#and just filing!!! filing!!!!!! can take longer than that

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader : PART TWO

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Pairing: Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: Part two of Idle Hands as so many have requested. After the night in your car, you tried to believe it was a mistake (and failed). But back in class, the tension is impossible to ignore—and when jealousy gets the better of him, you both learn you were never going to stop.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap, explicit sexual content, JEALOUS JOOOOEL BABY, unprotected sex, choking, rough sex, possessive Joel, teacher/student dynamic, praise & degradation, power imbalance, aftercare.

Word count: 3k (please don’t hate me that it’s a shorter one than the usuals)

A/N : I tried tagging everyone who asked to be tagged, and if it didn’t work, I’m so sorry!

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

The shop smells like motor oil and old concrete.

You stand in the doorway a beat longer than you mean to, gripping the strap of your bag so hard your fingers ache.

Joel is already there, the hood of a rusted-out sedan propped open in front of him. He’s bent over the engine bay, forearms braced on the frame, jaw dark with stubble.

When he straightens, you swear he feels you watching him. His head turns—just slightly—and your eyes catch.

For a second, everything from last week floods back at once: the heat of his mouth, the low sound he made when you begged. The way he’d buried his face against your throat and whispered the filthiest things you’d ever heard.

He doesn’t look away.

His gaze drags down your front—like he just can’t help it—and when he drags it back up again, something in his expression flickers.

He’s trying to be neutral. Professional. But he isn’t ignoring you. And that almost makes it worse.

You take a slow breath, moving to your usual workbench. He watches you go, wiping his hands on a rag he keeps tucked in his back pocket.

“Morning,” he says, voice low. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since he left you in your car with your hands still shaking.

Your heart beats too fast. “Hi.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. But the classroom door bangs open behind you—other students filing in, heavy boots echoing across the concrete—and whatever he was going to say dies before it can reach you.

You drop your bag on the stool, pulling out your notes and trying not to fidget.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you a moment longer before he clears his throat and calls the class to order.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Listen up.”

He shifts his weight, bracing one hand on the edge of the workbench, the other still worrying that rag.

“For your final project, you’re gonna do a complete brake system overhaul. Pads, rotors, calipers—front and rear. You’ll bleed the lines, verify pressure, and log every step. If it doesn’t stop on the test drive, you fail.”

Someone groans behind you.

“Yeah,” Joel says flatly. “That’s the point. It’s meant to be hard.”

He sets the rag aside, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you have questions, you ask. Don’t guess. Don’t half-ass. And don’t touch anything you’re not ready to finish.”

His eyes flick to yours again—just for a beat—and your stomach flips.

“Get started,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be around.”

The group breaks apart in a shuffle of boots and muttered complaints. You exhale slowly and pick your way toward your assigned bay, heart thudding.

You spend the next half hour working in silence, carefully removing the first caliper. You can feel Joel nearby—hear the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice as he checks on the others—but he doesn’t come over to you.

You’re trying to focus. Really. But the memory of his mouth on your skin keeps blurring the edges of everything.

That’s probably why you don’t notice Kyle until he’s too close.

“Careful,” he says, leaning an elbow on your bench. “You’re gonna strip the bolt if you keep wrenching it like that.”

You pause, glancing at the caliper bracket in your hands. “No, I’m not. I’m backing it off a half turn at a time so I don’t crack it.”

He smirks, ignoring you. “If you want, I could help you after class. Maybe go over it together? Over dinner?”

Heat crawls up your neck, part embarrassment, part annoyance. You set the part down carefully, wiping your hands on a rag.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, smile widening. “No offense, but it looks like you’re struggling. Wouldn’t want you to mess it up.”

“She’s not.”

You both turn.

Joel is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest. He’s not pretending to check the other bays anymore. He’s just watching.

Kyle shifts, trying for casual. “Yeah, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Joel cuts in, voice low. “She’s doing it right. Let her work.”

Something in his tone makes Kyle’s smile flicker. He glances at you like he expects you to jump in. When you don’t, he huffs a little laugh and backs away.

“Whatever you say.”

You don’t look up until Kyle’s gone. When you finally meet Joel’s eyes, they’re darker than before—something quiet and furious simmering underneath.

“You don’t need him,” he says, voice rough.

“I know.”

He holds your stare a second longer. Then he pushes off the beam, turns, and walks away—like he has to physically remove himself before he does something about it.

***

The rest of the afternoon drags.

You try to keep your head down, focused on reassembling the caliper and logging each step in your notes. But every time you glance up, Joel is there—never watching directly, but close enough you feel it anyway.

You can tell he’s making himself stay occupied. Finding excuses to check inventory, update paperwork, do anything that keeps him from looking too long.

And you hate how much you like it.

By the time the clock above the door clicks past six, the last of the class is packing up, slamming their lockers shut. Someone mutters a goodbye on the way out. Another kid laughs, cursing about how much his hands hurt.

You pretend to be absorbed in double-checking your torque specs, but your heart is hammering.

You don’t look up until the door closes behind them.

Then it’s just you. And him.

Joel is at the desk again, one hand braced on the top, his other rubbing slow over the back of his neck. He looks tired. Not the usual end-of-the-day tired—something deeper, heavier.

You wipe your hands on a clean rag and gather your notes, forcing yourself to move like nothing feels different. Like the room isn’t too quiet. Like the memory of his mouth on your skin isn’t still playing behind your eyes.

Your boots scuff over the concrete as you cross to his desk.

He doesn’t look up.

“I finished the checklist,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

He flips a page in the logbook, staring at it without reading. “Leave it there.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat. “Joel.”

Nothing. Just the tick of the old clock above the tool cabinet.

“I don’t—” You hesitate. “I don’t want this to feel like a mistake.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t lift his gaze. “It was a mistake.”

You swallow, fingers flexing on the edge of his desk. “You didn’t look like you thought that at the time.”

He drags a hand over his mouth, exhaling slow. “Don’t.”

You take a step closer. The air between you feels too thin.

“You don’t mean it,” you whisper.

He lifts his head then, finally meeting your eyes—and whatever you were braced for, it isn’t that look.

Wrecked.

His hand curls into a fist on the desk. “You think this is what you want?”

You don’t back down. “I know it is.”

He shakes his head, rough and disbelieving. “You don’t.”

Your voice drops, steady and soft. “Then show me.”

His breath shudders out. For a long second, he just looks at you—like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he’s hoping you will.

You don’t.

And that’s when he moves.

He comes around the desk in three slow steps. Stops just shy of touching you, so close you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then finds your jaw. His thumb drags along the edge of your mouth, the touch so careful it makes your heart ache.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me for,” he says, voice low and ruined.

Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His thumb drags across your lower lip, callused and warm, and you see the moment something in him fractures.

“I’m asking you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

A ragged sound tears out of his throat—half growl, half plea—and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and heat and desperation, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been clawing at him for weeks. His hands find your hips, dragging you into him so hard you lose your breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth, voice hoarse, like he hates himself for how good this feels. “Fuck—”

You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Your hands slide up under the hem of his work shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his stomach. He shudders when your nails scrape lightly over the trail of hair leading lower.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, and without breaking the kiss, he reaches past you.

The heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding home is deafening in the hush.

He keeps his mouth sealed on yours, like he can’t bear to stop touching you long enough to think about what he’s doing.

He walks you backward, slow but unrelenting, until your hips hit the edge of the nearest workbench. The cold metal bites through your coveralls. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, groaning into your mouth like it’s killing him.

His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing your hips, dragging up your ribs. When he finds the zipper at your chest, he hesitates for just a heartbeat.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You fuckin’ sure?”

“Please,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

He tugs the zipper down in one slow pull, the rasp of it loud in the quiet. His palm slides over your chest, thumb brushing the thin fabric of your bra. The contact makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You have any idea,” he growls, mouth hot against your throat, “what you do to me?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dragging his mouth lower—nipping at the side of your neck, the curve where it meets your shoulder. His free hand rucks the coveralls down your hips, bunching them at your thighs. You feel the rough scrape of his calluses on bare skin, and the noise that slips out of you is embarrassingly needy.

“Look at you,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear. “All fuckin’ sweet now. All mine.”

You drag your hands up his chest, fisting the collar of his shirt to keep yourself steady. He catches your wrists, pins them to the workbench behind you, and holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You think that little shit had a chance with you?” His voice drops lower, almost a snarl. “You think I was gonna stand there and watch him touch what’s mine?”

The possessiveness in his tone makes your breath stutter. “Joel—”

“That what you want?” he demands, words hot and ragged against your mouth. “Some fuckin’ boy who doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“No,” you gasp, thighs clenching around his hips. “Want you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like it’s breaking him to hear it. “You fuckin’ do.”

He lets your wrists go—only to shove your coveralls the rest of the way down. The cold air kisses your skin, and he palms your ass, dragging you flush against the thick line of his cock straining his jeans.

“Feel that?” He grinds against you, making you whimper. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me like you want it.”

Your hips rock into his, chasing the friction. “Please.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough, “gonna give it to you, baby.”

He kisses you again, messy and deep, while his hand drags between your legs. When his fingers find how wet you are, he groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re drippin’.”

His fingers slide through the slick heat, circling your clit just hard enough to make you bite your lip. He watches every reaction like he can’t look away.

“You want me to take my time,” he mutters, thumb pressing harder, “or you want it fast?”

“Fast,” you gasp. “Please—I—”

He cuts you off with a low, filthy laugh. “Course you do.”

He doesn’t waste another second. One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you again while the other tugs at his belt, freeing himself. The blunt head of his cock bumps your thigh, hot and heavy, and your breath breaks.

He flips you before you can think, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the cold workbench.

“Stay,” he growls, his voice so deep it scrapes something raw out of you.

You brace yourself, fingers curling around the metal edge, and look back over your shoulder.

His eyes meet yours—dark, starved—and something in them flickers.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget about every other man,” he mutters. “Gonna fill you up so full you remember you’re mine.”

He drags the head of his cock through the slick between your thighs, teasing you just long enough that you whine.

“Say it,” he rasps, hips nudging forward, the stretch already making your vision blur. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choke out, voice breaking. “You—fuck—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, sinking deeper. “All fuckin’ mine.”

When he bottoms out, his hand wraps around the front of your throat, tilting your head back so he can hear every gasp. His hips pull back—and when he slams forward again, the sound it makes is obscene.

Your fingers slip on the workbench. His grip tightens around your throat—just enough to hold you steady—and his other hand slides over your hip, guiding you back to meet each punishing thrust.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. “So tight—so fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You whimper, every thrust sending sparks up your spine.

“That little shit,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Thought he could even touch you—”

He drags his hand lower, finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me,” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Tell me who makes you come.”

“You,” you cry, voice splintering. “God—Joel—please—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Only me.”

The pressure builds so fast you can’t think. Can’t breathe. His cock drives into you, relentless, and you know you’re close—so close—

“Come on, baby,” he groans, thumb pressing harder, pace turning erratic. “Come for me.”

Your vision goes white. You shatter around him, hips jerking back into his as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, unstoppable.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps thrusting through it, hips snapping against your ass, low curses pouring from his mouth.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—”

You can feel every ragged breath, every shudder, right before he finally spills inside you with a rough, broken sound.

When it’s over, he stays there—forehead against your spine, breath gusting across your skin.

As the last tremor leaves your body, you collapse forward onto your elbows, cheek pressed against the cool metal.

