accepted Oliver’s invitation.”

Suspiciously dressed man: “Perfect timing, perhaps I should try selling a man’s body for a change!”

With practiced hands, the men stalked toward Ellis, their knives flashing.

Ellis: “…”

(They’re going after Ellis together… I have to do something!)

In fact, under my dress I was hiding the knife Victor had given me for self-defense.

(But even if I jump at them from this distance… if I get caught before I can slash, it’ll be even more troublesome.)

For someone like me, who wasn’t familiar with handling knives, it was too risky a gamble.

(Is there a better option…Yes!)

I remembered a broken garden rake from when I had been hiding in the bushes earlier.

I quickly grabbed the handle and silently swung it at the men from behind.

Kate: “Yah...!!”

Suspiciously dressed man: “Come on!”

Ellis: “!”

It hit one of the men in the back, and he turned to glare at me with a terrifying expression.

Suspiciously dressed man: “Damn, now you’ve done it.”

Large man with a scruffy beard: “Right, let’s get the woman first.”

Kate: “…!”

Ellis: “Thank you. I love you, Kate.”

While the men were distracted, Ellis touched their heads and restrained them.

Suspiciously dressed man: “Whoa!? W-What is this!?”

Large man with a scruffy beard: “Damn, at least get the woman…Ugh!?”

Roger appeared from behind the man who had been swept off his feet and fallen.

Roger: “Guys who don’t accept defeat aren’t cool.”

As he trampled on the crawling men, Roger looked toward the building.

Roger: “…There’s no one inside anymore.”

Ellis: “Thanks Roger. Kate, are you hurt?”

Kate: “No, are you Ellis?”

Ellis: “I’m okay. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Roger: “Okay, let’s quickly get these guys out of the way and head home.”

--

Victor: “…I’m glad you returned safely. Good work Kate, Ellis.”

The masterminds behind the series of incidents were a group of quack doctors who wanted healthy bodies as specimens.

It seems Oliver was given a reward that also included hush money in case he discovered the organization.

Victor: “So, Ellis, can you tell me your evaluation of our dear robin?”

Ellis: “It’s…”

Kate: “…”

Ellis: “I believe it's S rank.”

Kate: “!”

Victor: “Why is that?”

Ellis: “When I was about to be attacked by those men, Kate saved me.”

Ellis: “Thanks to her, we were able to complete the mission safely…”

Ellis: “I’ve grown to love you even more, Kate.”

Kate: “Ellis…”

Ellis: “Also… I’d like to add points for inspiring me to kill Oliver of my own accord.”

Kate: “Huh?”

Ellis: “Until now, I had never thought about condemning someone of my own volition.”

Ellis: “It became clear to me that I couldn’t ignore that man’s selfishness.”

Ellis: “…Thanks to Kate.”

--

(It really leaves a bad taste in your mouth when you see such devastation.)

(But, if my presence influenced Ellis’ way of thinking…then maybe I was of some help.)

(…Either way)

Ever since returning from the mission, Ellis seemed closer to me than usual.

Even now, as we returned to our room and sat side by side on the bed, he casually put his arm around my waist.

Kate: “Um, Ellis…Thank you for giving me the highest rating.”

Ellis: “Well, I’m happy to be able to support you too.”

Ellis: “…The truth is, I didn’t want to let go of your hand, even at the venue.”

He wrapped his hand around the fingers that had been touched at the venue and gently kissed them.

Ellis: “No matter what happened up until now, I never felt anything during my missions.”

Ellis: “I really hated watching you leave with that man.”

(I see, that’s why you’re clinging to me so tightly now…)

Ellis, who had always kept his desires hidden, was now expressing his feelings so openly.

And the fact that it’s because of me made me even happier and more affectionate.

Ellis: “But I wanted to support you in your endeavors… so I held back.”

(When you were watching from the sidelines of the venue… you were feeling the same as me.)

Ellis: “Also… I’m sorry for showing you his blood.”

Ellis: “Can I hug you?”

(Even at times like this, he thinks of me first.)

My heart was filled with Ellis’ kindness, and instead of responding, I gently placed my arms around his back.

His long arms wrapped completely around me, and the hair around my neck felt more ticklish than usual.

Ellis: “…Hey, are you happy right now?"

Kate: “Yeah. Of course.”

Ellis: “As promised, I’ll give you a reward. Anything you want, I want to make it happen.”

Ellis: “What do you say?”

Kate: “…Well then, can you pat my head?”

Ellis: “Eh… is that really okay?”

Perhaps realizing the meaning of my words, Ellis stared at me with a confused look.