Joel doesn’t move for a second. Just stays bent over you, his hand splayed wide across your stomach, breathing like he’s just run every mile he’s ever owed.

After a moment, he drags in a shaky breath. His palm slides up, brushing the underside of your breast, lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He slips free with a low groan and tugs your coveralls up enough to give you a shred of modesty. Then his hand cups the back of your neck, warm and heavy, like he can’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

You let him help you turn around. Your legs are unsteady, and he notices—his big hand bracing your hip until you’re upright. You can’t look at his face for a second. Not when you feel so wrung out. So full.

His thumb drags along your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes flick over your face, something complicated and unspoken in them. Guilt, maybe. Hunger that hasn’t faded. A tenderness you weren’t ready for.

“You wanna come by my place?” he asks, voice low. “Get cleaned up…maybe eat something?”

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Good.”

He steps back, adjusting himself and tucking himself away with one hand, moving like a man who knows he’s going to hell and still can’t bring himself to care. He re-zips your coveralls, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing the tender skin of your chest.

When he’s done, he smooths the zipper flat. His thumb grazes the little metal pull tab.

“You got a dorm room, right?” he says, trying for casual and failing. “Probably not a lot of privacy there.”

You huff a laugh, still a little dazed. “Tiny. Thin walls. You’d be…pretty hard to hide.”

He lifts a brow, mouth tugging at the corner. “Yeah? You think I’m worth hiding?”

“Think you’re worth a lot more than that,” you murmur.

A groan rumbles in his chest—soft but unmistakable. He dips his head, pressing his mouth to yours, slower this time. Not careful, exactly. But different.

When he finally pulls back, he nods toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll drive.”

You trail him toward the door, your heart still tripping over itself.

Just as he unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the handle, you clear your throat.

“So…” you say, voice small but teasing, “does this mean I pass?”

Joel goes still.

Then—very slowly—he looks back at you over his shoulder. His eyes are still dark, but there’s something softer there now.

“No,” he says, voice low. “Means you’re gonna need a lot more practice.”

And before you can think of something smart to say, he leans in and kisses you again—like he already can’t wait to fail you all over.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Here is the second part that yall asked for! I hope I did yalls requests some justice. @boscogirlsworld, @pixieeee101, @glitterspark & @kaseynsfws 💚🫶🏻

[bugb1t35]

Sebastian solace x reader

Summary: What happens if you give a suicidal person the ability to come back from death time and time again, completely ok? Physically at least. Sebastian doesn't want to know.

Trigger warnings and content warnings: suicide, suicidal ideation, self harm and some graphic descriptions of death. Angst with a happy ending.

Genre: angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort

Read on AO3 or down below :3

Word count: 6205

Author note

There will always be someone there. You are never alone and you are loved. Please remember that.

Also please ignore the spelling mistakes if there are any it is 7 am when I am posting this. Also I'm on mobile so possible weird formatting I'm sorry </3

__

The cold in the room bites at you, filling your lungs with a gasp as you open your eyes. The burning that consumed every inch of your body just seconds before is gone just as fast as the manilla folder slaps down on the desk in front of you, barely illuminated by a light from above. This feels different from the other deaths.

You wonder what snide remark you're gonna hear this time.

“A void mass? Really?”

You spare a glance up at him, glowing white eyes peering down at you, completely void of emotion. Completely unreadable. You give a meek shrug. It's not like you have to explain yourself to him, and you're already feeling a lot better than before. Lighter.

Like you can let yourself breathe.

“I tripped up. I heard an angler and hid without checking.”

His stare is still empty as ever, his tail shifts around somewhere in the dark room around you as he snickers and leans in a tiny bit closer. Just enough to see that fanged smile.

“Try not to be so careless next time, yeah? Wouldn't want urbanshade taking their brightest expendable out of the program.”

Normally the thought would send a chill through your veins, you’d give a snide remark back and then you’d be on your way to start another life, start another loop, and repeat the cycle all over again.

You don't have it in you to do that this time, so you smile up at Sebastian and bid him farewell, closing the folder and your eyes.

When you open them, you're back in the lobby. Other expendables rushing around, submarines docking and leaving, and the sound of rushing water flooding through the cave hidden port as you look out at the waterfall blocking the entrance that hides it from the view of any unsuspecting soul.

Standing up and dusting yourself off, you make your way to a dock.

The cycle begins anew.

—

Cold air rushing into your lungs, dim light illuminating a folder on the table, a hearty laugh. The same story once again. The searing on your skin is gone, now replaced by a soft tingling.

It's not entirely unpleasant.

A claw emerges from the dark and flips open the folder, circling the photo of a landmine slowly and tauntingly.

“Tsk tsk tsk. So careless. A mine in the middle of the hallway? I thought you were better than this expendable.”

The name is said low and slowly, certainly drawn out to mock you of the position you hold. You couldn't care less, this is the best you've felt in a while.

Your eyes skim through the page, not really caring about mines in particular, but it's something you'll be able to think about later on a slow run.

“Thanks for the info Sebastian! I’ll be heading out now.”

Your voice is awfully cheery for someone who was just blown to bits, but before he can say anything you're already sending him a smile and wave as you close the folder and blink away in an instant, back to the lobby.

Sebastian sits there for a moment longer than he should have, glancing down at the file still on the desk.

There's no way you hadn't seen that mine in front of you.

—

By the time you're at the 8th death from something he deems completely avoidable, Sebastian sits with the file already open on the table and eyes narrowed down at you as your body jerks back to life.

You can feel the hole that pierced through your body closing up, flesh mending and muscle regrowing underneath your jumpsuit. It burns, yet you're still grinning ear to ear.

“Beautiful day for some runs, isn't it Sebastian?”

He stares down at you with a glare, sounding incredibly unimpressed.

“You walked directly into a searchlight’s spotlight.”

For the first time, you catch something in his eyes, but it's gone before you can put a name to it.

“Just what exactly are you playing at here expendable? Some stupid idea that if you die enough times in such meaningless ways you'll be pulled from the program? That urbanshade will think you're too useless so they let you free from here only to go back to death row? Once you're here, you're here for good.”

His voice is practically snarling at you as you look at the papers on the desk in front of you before looking back up at him, pulling out your best sheepish laugh.

Letting him know wouldn't do anything.

“I guess I've just been off my game recently, but that doesn't matter. I just come back every time anyway’

You smile up at him with that same stupid smile, the one you’ve made every time for the past 7 deaths before this and close the folder, disappearing before he can get a word in once again.

A growl bubbles up in his throat that turns into an agitated scream as he swipes the folder and lamp off the desk, sending them crashing down onto the floor.

You have to have a goal here. Some kind of weird thing you’re working towards, you wouldn't be dying so senselessly for nothing, would you?

You have almost everything in the files unredacted, you've been on so many runs he's lost count and you've gotten as far as anyone can go before being sent back to start again. What could you possibly be doing?

He grumbles as he picks up the folder and lamp off the floor, dropping the lamp on the table with no regard for it and cramming the file back into the locker.

You have normal runs where you die normal deaths like every other expendable down here, things that most people would slip up on. So why is it that these completely avoidable (and quite frankly stupid) deaths keep happening closer and closer together?

You had to be losing it. Running down seemingly endless halls, getting hunted by every living thing in this forsaken facility like it's a sport, feeling your body die all around you... After one day any normal person would be starting to feel the grips of insanity beginning to claw its way inside them.

He stops for a moment and sighs before quickly shaking it off and getting back to work.

No use wondering what that would imply for someone like him. He’s thought about it enough already.

—

Sebastian’s eyes peer down at you as you grab some batteries off of his desk, watching and waiting to see anything that could tip him off to what you were doing. Even the slightest change in your behavior from what he's used to, anything that could be useful in any way.

Whenever you get to his shop, you always stop and chat for a few minutes with a smile. That's been something that's never changed about you.

Even on your first day, terrified as all hell and trembling from head to toe as you stumbled your way through the vent to his shop, you still smiled and introduced yourself.

You don't seem as…energized…this run. Something he's been noticing a lot lately. Very avoidable mishaps are always what kill you when you're like this.

Maybe you're not paying attention as much as you should be because your mind is elsewhere.

But where else would it be besides this hellhole?

As you turn to grab the keycard and leave he huffs, picking the medkit off of his tail as you turn to look at him questioningly.

“You’re not gonna be getting past the generators in the shape you’re in. here.”

This is something he would never do, something that defies all morals he’s gained since he's been stuck in this hellhole.

“6% off. You look like you need it.” he sneers out, knowing fully well that it’s an act at this point.

You look up at him, hand hesitantly hovering over it. Sebastian never gives anyone discounts for any reason. Something’s wrong. He's onto you.you put on the best playful grin you can.

It hurts worse than any death you've experienced.

“The Sebastian I know would never accept anything for less than full price. What's the catch?”

“There is no catch, now take it and get out before I change my mind.”

He can see how the smile doesn't reach your eyes, how the fatigue is creeping its way into every inch of you, but you take the medkit and turn around before he can look closer.

You wave farewell and thank him without turning around, crawling out of the vent and making your way down the hallway. He hears the sound of the med kit lid clattering to the ground as your footsteps fade into the distance.

You make your way to the next room, body fully refreshed but mind still cloudy. It was nice of him to do that for you. He's not usually that nice. It makes you feel just a little bit less foggy.

The door shutters open with a metallic shriek as you make your way inside, only to see that a giant hole in the ground blocks most of the way, with small wooden planks laid out to form a narrow path over.

You haven't killed yourself while fully healed yet. Will that make it feel even better?

Almost like second nature at this point you walk over to the edge and step over with no hesitation or second thought, your body falling down into the abyss with a smile on your face.

You blank just before you hit the

ground.

You jolt awake a moment later, head pounding that quickly dulls into a fuzzy feeling, the relief of feeling better almost instantly washes over you.

Sebastian isn't happy to see you again so soon.

—

After the 24th death, he decides enough is enough. He waits a few minutes after you leave to put the vent cover back on the entrance to his shop and he hoists himself up to the ceiling rafters, sliding into one of the air ducts to follow after you without you knowing.

He was getting to the bottom of this, one way or another.

__

Banging in the vents was nothing abnormal in the blacksite, hell, it's hard to go 10 rooms without hearing someone screaming for their life.

Random thumps, footsteps or other sounds of unknown origin don't scare you anymore. Quite the opposite.

If there had been no sound here, you probably would’ve lost it much sooner. Going on runs by yourself can get lonely. You used to love venturing into the depths of the broken down site with other people. But you'd prefer it if no one saw what you've been up to.

But it's good to know there's other things down here with you.

No matter how fucked up they may be.

The safe room door slides open and you walk inside, beginning to search drawers and filing cabinets for the keycard to open the next room.

Sadly, this room didn't have a way you could end your own life in it, so you'd have to keep going if you wanted to find a way to make this awful feeling end.

You hear a jingle to your left as you look around, eventually ducking down and finding the keycard on the floor underneath a chair. A small but triumphant smile crosses your face. Finally, you wouldn't have to put up with this much longer. You could start a new, hopefully better run.

A run where you don't feel like there's a bottomless pit in your chest where your heart should be.

A run without something that sucks all of the good things out of life.

You’ve been saying that to yourself nearly every round now. It's only getting worse.

You grab the key card and make your way to the door, sliding it in and waiting for it to click. The door opens with the same loud metallic shriek every door here opens with and you stand in the entryway for just a moment, before you hear what sounds like music to your ears.

The sounds of turrets kicking to life

Painter's voice cuts in from over the speakers like an angel descended from heaven itself to save you.