Kate: “Yes. I want you to stroke the top of my head. I want to experience what your powers feel like, Ellis.”

Ellis: “Understood.”

His large hand gently touched me, and my wrists snapped together as if drawn by magnets.

Kate: “Oh…”

Ellis: “Does it hurt?”

Kate: “No, not at all. It’s just like they’re stuck together… Hehe, they’re not moving at all.”

I tried using force to pull them apart, but to my amazement, they didn’t move even a millimeter.

Kate: “What an amazing ability.”

They wouldn’t hurt someone, they’d just restrain them—

(That ability suits Ellis.)

Then my restrained arms were pushed up above my head and I was pushed onto the bed.

Ellis: “Kate, you look like you’re having fun, it’s so cute.”

Kate: “Mmm…”

The scent of soap and gentle kisses rained down upon me, and my attention was immediately drawn back to Ellis in front of me.

Looking down at me, those twilight-colored eyes were filled with an uncharacteristic heat—

Ellis: “Is there anything else you want me to do?”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

[dulcecherub]

Igual Que Un Angel

Epilogue

Synopsis: Sofia is pregnant, and the last thing she needs is for Rafe to find out. It’s her dirty secret, it’s not like he’s barging down her door to speak to her. He looks as if he’s done with her for good. Will outside forces, force Sofia to confront the situation at hand. Or will she be able to keep this secret up? Not like, her belly isn’t growing everyday or anything.

Author’s note: the main plot of the series is finished. Just wanted to show you how Sofia and Rafe are like as parents and as a married couple. Sorry for how short it is! It took me so long to brain storm these ideas.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 14 | Epilogue

Four Years Later

“Rory! Please, no running around in the house. You’re going to hurt yourself!” Sofia says in a sing song voice. Aurora lets out an audible grunt. She crosses her arms angrily.

“But mommy I’m having fun.” She pouts. She throws her head back.

“I know, but there’s other ways to have fun.” Sofia picks up her daughter, twirling her around. As Aurora lets out a giggle, she grins up at Sofia.

“You’re so silly mommy.”

Rafe’s not home, so it’s just them too.

“Vamos a bailar…” Sofia continues to spin Rory around, erupting more giggles from her four year old daughter. Sofia laughs along with her. As they sway to the sounds of Sofia’s voice.

“Can we play music, mommy? Please?” Sofia adjusts her better, turning to walk towards the record player Rafe had purchased for her. The vinyl’s next to it, tucked on a shelf.

“Which one?”

“That one! That one!” Aurora points to one of the vinyls. One Sofia constantly played when she wanted to clean around the house. Sofia smiled, reaching to remove it from the row of vinyls.

“This one?”

“Yes momma.” Sofia places the vinyl onto the record player, the music cracking to life. Sofia begins to sway Aurora around the room. Singing along to the lyrics.

She turns her once more, to be faced with Rafe. Sofia jumps.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Rafe has a hand in his pocket and a smirk on his lips. “Not long, can I join you guys?”

“Yes! Yes! Join us dad!”

Sofia laughs as Rafe approaches, twirling them both around the room.

Rafe was alone with Aurora for the first time in a while. Usually so busy with work and finally he found a way to be with his family. Sofia, unfortunately for him, had work to do. She was now a preschool teacher.

“Ugh, dad! You’re doing it wrong!” Aurora chastises her own dad, Rafe tries to hide his laughter. But her outburst makes him chuckle outloud. She glares at him.

“Sparkly pink princess gets the red cup. Dr. Gloss gets the pink one.”

Rafe pulls his hands up in surrender. “My bad Rory. I thought since she’s called sparkly pink princess she’ll want the pink cup.”

“No, she doesn’t like everything pink. She likes colors that compliment her, duh.”

Rafe brows furrow. “Since when did you learn the world compliment? You’re four.”

“I heard mommy saying it to you.”

“So I’m dad and she’s mommy.” Rafe purses his lips comically. Aurora only giggles, pretending to make Dr.Gloss sip his tea.

“You’re so silly, dad.”

The front door opens then closes. He hears a shuffle of steps heading in their direction. Before long, Sofia’s head peers through the door.

She feigns a gasp. “You’re letting daddy playing tea part with you?”

“It’s dad, Sofia. Apparently you’re mommy and I’m just dad.”

Sofia smirks, “Not her fault she has her priorities straight.”

Rafe shakes his head, smiling at her. His eyes roaming her body, she moves closer, placing a kiss on his head before moving to do the same on Aurora.

“Hey mommy, can you join us please?” Aurora says, smiling up at her.