“Better hope you're bulletproof, buddy!”

__

Sebastian watches from up in the vents, having been following you for around 10 minutes now. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so far, it seemed like any other run; albeit a bit slower than normal pace.

The sound of turrets firing up was not something new to sebastian, he had heard painters splatter art therapy too many times to count at this point, even getting caught in it a time or two before the ai realized who it was shooting at.

He watched you as you stood at the doorway of the room, just outside of the turret's range. Most likely assessing the best path to get to the off switch.

You have the least amount of deaths from turrets, once even telling him that you find it fun. The ducking, weaving and adrenaline rush making it more like a game to you.

You should have no problem with this.

You take a step into the room and suddenly, something feels wrong. Horribly wrong. Without a moment's notice, you step directly into the moving turret's red beam of sight and it locks onto you, firing almost instantaneously.

He can only watch wide eyed in horror as bullets shred through your body in an instant, tearing flesh, ripping muscle and shattering bone. Your body crumbles to the floor in a matter of seconds.

When he sees your face, he feels beyond sick.

Blood gurgles out of your mouth, spilling down the sides of your cheeks next to tears. Your eyes are fully welled up, scleras turning bloodshot.

Worst of all, you're smiling.

The same smile you'd give to him when he had your favorite items in his shop. It was now twisted and warped, smeared in crimson that only sputtered out more and more when you let you a broken, drowned laugh.

He was completely frozen. He had seen so many bodies, he himself had killed so many, he's seen enough viscera and gore in this shit hole that it would make the world's most renowned biohazard cleanup crew resign permanently.

He’s committed atrocities against so many people, just wanting to survive down here and get out, same as him, so why…

Why did it feel so different now that he's seeing it happen to you?

He covers his mouth with his hand, suppressing the urge to vomit. He's seen expendables kill themselves before, he knows you’ve died horrible deaths before.

This shouldn't be any different!

But oh god…not like this…

Not with you…

Before he has the chance to keel over he blinks for the first time in what feels like years, and suddenly he's back in that oh so familiar dark room with a file in his hand and a shitty lamp barely illuminating the desk.

You're lying slumped in the chair across from him, how you appear after every death. Jumpsuit completely clean and tidy, all signs of blood are completely gone, and the bullet holes that riddle your skin are stitching themselves back up as if nothing had ever happened.

As if what he just saw was nothing but a horrible dream.

His eyes are still wide and jaw agape as you twitch to life, gasping in air, you sit and breath for a moment before looking up at him with the brightest smile and wave he's ever seen from you

“Turrets got me this time! Guess I got a little too ambitious when I was heading for the off switch!”

Your voice is so cheerful it's sickening now. He's never felt like this before. He can't move, he can't talk, he can only sit and stare in horror.

You look up at Sebastian, seeing him frozen like this is certainly new. You wave your hand in front of him, and when all you get in response is his mouth moving with no words you reach and grab the folder from his hands with no retaliation from him, too caught up in your own glee to notice the fear in his eyes.

You kick your feet back and forth and smile, humming a little as you browse over the file.

He swears he can still see the blood on your lips.

“Ok, well I'll see you next run Sebastian! Take care!”

you close the folder and just like that, youre gone from him once again

He stares at the folder on the desk before turning and looking at the file cabinets surrounding him.

How many times had you killed yourself and played it off as normal deaths?

How long has this truly been going on for? Had you been purposefully putting yourself in dangers way this entire time and only recently started ending your own life yourself?

Have you been doing it yourself this whole time and just gotten worse and worse the more it progressed?

All he knows is that he can't let it continue.

He can't.

—

You crawl through the vent into Sebastian's shop, standing up with a stretch and popping your back. You take a moment to stretch the rest of your limbs before moving over to Sebastian, giving him your best wave and smile.

“Hey Sebastian! Whatcha got in store for me today?”

He seems more tense than usual as he flicks his tail over to you, showcasing the stock for today. You idly chat about whatever you can think of as you make your choice, picking up some batteries and a flash beacon.

You bid farewell and turn to leave, but before you can even make it halfway across the room Sebastian flicks his tail again, this time slamming the vent cover back into place. You flinch a little from the loud noise and turn to him confused.

“I think we need to have a talk, friend.”

He sounds incredibly pissed and immediately you are racking your brain for anything you could’ve done to make him angry. You're too lost in thought to notice him leaning down to your level until his hands are gripping your shoulders.

“So, how many times now have you killed yourself on purpose? And why?”

His claws sink into your shoulder, not enough to break skin, but enough to be very aware of them.

You freeze, every muscle in your body tensing as your heart begins to speed up. He wasn't supposed to find out. How did he find out? You need to think of something to get out of this and fast.

He shouldn't know about this.

“Killing myself..? Sebastian, why would I kill myself? I've got enough things trying to kill me as is! I haven't been doing it on purpose!”

You try to play it off with a chuckle and force yourself to smile. It's not like this is about anything serious, or something that would matter to him.

He scowls at you, anger flickering in his eyes as his tail thuds against the ground in restrained anger.

“No one happily walks in front of a turret and then laughs about the fact they're bleeding out on the floor.”

Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT. He saw you?!? Not good not good not good NOT GOOD. he's probably going to think you're crazy and hate you. He'll be disgusted with you forever and never want to be near you again. You have to salvage this somehow. You have to.

“I was just so excited to see you…?”

“Wrong. Try again”

You fidget uncomfortably, looking anywhere but him. This is bad. How could you possibly make this seem like a normal thing??

“Why do you need to know? It doesn't involve you”

His grip tightens on your shoulders and you swallow nervously.

“It does involve me when i'm the one who deals with you every time you die.”

Your hands are shaking now as your eyes begin to water. Why did it have to go like this? Why did this have to happen? This shouldn't involve him at all, he's stressed enough as is.he shouldn't have to deal with you. You're being pathetic. Why couldn't you have just stayed dead on one of your attempts? This isn't fair. It isn't fair it isn't fair it isn't-

You didn't even realize you had started crying until Sebastian says your name. Not expendable, not buddy, not friend. Your actual name.

All at once, everything breaks and your legs give out underneath you with a sob, his hands quickly move under your arms to catch you and set you on the floor gently, making sure you don't fall.

Your sobs begin to grow louder as you grab your arms, nails digging into your flesh to try and calm yourself down as blood begins to pool at the openings of the new wounds.

Sebastian's eyes widen with shock and before you can do anything more in your panicked state, he grabs your hands, holding them above your head. You jerk back in retaliation to try and free yourself before quickly giving up, unable to do anything.

“I-”

you try to sputter out, choking on your own sobs.

“i -i dont-”

you sniffle and hiccup, unable to get more than a few words out at a time.

Sebastian moves his free hand to your face, wiping the tears away from your eyes. He squeezes your blood soaked hands gently.

“It's fine, take your time. I'm not going anywhere”

You stare at him teary eyed in silence for a moment before letting out a long and broken whine, more tears spilling over your eyes. This was wrong. You shouldn't be letting him see this. He's being too gentle with you. You don't deserve this.

“Jesus, if i knew that's how you'd react i would've said something else”

Sebastian forces a chuckle, trying anything to try and distract you from what you're feeling.

But his voice is quiet, as if he wanted no one else in the world to hear it but you.

You take a shaky breath, you have to get him away from you. He doesn't deserve to be put through this.

“I...”

Your voice trembles as you speak, your words almost completely unintelligible.

“I...hate you. I dont…I don't want to be near you.”

If you tell him you hate him, he’ll leave. He’ll leave and never talk to you again and he won't have to be burdened with you and your dumb problems ever again. He can figure out a way to escape and be free and happy without you constantly bothering him.

Sure you'll be miserable without him, you love him. But your feelings don't matter, not when it comes to him. His happiness is much more important. He'd be much better off without you

“You hate me, huh?”

His voice is dripping with sarcasm, enough to make you aggravated as you glare up at him. Why isn't he taking this seriously? Why isn't he leaving you?

“Y-yes! I…i hate you..! I hate you Sebastian! I never want to see you again! Get away from me!”

The words leave a nasty taste in your mouth and an even worse feeling in your chest. You didn't mean any of this. You could never hate him. But you have to, to keep him safe.

He stares at you, barely reacting to your outburst. His eyes narrow as he leans closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“No you don't.”

He says it so calmly, as if it were a fact everyone knew. Disbelief and frustration bubble up inside you as you try to shake his grip off of you, planting a foot on his chest to try and push him away from you. Your efforts are completely in vain as he keeps you in place without so much as even moving when you struggle.

“What do you mean I don't?! That's not for you to decide!”

“If you actually hated me, you wouldn't make such a pitiful face when saying it.”

He flicks you on the forehead right between your eyes as he says it, and you stare at him with wide eyes and jaw agape. Why won't he just believe you?

“I hate-”

“Nope. Try again.”

“I ha-”

“Nah”

“I-”

“Wrong.”

You let out a scream in frustration, tears of anger running down your face now. Why won't he just let you do this for him?!

“Now, are you gonna tell me what's actually going on?”

You turn your head away now. If he wants to play like that, you can play like that too. You'll just sit here in silence until he gets fed up with you and leaves. This is what's best for him.

You both sit in silence for a moment before he asks again, once again being met with silence. He groans in annoyance. Why did you have to be so stubborn?

The hand that was once wiping your tears away grabs your face, forcing you to turn and look at him

“Just tell me what's wrong god dammit!”

A baffled and angry sound escapes you as you try to wiggle your face out of his grip, but he only pulls you closer. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes piercing into you like they were trying to dig into your very soul.

You try to look anywhere else that isn't him, but he jerks your face to make your eyes meet him anyway. There's no escaping it this time.

“Im- I'm not going to burden you with this Sebastian! It doesn't involve you!”

He raises an eyebrow at this, backing away from you a bit but still keeping a firm hold on your face.

“You think you're going to burden me? Is that it?”

You scowl. What doesn't he understand?

“Of course It would burden you! You already have so much shit to deal with and I'm not gonna let my pathetic problems weigh you down more!”

Shit. You probably shouldn't have said that. He stares at you silently before letting go of your face and bringing your hands to your lap, squeezing them in his. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, the gesture making nausea and pain shoot through you.

“Are you actually stupid enough to think it would burden me?”

Because you can refute the insult, he holds a finger up to your mouth to shush you.

“You're one of the few things in this shitty place that doesnt burden me. If the only actual person I gave a damn about is hurting, then I want to know.”

You can feel your heart skip a beat at his words, but you try to shake it off.

no no no NO!.. this…this isn't right..! He shouldn't have to worry about someone like you! You're being pathetic!

“Don't tell me what is and isn't right. I've seen plenty of people being pathetic, and you aren't one of them. Especially not now”

Fuck, did you really say that out loud? You would cry more from embarrassment at this whole ordeal, but you've run out of tears by now.

You sniffle quietly, your voice coming out quiet and broken.

“I don't…I don't deserve you, Sebastian…”

Sebastian reels back, a confused look crossing his face as the fins on the sides of his head dropping down a bit to match.

Slowly, a snicker leaves him. Then another, until it becomes full on laughter. You didn't deserve him?? He's never heard something more ridiculous.

You stare at him confused as he laughs, his laughter only growing lower and harder, even bringing up a hand to wipe away a tear forming.

What is even happening right now…?

It takes a moment but he takes a deep breath in and out to recollect himself.

“You don't deserve me? I'm a monster! I mean, just look at me! Do you even know how many people I've killed? How many deaths I've caused?”