“Of course I will.” Sofia plops down on one of the seats. As Aurora prepares her “tea.”

“I got Dr. Gloss to finally get the one you like. The chamomile.”

“Okay, she needs to hang out less with you. Before you know it, we’ll have our very own like—boss baby.” Rafe says, eyeing Aurora.

“You’ve been watching boss baby?”

Rafe merely shrugs, “I was too lazy to change the movie.” Sofia laughs, it sounds like music to his ears. Aurora smiles at them both, pretending she isn’t listening.

“Our smart little girl.” Sofia coos at Aurora, kissing her cheek. Aurora giggles.

John B and Aurora glare at each other. Their uno cards pressed tightly to their chest.

“What do you know about uno?” John B says in a whisper.

“Everything.” Aurora whispers back, Sarah is trying to suppress her giggle. Little Jay shaking his head, rolling his eyes at his dad and his cousin.

John B dramatically drops his uno card, showing a draw 2 card. He smirks at Aurora but it instantly falls. A smile pressed onto Aurora’s face as well. She drops her card, showing a draw 2.

“No… no.” John B says, almost in horror. He picks up the four cards.

Sofia and Rafe are watching from the kitchen island. They’d lost already, much to Rafe’s dismay.

“I can’t believe she beat me.” Rafe murmurs, Sofia kisses his cheek.

“Sorry sore loser.”

His eyes widen, turning to her. “You lost too!”

“Yeah but not as bad as you.” Rafe rolls his eyes as he continues to watch.

“Uno.” Aurora says, John B’s mouth opens. “Sorry uncle Johnny.”

“It’s John B.”

“Well, I just beat you at uno. So it’s Johnny now.”

Sarah laughs as John B continues to be dumbfounded.

“I can’t believe I just got beat by a four year old.”

“Believe it buddy.”

Sofia turns to Rafe, “Yeah, she gets that from you.” Rafe only smirks, seeming proud of Aurora.

“So… you ready to tell them you’re pregnant again?”

Sofia cheeks flush, her elbow knocking on Rafe’s stomach.

“Not yet.”

Aurora turns to her parents, smiling at them with a big grin. They smile back. Sofia rests her head on Rafe’s shoulder.

“Not yet.”

[whyshedisappeared]

you know what pisses me off? when dog owners of bully breeds go out of their way to train their dogs and give them everything they need so they don't develop dangerous habits bc they know how dangerous they can be if they aren't trained right, meanwhile my aunt's Maltese mix is more dangerous than they are bc he hasn't been trained a day in his life and bit both my dog and my uncle's as well as tried to bite us but he's small so it's fine. that dog drew blood from me multiple times, he is not fine. he's so tiny his teeth are really fucking sharp and not training him is dangerous but my aunt just waves everyone off when we tell them they have to train their dog bc it will end badly. and then my uncle's hyper active dog who they went out of their way to train bc it was getting dangerous how he was reacting when he got too excited and because the sweetest most gentle dog ever now that they know how to help him is deemed the problem

[webism]

☆ bestfriend!satoru likes seeing you in his clothes a little too much.

it starts with lending you a jacket when you're out late and it gets cold. he laughs at you first, makes fun of the way you shiver, but then his eyes drift and he realises he can see your hardened nipples through your shirt and suddenly he's layering you up in his jacket just to keep his mind from short-circuiting.

but the sight of you in his jacket is no help either, not when you drown in it because he's so damn tall and he's reminded of the difference in size between the two of you and for the first (more like third) time he's wondering what you'd look like beneath him in a mean mating press. how you'd feel shaking under his body weight: like how you're shaking now, but pleasure wracking your body rather than the cold wind.

he tells himself it's fine to have these thoughts. you're his best friend, you spent every waking hour together: it's only natural that his thoughts would eventually drift southwards. he'll snap out of it, he just needs to jerk off and clear his mind.

so he walks you home, and lets you keep the jacket.

but that night, he's in the shower with hot water scalding his skin, eyes squeezed shut as he strokes his cock at an inhuman pace. fucks his fist with anything but you in mind—he thinks about all his past trysts, about whatever porn he's seen lately, about his fucking cursed technique.

and he thinks he has it, he's pumping his cock with crazed strokes in an attempt to cum and clear his mind, but just as that pleasure starts to break into white hot lust, all he sees is you. in nothing but his jacket, wrecked on his cock and begging him for more.

and when he cums, he sees your eyes pleading up at him from where you’d rest on your knees, ready to take his load into your mouth because you crave the taste. He swears he can feel your fingers splayed over his thighs… your tongue tracing the pronounced vein that runs up the underside of his cock… your heated presence in the shower alongside him.

satoru says your name as he cums, and realises he’s wholly fucked and not coming back from this.

so, naturally, gojo plays into it.

the next time you see him is at his place, you come around to spend time with him and talk about the mundane that always seems exciting when spoken in the lilt of your voice. he offers you a drink, pours you a glass of red and promptly spills it over your pretty top—purely accidental, of course.

and he only takes a moment to admire the way the soaked fabric clings to your skin before he’s bolting into action and offering you a shirt of his own.