He chuckles to himself, but your eyes widen, panic growing on your face as you pull your hands out of his grasp. Instead, you clasp his hands together in yours as you practically lunge forward towards him. He flinches back from the sudden movement but otherwise stays still as he looks down at the most desperate face he's ever seen anyone make.

“No no no! You're not a monster! You're amazing Sebastian! Even with everything that's happened to you, you still help people! You let everyone and everything that was trapped in the black site out and even now you're trying to figure out a way to get painter out with you too! A monster wouldn't do that! Of course I don't deserve someone as selfless as you!”

The pure desperation to get him to understand you makes his heart drop. Why the hell is he the one getting nervous now? This is supposed to be about you for god's sake.

He opens his mouth to respond but before he can get the chance, you're already talking again.

“You run a shop when you don't have to, you could leave everyone to fend for themselves but you don't! Hell, you didn't even get anything at all from the dead drop shop and you still run it! You're amazing Sebastian! I could never ask someone like you to worry about someone like me!”

This time he's the one cutting you off before you can start talking again, an agitated look on his face.

“Woah woah hey- you don't deserve me? What the actual hell are you talking about? I've seen you give med kits to people who were barely bruised while you were bleeding out! I've seen you jump in front of people to take bullets so they wouldn't have to, seen you shove people into the last locker while you took the full force of pandemonium charging at you! When someone is hurt or sad, you're always the first person there to help! What in the everloving hell are you saying you don't deserve me?! I Don't deserve YOU.”

You begin to stammer something out before he holds up a hand, gesturing at you to stop for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before looking back up at you

“Ok look, we’re not going to get anywhere like this and how I feel right now is irrelevant because you have been CONTINUOUSLY KILLING YOURSELF-”

He cuts himself off, taking a breath to calm himself before continuing

“And I care about you, which you can't change, no matter how much you want to. So for now, you are going to sit here and promise me that you will stop hurting yourself.”

He looks down at you and god, he's never wanted to take on someone else's pain as much as he does right now.

Your eyes are wide and bloodshot with tear stains on your face, your hair is messy and your arms are covered in now drying blood. If it were anyone else, they'd look pathetic to him. But it's not anyone else, it's you.

His heart clenches at the thought. He wishes he could take you away from here, shield you from all the horrors of this place. Protect you from every horrible thing you think about yourself. But for now, this is the best he can do.

“Do you think you can do that for me?”

Your name on his voice is enough to ease the pain of everything for a moment, but you hesitate.

Sebastian notices immediately, placing a claw under your chin and guiding you to look up at him.

“Listen, here's what we’re gonna do. I'm going to give you a walkie talkie, and the moment you feel any urge to hurt yourself you call me and I will come get you. If you can't use the walkie for any reason, you will find painter and tell him and I will come get you. Do you understand”

You swallow nervously, shame burning in your chest. You really don't deserve this, but there's no point in arguing with him anymore.

“Ok I um….I… I promise.”

You look away as you say it, not being able to bear how humiliating this feels.

“I see you every time you die, so I'll know if you don't tell me.”

“Ok, I understand.”

“And so help me god if I learn you threw yourself into danger I WILL-”

“Ok ok I get it! I won't!”

You grumble to yourself as he smirks, clearly proud of himself. This is the worst. You shouldn't be happy about this, that he cares about you enough to do this. How selfish you are-

“Now you are going to sit here and tell me about alllllll of the good things about yourself”

Wait, what?

Before you can object, or even ask what he means by that, he's moving his hands under your arms and picking you up as you shriek in surprise.

He moves his tail, curling it so you can sit comfortably on it as he drops you down on it before plucking a med kit off of one of the bags on his tail.

The med kit pops open with a click and he holds a hand out at you expectantly. Completely baffled, you rest one of your arms in his grip, his hand almost the size of your entire forearm.

Sebastian pops a bottle of antiseptic open and pours it onto a cotton pad before bringing it to your arm, holding it just above one of the self-inflicted scratches.

“Now, tell me one of the reasons you deserve to be cared for.”

“What-? Sebastian I'm not gonna-”

You hiss in pain as he dabs the rag over a cut, the antiseptic stinging the wound. He glances up at you expectantly.

“Ok ok um-....”

You sit in silence for an embarrassingly long time as you try to come up with anything good about yourself. Even with the things Sebastian told you earlier, it's still hard to believe you deserve any of this

“I'm…I care about others and always try to help when I can…?”

It comes out more like a question than anything else. You glance at him nervously as he nods and let's put a hum of approval, telling you to keep going as he grabs a roll of bandages and begins to wrap it around your arm.

This is going to be difficult.

You swallow nervously, your mind almost fully blanking.

“I'm a good person…?”

“Don't say it like a question, say it like you mean it.”

You tense up slightly at how…soft…he sounds. Your chest tightens and a lump forms in your throat. This is all way too...intimate. You think you might pass out if it goes on for any longer. Despite this, you push forward and try to be a bit more confident.

“I'm…a good person. ”

“Good.”

He lets your arm go, gently, grabbing your other one and beginning the same process of cleaning and bandaging it again. Your heart flutters at the praise and the touch.

“I can't stop you from caring about me, even if I want to, so I might as well let it happen.”

You sound defeated when you say it, like you just lost a battle but Sebastian is pleased to hear it.

“There you go, now you're getting it.”

He hums with approval and your face flushes as you look away. This is the worst. You're enjoying this way too much.

Despite every inch of you screaming at you, calling you selfish and undeserving, you feel your eyes begin to shut for longer and longer with each blink, your body getting heavier and your nerves beginning to calm down.

“I deserve to be cared for”

You can feel yourself starting to drift to sleep, and at this point you're far too exhausted to try and fight it. Sebastian finishes tying the last bandage when he notices. He puts everything back into the med kit and shuts it gently before setting it on the ground.

He shifts his tail so it's wrapped around you now, you mumble something incoherent in protest before getting comfortable again. His heart feels full for the first time in years as he looks at you.

“Rest well, ok? I know it's hard to believe but I..”

He trails off, debating on the best way to phrase it, or if he should even tell you right now.

You barely manage to open your eyes as you look up at him questioningly, still trying your best to listen to what he has to say. He can feel his heart stutter in his chest.

“I…I care about you. Get some rest, okay? You need it.”

What he wants to say is teetering on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken into existence, but he doesn't want to drop that on you right now. It can be said another day.

As sleep begins to take you, against his better judgement, Sebastian leans down and presses a small kiss to your forehead.

That's good enough for now

Ending note:

I haven't seen many things explore the fact that in pressure you come back completely fine after every death so I wanted to try my hand at writing it based on my emotions and experiences.

I am perfectly fine actually but a few months ago when I originally wrote this I was having the worst time of my life, but now that I'm better I decided to revisit it and edit it a bit.

Please remember you are never alone, there is always someone willing to help.

And don't forget dear reader, Sebastian loves you very much, even if he can't say it yet <3

[winterwandersland]

A Winter Short: Lunch Time

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Black!Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.4k Only slightly proof-read. I skimmed it fr. Simon is excited to see you in his office every day.

Pt. 1

You would come at the same time everyday. Simon was excited to see you every time, eating his lunch in just the right amount of time to get back to his office to see you, leaving the boys with barely a proper goodbye.

He had only a minute having gotten done with training slightly too late for his comfort. His office was only a few minutes of a walk from the cafeteria, but he didn’t have a few minutes as he knew if he didn’t arrive on time, you’d be gone by the time he got there. You were always in a rush.

14:59:03

It was the fastest his team had seen him take off, never understanding why he was so eager to get to his office at such a specific time. Price knew it was his wife, but he’d never see her whenever he got there. He often joked that she would sneak through the vents with her past military experience.

15:00:00

Simon could hear you on the desk as he unlocked the door.

15:00:03

“Simon! How are you? I’ve been waiting for you!”

“I know, love. I’m here now. What do you have for me today?”

“Look!” You reached behind your back, pulling out a lunchbox that was obviously filled with more than just a sandwich. “I brought you a sandwich, but I forgot to buy more mayo. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. What else do you have in there?”

Your eyes lit up like a baby seeing a milk bottle. “I’m glad you asked.” You started to unzip the lunchbox, but the zipper got stuck in the exact same spot as it always did. And just like every other time, instead of asking for help, you would struggle until you got it.

“Let me help you,” Simon insisted. And just as he did, the zipper finally complied, showing more than a sandwich in the lunchbox. “Nope. I got it!” Your smile never left.

“Let’s see what you’ve got in here,” Simon said as he walked closer to you. He knew better than to start going through the bag himself. You always liked a good presentation.

You pulled out each food like it was something new. Leftovers from the dinner you last cooked, accompanied by some fruit, vegetables, and a few snack bars, and lastly, the sandwich with no mayo, which you kept apologizing about.

“It’s alright, love. I’m sure I won’t even taste the difference.” And when he ate the sandwich, he didn’t notice a difference. Just like there was no difference from the way you said your goodbye, accompanied with a kiss on his cheek.

As you left you told him: “I’ll run to the store right now to have some mayo before you get back home tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can get it.”

He really would’ve gotten it, but you were always so independent, telling him, “It’s alright. I got it. I love you!”

“I love you, too.” He said back, watching you put your hand on the knob and going through the door, leaving him in his office alone.

He sat in his chair, saddened by your absence. He wished you could stay longer, but he knew you couldn’t. It was the same every time. You just had to go get the mayo to make him happy. But he wished you knew he was happy as long as he had you.

And just like that, you were gone. Always at the exact same time: 15:03:26.

Two minutes later, Simon heard a knock on the door. “Come in!” he yelled from his desk.

It was Price. “The wife come in, yet?”

“You just missed her.”

“I always seem to miss her.”

“Yea.”

“I have a few files here. Maybe you can take a look at them.”

Simon had been on desk duty for the past six weeks following an incident that had happened. Instead of discharging him, they put him on desk duty until things were cleared up, as he insisted there was more to the story.

“I’ll give them a look.” Price put the files on Simon’s desk and left him. Simon sat in silence, staring at the files sat where his packed lunchbox was supposed to be. And as he looked through them, all he could think about was you.

The next day, it was the same, except Simon had more time to get to his office this time, so he could see you longer.

When he got there, you were scrambling through the lunchbox, making sure everything was put in nicely. He really wished you were so focused on the little things. To you, everything had to be perfect.

He watched you put everything in place before you put your head up, greeting him with that precious smile. “Simon! How are you? I’ve been waiting for you!”

He chuckled. Your same cheery voice always brought him joy. “I can see that. What do you have for me today?”

“Look!” You announced, reaching behind your back to grab the lunchbox. The same old routine. “I brought you a sandwich, but I forgot to get more mayo. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t able to get it the night before. When you said it, he could see the ounce of remorse, like you were upset you brought the sandwich without mayo. You knew it was his favorite, but you also knew he really needed that sandwich.

“It’s alright. What else do you have in there?”

It was the same thing every time. You would struggle with the zipper, telling him how you could do it yourself, then present to him his lunch: fruits, vegetables, snack bars, leftover dinner from the night before, and the no mayo sandwich.

And then you’d kiss him goodbye, telling him how you’ll get the mayo on your way back home. And he’d tell you how he could get it, knowing it would take one last thing off your plate. And just like always, you insisted you could do it. So he was left with your last words: “I love you”.

Seeing you was always the highlight of his day. It was always the same. The cheeriness in your voice. The way you would reach around for the lunchbox like it was a surprise to him every time. Followed by the sway of your hips out the door and your “I love you” goodbye.

The following day, it was still the same. You came at the exact same time. He didn’t know exactly when you got there, but he knew by 15:00:03, that’s when you greeted him.

He stood at the entrance of the door, watching you pace back and forth around the office, a look of worry on your face. He could never figure out why you were so worried. If he saw it that day, he would have asked, but you were always so quick.

He watched you rearrange the lunchbox in a panic, most likely from hearing his footsteps come towards the door. Then, you hopped on the desk, sitting down gently and hiding the lunchbox behind you.

“Simon! How are you? I’ve been waiting for you!”

You told him about the sandwich with the forgotten mayo. The same mayonnaise he still blamed himself for not getting himself the night before. If he had, you wouldn’t have went out to get the mayo that night, and you’d actually be here, presenting his lunch to him.

Except he’d actually be able to touch you. To feel your kiss. To eat the dinner you had so kindly provided for him. The same way he would bring you lunch when you were on duty. Except, the lunch he brought you was enough for both lunch and dinner.

He said the same lines, only ever tweaking them enough for your responses to still make sense, because if he messed up, it would hit him that you weren’t really here.

Except, something was different this time. You stayed longer. Only a few seconds longer. Your walk was just barely slower. You looked worried, the same expression he saw you having before.

“Love?”

Your hand reached out to touch the doorknob, but before you opened it, you whispered something before disappearing into nothing: “He’s coming.”

I came up with this idea last night and wrote it this morning on my two hour bus ride back home. I will probably post more shorts as I continue to figure out what plot I want for my other stories because I'm conflicted. It was also maybe inspired by a movie I watched some time ago called "I Still See You" and I still think about it 'til this day. It was a great concept of a movie. I’ll do a rewrite and another part depending on responsiveness…or if I feel like it.

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated VIII

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 8300 words of pure chaos. The Bear AU. Fem!Reader x LADS Cast. This chapter brings together Raf, Caleb, and Sylus for the most unhinged showdown yet—but not the kind you’re expecting. Dialogue heavy. There’s love, a little noti-noti 18+ tension, a challenge or two, and a turn you won’t see coming. A confession. A clearing of air—and something heavier left in its place. You’re in for it. Right?

Chapters: pilot, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox @beaconsxd @lemonwithstupidity

Mise en Scène, Mise en Flame | Chapter 8

“Wow. Caleb. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Raf tilts his head, mouth curled in a grin too sharp to be harmless. “Did you take a red-eye just to slut-shame your ex in another country?”

Before Caleb can respond, footsteps echo down the corridor—measured, expensive.

Sylus appears like a full stop—glass of wine in one hand, not a strand of hair out of place. Black-on-black with a crimson cardigan thrown over his shoulders like wrath in knitwear. His expression? Not tired. Not surprised. Just… unimpressed.

“…Did I forget which floor I was on,” he says coolly, “or did I just walk into a very passive-aggressive porno?”

Caleb straightens. Raf doesn’t flinch. And you—you freeze—suspended, like breath caught between two lives.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight. “I can talk to him.”

Sylus takes his time scanning the room—Caleb. Raf. Then you.

“Fine,” he mutters, already turning. “Keep it short. And for god’s sake, nobody bleed on the carpet.”

He leaves like he was never part of the scene at all—too smooth, too practiced, like a man who’s seen worse and filed it away.

Caleb looks at you. But Raf—arms crossed, robe cinched tight, hair still wet—moves in front of you without hesitation.

“No. Nope. Not happening,” Raf says, voice calm but iron.

“You think you can just follow her to Copenhagen? Ambush her after she says goodbye to me?” He tilts his head, eyes briefly softening as they meet yours. “Flame, seriously. You don’t owe him a conversation.”

Then—back to Caleb. Cool again. “You wanna guilt her for moving on? After offering me a job like it wasn’t a power play?”

Caleb’s jaw tics. “It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Raf scoffs. “You offered me a position under you the night we both outdid ourselves culinarily. You gonna pretend that’s a coincidence?”

The silence curdles.

Caleb doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His whole body is tension, jaw set like a steel trap.

You? You’re barely breathing.

Raf’s voice drops an octave, quieter now—but sharper, pointed.

“You want to be the man in her life again? Start by acting like one.”

Caleb steps forward—

but Raf’s already there. Blocking. Solid. A breath closer to dangerous.

“She doesn’t need you at her door in the middle of the night like a punishment,” he says. “You wanna talk? She decides when. And where. And I stay until she says otherwise.”

He turns slightly, gaze finding yours, steady as bedrock.

“You want me to leave, Flame?” Raf asks. “Say the word.” He waits. “Otherwise, I’m staying. You don’t face him alone. Not this time.”

And that’s when it happens.

Caleb sees it.

Not just the robe. Not the necklace. Not the kiss still smudged on your mouth or the faint flush still blooming on your cheeks.

But the stance.

The certainty.

Raf, unmoving. Undeniable. No longer a fling.

He’s a wall.

A line in the sand.

Caleb stares at you like you’re the punchline to a joke he hasn’t figured out yet. Then he exhales—slow, bitter, like air pressed through clenched teeth. His eyes sweep over you.

Hair damp. Cheeks warm. Unapologetic. Whatever mask he brought to wear—it cracks.

He laughs once. Low. Bitter. Barely there.

“God. You look…”

He doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to.

“I flew in hours after the VIP night. Figured I’d do the work. Be good.” His jaw shifts like it’s wired shut. “Then I see you. Like this. And I don’t know if it’s fate or just the universe trying to fuck with me.”

You inhale—but he lifts a hand. Like he can’t bear to hear it. Not yet.

“Tell me,” he says. “Was this the plan all along? For me to walk in and see what I missed?”

You flinch like it’s a physical blow.

“… I—I’m not following you,” he mutters, the edge gone soft, hollow. “I was here before you came.” But already, his eyes are distant. Somewhere past the hallway. Past you.

“I’m staging at the Alchemist. Funneling whatever’s left of me into a tasting menu that doesn’t flinch.” His voice flattens. His jaw works. Silence swells. Then—

“I thought maybe we could talk like people. Like we meant something.”

His eyes flick to Raf’s bare feet. The robe. The hush behind you.

“But I see I misread the invitation.”

“Caleb—” you start.

“I saw you come in,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know you were here. Was—” A pause. Something close to a swallow. “Excited, actually.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Beside you, Raf doesn’t move. Just stays—present, grounded, a weight at your side. His arm brushes yours.

Caleb glances at Raf. Then back to you.

His voice softens, pulls taut like a fraying thread. “I’m not here to interrupt anything. I’m staying at the same hotel. That’s all.”

A beat.

“I’ll stay out of your hair.”

Another beat. He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t mean to crash into your night,” he adds. “It’s just… if we’re still playing our game… I guess I didn’t realize I was already losing.”

He lets the silence sit.

Then breathes out—sharp. Quiet. Real. “Is this what we are now? Just… moves and counters? I keep thinking I’m catching up. Then I see you. Like this. And suddenly I’m five steps behind again.”

No demand. No accusation. Just a confession disguised as surrender. Then—he turns. No storming. Just quiet retreat.

The elevator dings. The doors glide open.

He steps in. Doesn’t look back.

The doors close.

Raf exhales, long and low. “Damn,” he murmurs. “He even broods in Scandinavian.”

Your hand finds Raf’s robe belt and curls around it, fingers tightening like you could anchor yourself to now. To him.

He doesn’t pull away.

The lock clicks behind you.

And it’s just you and Raf. He just lets you breathe. Lets you feel what safety tastes like, even after the door closes on something else. Raf doesn’t speak. He just guides you to the bed in silence, one hand warm on your lower back, the other brushing a thumb beneath your eye—not to fix, just to say I see you. Then he lets go.

You reach for your phone. Your hands are too steady to be calm and you call Sylus. He picks up on the second ring—already alert, like he’s been waiting.

“What happened?”

You don’t hesitate. “Did you know?”

A pause. Not long. But long enough to feel it press against your ribs. Then—quiet. Honest.

“No.”

You hear it. The stillness in him. The barest edge of surprise. Sylus doesn’t fake ignorance. Doesn’t need to. If he’d known, he would’ve told you. Or burned the whole Alchemist plan to the ground. You sit on the edge of the bed. Bare feet to polished floor. The room too big. The night too full. Your breath tight in your throat.

“The city isn’t big,” you murmur. “I just… didn’t think it’d feel this small.”

“I’ll cancel it,” Sylus says. “The whole thing. You don’t have to train with him. I’ll find another kitchen, another city—”

“No.” You swallow hard. “No. I’ll do it.”

“Even if—”

“I’ll do it,” you repeat, firmer now. “Even if it means shadowing him. Even if it means seeing him. I signed the contract. I wanted this.”

Silence again. But this one lands differently.

Not pity.

Not control.

Respect.

“All right,” Sylus says quietly. “If that’s the road—you won’t walk it alone. I’ve got your back.”

You pause. The phone pressed to your ear. The words settle. Then, softer—barely a breath, but full of every thread pulled too tight tonight:

“I… I know. Thank you. Really.”

You hang up.

And for the first time in hours, the world feels just a little less sharp around the edges. The phone slips from your hand, sliding across the duvet like it’s fleeing the weight of the moment. And Raf—he’s still there. Leaning in the bathroom doorway like he never moved. Like the confrontation didn’t just gut the air between you.

He doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t prod.

Doesn’t give voice to anything lingering sharp in the air.

Just nods toward the steam rising behind him, quiet as dusk.

“I ran it hot.”

You don’t answer. Can’t—not with words. You just move toward him. Like if you walk too fast, the spell will shatter. Like if you speak, the ache will leak out and flood everything.

You undress in silence. Peeling away the day like bark—layer by layer. Tension clinging to your skin like a second shirt. Raf doesn’t stare. Doesn’t leer. He witnesses. Gentle. Present. Still.

By the time the water hisses to life, he steps in behind you. Bare skin meets bare skin. His arms loop around your waist, holding you there. Mouth warm against the base of your neck, breath skipping over your spine.

You let yourself lean back.

Into him.

Into heat.

Into the single solid thing in a night that keeps threatening to fall apart.

The water scalds at first. But so does your heartbeat. And maybe this moment won’t fix anything. Won’t untangle what just happened. But in Raf’s arms, under the pressure of steam and skin, you finally let the weight sag from your ribs.

It doesn’t heal.

But it softens.

You stay until the water runs cool and your fingertips prune. Until the breath in your chest stops catching at the name Caleb like it’s still sharp.

Later—beneath linen sheets damp with warmth and faint rain—you lie beside Raf in the lowlight of what’s left of the night. His body curves around yours. One hand rests against your stomach, grounding. The other traces idle circles on your thigh, not greedy, just there.

He speaks without opening his eyes. Just into the space between breaths.

“You sure about tomorrow?”

You hesitate. Then: “I’m not sure about anything.” Your voice is a rasp. Honest. “But I’m going.”

He exhales into your hair. The shape of it tells you everything. Not defeat. Not fear. Just acceptance. Fierce, loyal, quiet.

“Then I’m with you.”

But there’s more in his silence. And you know him well enough to wait for it.

It comes.

“I didn’t come here to stage,” Raf says at last. “Didn’t plan to train. This trip was supposed to be… just you. Just… us.”