“it’s like you’re trying to steal my wardrobe, huh? first my jacket… now my shirt… got something to admit to, hm? you like wearing my clothes?”

it’s playful banter, you think, and roll your eyes with a huff as he hands you a shirt that’s oversized even on him. he wants to see you drown in the fabric, covered in him through clothing until he can cover you in another aspect of himself.

you make him look away while you change, though you know it’s an effort wasted because he’s all-seeing or whatever. and when satoru finally gets a look at you in his shirt he knows it’s game over. it’s like he’s left a mark on you, staked him claim not through bite marks or hickies as he usually would, but through the fabric that adorns your skin. his clothes smell like him, look like him, and are being worn by you.

he’s beyond hard, his cock is tenting his pants and he’s almost offended you haven’t yet noticed, because there’s no hiding a boner when you’re his size. you’re sweet enough not to look, even steal a glance out of curiosity—but he isn’t; his eyes are roaming your skin in such a heated way you feel feverish. it’s how he notices the wine that has spilt on your skirt as well.

he could tell you—offer you a pair of his sweats and cum in his own pants as the way they’d hang off your hips—but he doesn’t. instead, your best friend satoru gojo, the man you know like scripture, drops to his knees and takes the hem of your skirt between his fingers.

“what are you doing?” you think he’s cruel for a joke like this, when he looks so good on his knees, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as if he’s aching for a taste of you. you squeeze your thighs together, groan at the thought of gojos relentless teasing if he realises you’re soaking wet right now. “this isn’t funny.”

“i’m not laughing,” he says, tone flat. “your skirt is stained.”

“oh,” it is, you can see the wine seeping into the fabric.

gojo laughs, his grin sinful. “what? you get all flustered when i’m on my knees? how lewd.”

“shut up,” you try and step backwards, put some space between him and your pulsing heat, but his hands come to grip your thighs, fingers cool as they brush under your skirt and press into your skin. “you’re an asshole, toru.”

“i know,” his fingers creep higher. “i’m sorry.”

“no you’re not.”

“i know,” he parrots. “but you will be.”

“wh—“

in one practiced movement, satoru rips your skirt down and exposes you to him. he has to bunch up the shirt of his you wear with one hand and keep you from running with the other, but he’s met with a beautiful sight as a reward for all his pining.

“for coming to my house with no fucking panties on and acting like you don’t want me to fuck you like we’re more than friends.”

you learnt quickly upon befriending satoru gojo that he always seems to get what he wants. this is no exception, because after he spends so long fucking you with his tongue that his knees go numb against the cold tile, he’s got you laid down on his couch, his t shirt bunched up over your waist just enough for him to watch his cock sink into you over and over and over again.

he loves the sight of you grabbing at the fabric to keep it out of the way— how you whine for him to just let you take it off, all for him to press his lips to yours and conjoin you so you couldn’t undress even if you tried.

how with each thrust of his ravaging cock into you, he’s whining like he’s not the one in control. babbling filth as if he’s not got you pinned and taking every last inch of him—he’s pussy drunk and overbearing in his excitement and slurring his words as he speaks against your open mouth.

“never allowed to wear your own clothes again,” he steals your breath with each gasp he gives between thrusts. “only mine. i’ll burn yours, fuck, i hate your clothes.”

“you…” gojos fast rutting stalls your sentence. “…you brought me that skirt.”

“yeah? well where is it now?”

you recall the lecture you tried to give him when he threw your wine-stained skirt into his trash bin. you’d protest his dictation of what you wear if you had the mind to do so—but his cock is hitting your g spot in tandem with the ministries of his fingers over your clit… you’re half-near brain dead with the way he splits you open and unravels you like the threading of his clothes he’s fucking you in.

you can’t count your orgasms, only feel them shoot static up your spine with each one gojo manages to pull from you. and when he cums, spills over your parted thighs to dress you further in the essence of him, you swear you hear him babble something about putting a ring on your finger some day, to dress you in something of his permanently.

but friends don’t talk like that.

they don’t fuck like this either, though.