You turn to face him, the sheets twisting at your waist. The dark makes him even gentler somehow—softens the edge of his cheekbones, throws warmth into the violet undertones of his hair. You can barely make out his lashes, but his eyes are open. Watching you with that quiet, endless focus that feels somewhere between sea and sky.

“But I’ll come with you,” he adds. “Whatever it looks like. Whatever he looks like. I’m not sitting this one out.”

Your heart knocks. Not because you doubt him. But because, for a second, you realize what it means to be chosen—again. Despite. In spite. Without condition.

You kiss him. Not for distraction. Not for power. But because you want to. Because you need to. Because Raf’s mouth feels like fire disguised as sanctuary, and you’re done pretending you don’t burn for it.

You didn’t plan to sleep with him again tonight. Not after the hallway. Not after Caleb’s voice carving new canyons through your ribs.

You thought you’d need space. But Raf moves closer. Slow. Sure. Lit from within. And you—helpless, grateful, greedy—stop pretending you’re made of walls. Fingers find the chain at your neck. He unclasps it gently.

You let him have you.

Slow. Wrecked. Worshipped.

He murmurs your name—your real name, not Flame. Like saying it means claiming something fragile and true. His eyes stay open, watching you like he doesn’t want to miss a single flicker of you coming undone. And when it’s over—when your pulse slows, when your body folds into the quiet shelter of his—

you stay.

Held.

Chosen.

Again.

——————————————————————————

You don’t sleep right away. You whisper through the edges of midnight about the Alchemist—its mysteries, its madness. What to expect. What to fear. Raf, ever the balm, slips into banter just to make you laugh.

“Definitely a Michelin cult,” he murmurs, nosing your shoulder. “There’ll be a tasting menu followed by blood pacts. And a ceremonial elderflower sacrifice.”

You laugh. Really laugh. The kind that makes your ribs ache in a different way. And somewhere between the rhythm of his breath and the weight of your own resolve, you drift off.

——————————————————————————

You wake to the muted hush of morning—light filtered through bone-white curtains and the sound of bicycles humming over cobblestones below. For a breath, it’s just you and the stillness. The weight of hotel linen tangled around your legs. The trace memory of warm water on skin. Raf’s arm draped over your waist, slack with sleep, his breath soft at the base of your neck.

Then—like a match to dry paper—reality catches.

The Alchemist.

Closed-door training.

You. Caleb. And the ghosts of everything unsaid.

You slip from the bed, careful not to wake Raf. The sheets resist, holding your warmth. You pull free, padded feet hitting cold floor. The bathroom light is low. You shower again—not because you need to, but because some part of you is still trying to rinse off last night. The sting of memory. The haze of Caleb’s voice. The question he never let you answer.

But nothing washes away.

You dress with care—chef’s jacket crisp, collar stiff, each button a decision. Shoes polished like they’re meant to argue with the floor. Hair pulled into a clean knot. No perfume. No makeup. Just focus. Just armor.

Raf stirs as you return to the room, still half-asleep, curls a lavender halo of chaos. Pillow-creased cheek. The kind of vulnerable softness that hurts to look at for too long. You lean over and press a kiss to his temple. “You coming?”

He groans faintly, blinking one eye open. “In a minute. Still channeling my inner monk not to headbutt Caleb.”

You snort. “Good luck with that.”

Before you can straighten, his arm snakes around your waist and yanks you down with gentle force. His kiss catches you mid-laugh—hot, deep, still sticky with sleep. He tastes like dawn and sugar and the part of you that doesn’t want to go.

“Evil tempter,” you whisper, breath stolen.

“Mm.” His eyes flutter shut again. “You love it.”

You do. And you leave with his mouth still on yours.

——————————————————————————

You meet Sylus in the lobby at 08:46.

He’s already waiting—poised, sharp as ever. No tie, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest menace. He hands you a coffee without a word, the exact way you like it. Not that you told him.

“Sleep?” he asks.

“Some,” you lie.

He doesn’t press. The car waiting outside is black, silent, understated elegance. Inside, Sylus stares out the window like the city is speaking and he’s just here to listen. You don’t interrupt. There’s comfort in his silence—as if he breathes, you’re allowed to, too.

The streets blur. And then it rises before you.

Tucked on a quiet block. The Alchemist doesn’t invite—it dares. Stark white lines against a grey sky, all ambition and restraint. A lab dressed as a temple. A kitchen masquerading as myth.

Inside, the kitchen breathes like a living organism—under ambient light and echoing with mechanical whispers, it pulses with quiet precision. Above, the dome pulsed in slow ultraviolet waves, drifting algae and jellyfish silhouettes forecasting beyond sensory shock. Matte-black inox surfaces glint under shadowed halos, and seamless workstations line the walls like stages in a silent laboratory. Every blade meets board with ritualistic sharpness; every flame is calibrated, every scent measured.

And then—across the prep station—you see him.

Gloved hands piping something impossibly delicate. Lit like a Renaissance sketch caught in ultraviolet. Every angle of him glows—bone and cheek, the bridge of his nose, even the laces of his apron—illuminated under the spectral wash of light that bathes the Alchemist’s kitchen in surreal reverence. Violet eyes catch the shimmer of jellyfish drifting above the ceiling glass. Jacket—flawless. Stark white turned otherworldly, catching flashes of violet-blue with every subtle movement.

He doesn’t look up. But you know he knows.

You feel it in the marrow.

Sylus clears his throat. Formal. Composed. He introduces you to the kitchen. A few heads nod. One of the younger chefs—tall, freckled, his apron too clean—grins when he hears your name.

“Plated’s new head chef? With a thing for yuzu?”

You let a soft laugh escape. “Guilty.”

Still, Caleb doesn’t look at you. Then, finally—his voice. It slices through the quiet with ease.

“Knife skills first. Let’s see if you remember how to brunoise, Hotshot.”

Your breath catches.

Hotshot.

It hits like a memory punched into your ribs. He hasn’t called you by your nickname like that in weeks. Maybe he’s said it—but not like this. Not casual. Not teasing. Not like nothing ever cracked.

You don’t respond. Just step forward and reach for the knife. The blade is cool in your hand.

You dice.

The room watches.

Caleb’s presence moves beside you like a second heat source. Not loud. Not looming. Just there. The Alchemist crew speaks little. They’re exact. Elegant. Ghosts in aprons. But you don’t feel invisible. You feel watched—and not just by them.

Sylus lingers at the edge of the station. Arms crossed. His gaze pins everything. You slip—barely—a sauce beginning to split at the edge of the pan.

Sylus opens his mouth.

But Caleb beats him to it.

“Try swirling the base first before you mount it,” he says, tone light. Almost warm.

Your hands move. The sauce recovers.

Sylus closes his mouth.

“You’re quicker than I remember,” Caleb notes, not quite smiling. “Still tense in your shoulders, tho.”

“And you’re still annoying,” you mutter, adjusting your grip.

That does make him grin. Sharp. Beautiful.

God, he glows in here. Not with ego. Not like before. He’s present. Nimble. Leading without lording. And for a moment—a terrible, wonderful moment—you miss it. Not the pain. But the way you used to work together like a symphony.

You don’t say it. But your hands remember. And Caleb? He never once misses a beat.

Then—Raf curses loud enough to turn heads from the pastry station.

“Fucking—why is the freeze dryer cursed?” he snaps, yanking open the drawer like it personally offended him.

You blink, turning. “Jesus. I didn’t know you were here already.”

Raf straightens, scowling at the machine like it’s a former lover. A fine dust of powdered sugar clings to his wrist, like evidence of a failed duel. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, brushing his palms off on a towel, “picked up a thing or two from Xavier.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

Raf shrugs, already reaching for a tray like it’s the only thing keeping him from setting the whole kitchen on fire. “Showing up silently. Brooding in corners. Judging flawed equipment. You know—classic ninja shit.”

You smirk. “You’re missing the haunting quiet.”

“I’m working on it,” he deadpans. “Give me a week and a traumatic flashback.”

A chef beside him offers a hand, but Raf’s already untying his apron, flushed and muttering under his breath. “I’m taking a tactical retreat,” he declares, brushing powdered sugar off his sleeves. “One more broken tuile and I’m defecting to France… Temporarily.”

From across the room, Caleb glances up with that unbearable calm. “Want me to save you a slice of my brilliance?”

Raf doesn’t even blink. “Save me your silence,” he mutters, stalking out of the kitchen like he’s leaving a battlefield.

A beat passes. Then someone chuckles, quickly silenced by the knife-sharp tension that still hums in the air.

You don’t dare laugh.

Caleb sidles closer. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Pastry’s a cruel mistress.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shrugs. “I’m enjoying you.” Then, quieter, lower: “You always looked better with a knife in your hand.”

The weight of that shouldn’t settle so sweetly in your chest. But it does—like a song you still know all the words to.

You refocus. Steel yourself. The cutting board becomes your compass again. You move beside him—silent, syncopated. He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t hover. Just watches. Comments now and then, but never to outshine. It’s praise by omission. Instruction through presence. With every plated test dish, your walls inch lower—not because you’ve forgiven him, but because here, he’s everything he once promised to be.

The light through the tall windows turns golden. Everything glows faintly amber. Caleb places something exquisite onto a dish—clean, elegant, absurdly intentional—and slides it toward you.

“For you,” he says. “Because that cut on the beef? That was hot.”

You flush. That single, stupid nickname still echoes under your skin.

And that’s when it hits you:

You’re not angry.

You’re scared.

Because here, in Copenhagen, inside the impossible bones of the Alchemist—Caleb is free.

The scent of browned butter and rendered duck fat winds through the room. You’re still in your rhythm—chopping, searing, layering, moving like you belong. Beside you, Caleb hums something low under his breath. He sways as he slices fennel, almost theatrical.

“You’re enjoying yourself a little too much,” you mutter.

“I’m making art,” he replies, flicking you a look. “You’re just here to make me look good.”

“I’m not your garnish, Chef.”

“You are when I’m plating, Chef.”

Across the room, Sylus makes a sound—half sigh, half strangled sense of authority. He leans against the pass like a marble statue of judgment—arms folded, one eyebrow lifted, every inch of him reading the room like a chef’s confession.

“Chef Caleb,” he drawls, voice cool as steel, “stop flirting while handling a mandoline.”

Caleb doesn’t miss a beat. “Please. If I get cut, I’ll just plate the blood.”

“You’d serve it with microgreens,” Sylus replies. “And call it a study in mortality.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

A bark of laughter startles the room—Raf, magically returning with a fresh tuile and something suspiciously glittery on his cheekbone. You don’t point it out. He’d only weaponize it.

“PUh-LeEase,” Raf groans, theatrically dropping the tuile onto his station. “If I hear one more sentence about ‘mortality’ or ‘umami transcendence,’ I’m stabbing someone with a sugar shard.”

You grin before you can stop yourself. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous.

But it feels like old times.

Caleb twirls a spoon between two fingers, lazily pointing it at Raf. “You’ll stab yourself if you temper incorrectly again.”

“My dear former maestro,” Raf shoots back, eyes narrowing. “Like I haven’t tempered your ego a thousand times already.”

Sylus clears his throat with the authority of someone about to fire them all. “Play nice. You’re not at Plated.”

“No,” Raf mutters, brushing past you, eyes flicking briefly to Caleb. “But it’s starting to feel like it.”

You freeze.

That hangs. Just for a moment. Caleb at the hot line. Raf at pastry. Sylus in the wings. You, right in the middle—knife in hand, heart in your throat. The kitchen you dreamed of. The fire you feared. Then Caleb, like it’s nothing, torches a scallop to a perfect bronze and slides it onto a shell. He passes it to you like a gift. Like a test.

“Don’t get sentimental,” he murmurs, voice a shade too soft. “It’s still just food. Fire and timing.”

You take the shell. Taste it.

It’s divine.

But the room—it’s crackling now. With memory. With possibility.

Raf pipes up again, too casual. “Flame, tell me you’re not falling for his Michelin monologue again.”

Caleb smirks. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

“I’m not jealous,” Raf shoots back. “I’m territorial. There’s a difference.”

“Boys… Chefs—,” Sylus cuts in, not looking up. “Do I need to remind you both that she’s the one leading Plated’s tasting menu?”

That lands like a blade. They both fall quiet—just for a beat. Just long enough for pride to surface and die behind their lashes.

You glance at Sylus. “So… am I allowed to be nostalgic?”

He exhales, the corner of his mouth ticking up like he’s holding back the weight of memories. “You’re allowed to be whatever you want. As long as the mise is clean and no one bleeds.” Then, almost too quietly:

“Just don’t forget which version of this dream hurt the most.”

He turns. Walks away.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Raf doesn’t follow. The three of you are left in the quiet hum of ovens and ambition.

It tastes like the past. Smells like legacy. And burns—quiet, steady, holy—like it always did.

——————————————————————————

You don’t know how it got here.

One minute you were dragging off your apron, legs sore and laughter still fizzing in your chest from a day in the kitchen that didn’t quite destroy you.

The next—

You’re a bottle deep beneath the Alchemist’s underworld, tucked into a bar that smells like citrus zest, salt, and secrets. Wine glasses shimmer everywhere. The playlist hums with late-night lofi—smoky, bass-heavy, a little distorted. Like time folded in on itself just to bring you here.

Raf’s slumped beside you, half-asleep, head warm against your shoulder. He murmurs against your ear like a lullaby composed of chaos.

“Mmmm… Kinda hornii,” he mumbles. “But, like… horizontally. Not vertically. Too tired. Need a snack. Maybe you. Maybe seaweed. Can’t decide.”

You snort into your wine. Nearly spill it.

Across the bar, Sylus and Caleb are deep in a wine-fueled battle of intellect and ego, glaring at the sommelier like she’s the final boss in a Michelin-rated video game.

“No, no,” Caleb says, swirling his glass like a weapon. “This has too much spine. It’s performing for attention.”

Sylus scoffs. “Says the man who once plated saffron emulsion with a pipette.”

“Exactly. The pipette equals controlled saffron,” Caleb corrects, deadpan. “Not all of us plate like bored reptiles on a throne.”

The door hisses open. In walks the Alchemist’s head chef—wind in his coat, smug in his stance—carrying a silver bin like it holds buried treasure. Inside: oysters. Glinting, cold, slick as moonstones on crushed ice.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat. “Oyster challenge.”

Your glass stills mid-air.

Caleb’s brows lift. “What?”

Raf perks up, blinking himself into alertness. “Oh. Oh no. Oh yes. But definitely no.”

The entire bar pivots. Junior chefs elbow each other. Someone who might be the forager stands reverently like it’s a sacred rite. The sommelier lights up, vanishes, and returns with a bottle of Bollinger La Cote 2013 like she’s waited her whole life for this moment.

Oysters are shucked with flair, lined up like ammunition. Sylus rolls his sleeves higher, the picture of a man about to bury someone with dignity. Caleb squares his shoulders, jaw tight, like he’s walking into battle.

Raf lifts a hand weakly. “For the record—I love seafood,” he announces, already sipping from the fancy champagne Sylus opened like it’s a party. “But I draw the line at slurping ocean phlegm.”

You nearly choke. He nudges you. “Seriously. Who decided to make mucous romantic?”

“You’re just scared, Raf.”

“Pffft… I’m not scared. I’m evolved, Flame.”

The first slurp rings out like a starter pistol.

Then—chaos. The kitchen staff goes feral. Bets are placed. Someone pulls out a whiteboard.

“Briny. Clean. Like kissing Poseidon’s cheek,” Sylus murmurs after one.

Caleb makes a face. “Mine tastes like Poseidon’s lower half.”

“Poor thing,” Sylus purrs. “Not used to food being more cultured than him.”

You nearly snort champagne out your nose.

Caleb slurps another. Grimaces. “God, it’s like sucking the sea through a sock.”

“Better than most things you’ve sucked in the last year,” Sylus replies without blinking.

“Oyster number six is… chewy,” Caleb mutters, swallowing hard. “That one had emotional baggage.”

“Of course. It was preparing for life inside your stomach.”

Raf cackles, doubled over. “Keep going! Please! This is better than reality TV.” Someone passes you a fresh flute. Raf leans into your shoulder, eyes glued to the slow-motion carnage. “It’s like Top Chef met Fear Factor and had a baby raised in Versailles.”

You raise a brow. “You’re oddly invested for someone who won’t try one.”

“Alright, alright—” Raf says, lifting a champagne flute like a judge. “That one looked like it winked at me. I swear.”

You hesitate, curiosity catching you.

Raf catches the look.

“Oh no. No. Don’t you dare.”

But you’re already reaching. Just one. Cold. Briny. Silk and muscle and nerve. You tip it back.

It carries the ache of a poem written for someone else. And your face says it all.

Rafayel leans in, voice mock-gentle. “Don’t worry, Flame. Some things just aren’t meant to be swallowed.” Before you can even answer, Raf clears his throat—

“I mean, if anyone’s curious, my libido’s just fine without slurping aphrodisiac slime.”

Caleb slurps down what must be his twelfth oyster—grim determination in every chew—then raises a brow. “You sure? You sound… defensive.”

Sylus doesn’t even glance up as he downs another oyster to match Caleb, “Textbook projection.”

Raf holds up a finger. “Puh-lease. I do not need mollusks to get it up.” Then, with a lazy smirk and a tilt of his glass:

“Just ask Flame.”

You cough. Violently. Champagne burns the back of your throat as you cover your mouth, eyes watering.

And then—

Caleb gags.

Visibly. Audibly.

His face goes a little green. He sways. “Nope. Nope. Fuck—” He stumbles off the barstool, hand bracing on the counter, and bolts.

Raf shrugs. “What? I’m usually a ‘don’t kiss and tell’ kind of guy. But sometimes—” he flashes you a wink, “—you gotta let the art speak for itself.”

You bury your face in your sleeve, mortified and slightly flattered, while the sommelier, wisely, pretends to be deaf. You’re still blushing when Raf kisses your temple, smug as sin.

“Go after him,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “He needs a little coddling.” Then, with a knowing smirk: “Just don’t let him milk it too hard. He’s dramatic even when fully hydrated.”

You don’t hesitate. Just toss your napkin and follow. Raf lifts his glass and calls after you, dreamy and unbothered: “Tell him he still looked hot doing it!” Raf calls after you, raising his glass like it’s a toast. Then, with a thoughtful pause and a tilt of his head: “Bit green, maybe. But, like… aesthetic green.” He winks.

“On some people, nausea’s a vibe.”

——————————————————————————

You find Caleb in the hallway just off the prep kitchen—dimly lit, walls slick with condensation and silence. He’s braced against the tiled wall, one hand splayed flat like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises in slow, uneven pulls. A linen napkin is clutched in his other hand, stained faintly from where he spit earlier. You’re not even sure where he got it. Probably stole it off some abandoned tray.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t know how to look at you yet.

“…You okay?” you ask, voice soft but cutting through the quiet.

He doesn’t turn. Just nods once, small and sharp. “Fine,” he says. “Just humiliated. Defeated by a mollusk.” His tone’s dry, but it doesn’t land like a joke. It lands like defeat.

You offer him a water glass from the cart near the wall. He takes it, barely looking, fingers trembling just slightly as they close around the rim. He drinks. Swallows hard.

“I mean…” you murmur, gentler now, “you did make it to what—twelve?”

“Twelve too many,” he mutters, then leans his head back against the wall with a quiet thunk. A slow exhale. Then, softer—almost wistful: “You always used to be the one to make me try things I hated.”

He pauses. Breathes in the silence. Then adds, wry: “Hard enough facing the fog prince in a mollusk duel without Raf moaning aphrodisiac nonsense behind me. Ugh— I’m not saying it broke me, but it definitely shaved a year off my life.”

You snort—can’t help it.

Caleb glances over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Honestly, I think he was trying to psych me out. Worked a little.”

You don’t answer. The sounds of the bar echo faintly down the corridor—champagne flutes clinking, Sylus’s velvet laugh, Raf’s voice calling someone a “salt-slicked harlot.” You almost smile.

Almost.

Caleb tilts his head to glance at you. His eyes are clearer now, but the wine has peeled back something else—something raw beneath the grin.

“You’re still doing that,” he says. “Pushing me. Even when you’re not trying to.”

You step a little closer, leaning your back against the opposite wall. Just enough space to breathe. Just close enough to hear the heat in his voice.

“You always were better when you had something to prove,” you say.

He huffs a breath—part laugh, part sigh. “I used to think that was you.”

The silence stretches. You don’t know what’s being built between you here—if it’s a bridge, or just a plank you’ll both fall off.

A voice cuts in from the bar: “Caleb! You alive or drowned in snot oysters?”

He closes his eyes. “Tell them I ascended,” he murmurs, raising a hand weakly toward the ceiling.

You laugh—quiet, involuntary. And he cracks a voilet eye open to look at you again.

“… Flashbacks,” he mutters. “Culinary school. That week I gave myself food poisoning from veal tartare.”

“You blamed the garlic.”

He smirks. “It was the garlic. And also maybe the part where I didn’t refrigerate it properly.”

You arch a brow.

“Some of us peak early, alright?” he adds.

There’s another pause. This one longer. Weighted. Then—quieter. Careful:

“I’ll be fine. I always am.”

You don’t believe him. Not really. Not with the way his shoulders sag just enough to show the cracks. Not with how his fingers still shake around the glass.

“Thank you,” you say, finally.

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For today. For being… like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely. Toward the bar. The oysters. The Caleb who flirted with knives and held space without taking it.

“Normal,” you say. “Sharp. Playful. Competitive. You.”

That stops him. He swallows—shallow. The kind of breath people take when they’re afraid to let anything out.

“I’ve missed you like that,” you say.

He looks at you, long and searching, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick of the lighting or the truth. Then, barely audible: “I wonder if that version of me only exists with you.”

Your chest stings.

He chuckles, just once. “Or maybe Sylus just really does it for me.”

“Oh, he definitely does,” you deadpan.

That breaks the tension—just slightly. Enough to breathe.

Caleb exhales and glances down the hallway like it might lead anywhere else. But then his gaze returns to you. Steady.

“You coming back in?” you ask.

“In a minute,” he says. “Tell Raf I owe him a seafood duel. I bring butter.”

You snort and shake your head. But you walk away. And his eyes—just like always—stay fixed to your back the whole way down.

Not burning.

Just… remembering.

——————————————————————————

By the time you reenter the bar, the warmth inside has mellowed to something dreamlike—gold-edged and blue-tinged. Bottles gleam behind the counter. The laughter has thinned to a hum. Someone’s playing a slow cover of a pop standard on the sound system. You pause in the doorway.

Raf spots you first, leaning over the bar, now vertical and alert again—his sleeves rumpled, and his eyes a little too sharp.

“Where is he?” he asks.

And then—Caleb reappears behind you, quiet as ever, slipping into the light like it doesn’t quite belong to him.

“I think I’m heading back to the hotel,” Caleb says softly, sliding his empty glass toward the edge of the bar. Then, with a glance your way: “Uh—… Care to walk with me?”

You barely part your lips before Raf—still perched two stools down—cuts in like a blade.

“Seriously?” he snaps. “You wanna take her for a stroll now? After being normal for one day?”

Caleb meets his glare calmly. No flare. No smirk. Just stillness.

“If you hurt her…” Raf begins, jaw tight. Then pauses. Lets it hang. Lets it mean something. “Emotionally,” he clarifies. “And don’t even get me started on physically.” He leans forward, voice low. No threat. Just truth.

“I don’t care what history you’ve got. I will make it my business.”

Caleb nods. “I won’t,” he says. “I swear it.”

Another pause.

Raf watches him like a sommelier studying a new vintage. Deciding whether it’s worth the risk. Finally, he nods once. Grudging.

“I… trust you,” Raf says. “But don’t get clever, Chef de Ego. I’ll be in the hotel lobby. Waiting. And if she doesn’t come back safe…” He taps the bar. Then smirks, dry and sharp. “You’ll be limping. Emotionally. Or not.”

Caleb’s lip lifts. “Fair.”

You touch Raf’s wrist as you pass. He catches your hand instead—gently, but with purpose—and lifts it to his mouth. Presses a kiss just below your knuckles, like it costs him and soothes him in equal measure.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You still feel like mine, you know,” Raf murmurs, voice low and steady. “Even when you’re not.”

Your breath hitches. He smiles—soft, bittersweet. ”I know how this story goes,” he adds. “Just… don’t forget who’d burn for you.”

And then he lets go. But the weight of him stays. Fierce. Unmistakably yours, even now.

Then you and Caleb step into the Copenhagen night—cool, clean, and humming.

And somewhere behind you, Sylus raises his glass, barely audible over the hum of the bar.

“Careful, boys. She’s not picking favorites. If you’re going to duel, at least do it with plating tongs. Blood stains the marble.”

——————————————————————————

The streets are quieter now.

Golden-lit windows blur behind condensation-streaked glass. Copenhagen hums low around you—bicycles drifting past in pairs, the scent of warm bread trailing from a corner café that never really closes. A man plays harmonica at the harbor’s edge. Not for money—just for the echo.

You and Caleb walk without speaking. Your shoes whisper across the damp cobblestones, his stride easy but closed off. The silence between you isn’t cold—it’s dense. Weathered. The kind that carries history in its pauses. The city smells like yeast, salt, and the ghost of rain.

Caleb hasn’t really spoken since the bar. Just held the door with that tight jaw and that silence he wears. The same silence he always hid behind when the stakes got too close.

You glance at him. “Sure you’re okay?”

He shrugs. “I will be.” Then, quieter—an echo of earlier, a mantra worn thin: “I always am.”

But you know better. And so does he.

You pause when you reach the pier. A low stone railing frames the water—still black, slick as lacquer. Fairy lights sag between rusted hooks, forgotten from someone’s celebration. The harmonica wavers through a blues scale like it’s remembering something tender.

He stops beside you. Hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, jaw still locked.

After a moment, his voice emerges.

“You remember culinary school?”

You glance sideways. “Hm.. of course… What part?”

A faint smile plays at his lips. “First day. You walked in late. Denim jacket. Boots. Didn’t give a shit.”

“I gave a little shit.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You gave zero. You sat down between two guys twice your size and told them to move their ‘fucking elbows.’ Loud enough for the whole class to hear.”

You huff a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. “I thought you were the fiercest person I’d ever seen.”

Your heart skips. He’s always been honest in the quiet. You stare at the water. “I always thought you wanted me to thrive.”

“I did.” He breathes in. “I—… I do.”

“Then why did it feel like you kept… pulling me back?”

He looks away.

“I thought I was protecting you.”

You start to speak—but he cuts in.

“I know. It’s a shitty excuse. It’s the line. But I meant it. When Bourdain burned me out—when I lost that job for not being cutthroat enough—when I couldn’t be cutthroat enough—I saw how sharp this world is. How much it takes. I didn’t want it to chew you up too.”

You stay quiet.

“I wasn’t afraid of your talent. I was afraid of what would happen to you if you succeeded the way I couldn’t. Of what it would cost.”

Your eyes sting. You look at him—really look—and see it: the weight he’s been dragging behind his ribs for years.

“I thought if I left… if I pulled back… it’d hurt less.”

You whisper, “Did it?”

He hesitates. Then, low: “No.”

He exhales hard, hands flexing in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I burned it down before I ever gave us a chance. I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Plated. Any of it. So I ran.”

“And left me in the ashes. Again.”

His voice catches. “I know.”

You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“But that VIP night?” he continues. “Seeing you like that—in your element. Commanding the kitchen. All eyes on you. I’ve never been prouder. Or more wrecked. Because that was the dream. Us. Side by side. Except I blinked, and it wasn’t me beside you anymore.”

A long beat. Then—quietly: “I loved you then. I still do. But I didn’t know how to love you without trying to own you. And I hated that about myself.”

Your throat closes around his honesty. You step in. Slowly. A breath away from him. “I’ve always loved you,” you say. “But Caleb… stop trying to save me from the life I chose.”

He stills.

“You don’t get to dim me because you’re scared I’ll burn.”

His breath hitches.

“I want to be seen. Not managed. Not protected. And if you still want to be in my life, you don’t stand in front of me or behind me. You stand beside me.”

A tear slides down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it falls.

“I thought I had to shield you from this world,” he whispers. “Turns out, you’re the only one who ever scared it.”

You smile, soft and sad. “Damn right I did.”

He chuckles, raw and trembling. Then—without moving—he breathes:

“Yeah, you’re perfect, Hotshot.”

And he looks at you with no walls. No armor. You step in close. Not to comfort—but to be clear.

“Caleb. Don’t try that shit with me again,” you say, voice low, even. “Don’t you dare try to hide me. Or tempt me into some soft-focus fantasy where you get to control the version of me that fits your guilt.”

His breath catches.

“I don’t want your protection. I don’t want illusions. I want reality. And if you ever try to dim me again—to shrink me to fit the shape of your fear—I will cut you out completely.”

His shoulders stiffen.

“I have people now,” you continue. “People who show up. Who fight beside me. Who don’t disappear when it gets messy. So if you walk again? That void you leave? It will be filled. It already is.”

You let that hang in the air, sharp and final.

Then, softer, but no less resolute: “Choose me as I am. Or don’t. But don’t ask me to make myself smaller to earn it.”

There’s a beat. A long, aching beat.

Then—

“I—… Okay.”

And when you turn to leave, he doesn’t stop you. He just follows. One step beside you, matching your stride. And for the first time in years, it feels like you’re walking forward together.

——————————————————————————

The hotel lobby is too bright. Too clean. And far too quiet—until it isn’t.

You step through the revolving doors. The last of the night clings to you—cobblestones and harmonica notes, sea wind and confessions that aren’t quite regrets. Inside, the air is filtered and hushed, like the world hasn’t caught up to what just happened.

But you have.

And then you see Raf.

Not crying.

Sobbing.

He’s collapsed against the lobby bar like his spine gave out. Shoulders curled. Hands hiding his face. His whole body trembles like it’s trying to escape itself. The kind of grief that doesn’t ask for permission. That rips its way out of your chest and pours into the open.

Caleb’s hand tightens on your arm. Then, slowly, he lets go.

Because across the room, sharp as a cut—

Sylus.

Suit immaculate. Top button undone. One hand pressed to his temple, the other clenched around his phone like it might keep him from unraveling entirely. His voice, always a blade wrapped in velvet, is cracked now—tight, curt, fraying at the edges.

You hear pieces as you cross the room.

“—partial collapse—”

“…equipment’s gone. Ceiling damage. Entire kitchen’s—”

“No. I understand. I said I understand.”

He turns. Paces. Sits. Stands. Paces again. A perfect metronome with something broken underneath. And then Raf breaks—louder.

A sound you’ve never heard from him before.

You’re at his side before you know it, arms around him. He clutches you like driftwood in a storm, burying his face into your shoulder, shaking so hard your breath catches with it.

Caleb’s behind you now. One hand between your shoulder blades. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s glowing in your palm before you remember to check.

Group chat. Chaos:

Zayne: Building’s cordoned off. Full loss.

Xavier: I just saw the feed. Kitchen’s gone.

Zayne: Insurance?

Xavier: Sylus isn’t answering. Raf’s not reading. You?

Zayne: No. Tell me someone’s with them.

Xavier: Second set is. I’m sure.

You lift your gaze just as Sylus lowers his phone. The screen goes dark.

And then—

He slams his fist into the bar. The sound cracks like thunder. The bartender flinches. A bottle nearly topples. Glasses tremble in their racks.

Sylus doesn’t blink. Doesn’t apologize. He just reaches blindly, grabs the nearest bottle—something deep amber—and pours a full shot with shaking fingers. Downs it like it’s water. Breathes like it’s fire.

Then—quietly. Hollow: “It’s gone.” He’s not just talking about the building. “Plated’s gone. Beyond saving.”

Raf makes a strangled noise behind you, a choked inhale that ends in silence. Your elbow hooks around him automatically, anchoring both of you.

Caleb shifts closer, hand finding your waist. But the world is tilting. It’s a grief you can’t cook through. Can’t bury in butter or reduction.

Then Sylus turns. Starts to walk out.

Out of the bar. Out of the hotel. Out of the moment.

Out of this.

But not this time.

You’re faster. You move like fire. Catch his wrist before he can disappear.

He flinches. Sylus flinches. Like your touch scorched him. Like it made something real.

“Don’t,” you say. “You’re not doing this alone.“

He turns, slowly. And for the first time since you’ve known him, Sylus looks… wrecked. Not tired. Not busy. Not bleeding behind control.

Broken. The version of him only real fire could reveal. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed like they’re finally too tired to square.

“I’d rather get stabbed in the chest than hear that phone ring like that again,” he whispers.

You nod once. Say nothing.

“They said… ‘the ceiling collapsed where the pastry fridge used to be.’” His voice cracks. “That’s the line. That’s the legacy. That’s all they’ll write down.”

He laughs. Sharp. Bitter. Wrong.

“… Pastry fridge.”

And suddenly, the air tastes like ash.

Behind you, Raf wraps his arms around your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing real. Caleb stands near, silent, watching Sylus with something almost like reverence.

And then Sylus breathes. Not words. Just breath. And finally speaks again:

“I should’ve been there. I built it to stand without me. And it still fell.”

Your lips part to respond, but he barrels on. Too fast. Too raw.

“We plated perfection. Every goddamn night. We built something out of fire and will and twenty-hour shifts and—”

He swallows hard.

“And now it’s buried under concrete and soot and whatever the fuck’s left of the pastry fridge.”

He falters—but you catch him with the words he once gave you. The ones that mattered most. “All right,” you say softly. “If this is the road… you don’t walk it alone.”

Red eyes meet yours.

“I’ve got your back,” you finish.

A pause. Then he nods. Just once. Like it costs him everything. But he believes you. And maybe that’s the beginning.

Because then—he smiles.

A snarl. A promise.

“Hmph… Then let it burn.” His voice is low now. “We’ll build again.” And then softer. More dangerous.

“And next time?”

His eyes hold yours. Steady. Unyielding.

“Next time, it won’t collapse without warning.”

You say nothing. No one does. Because that’s enough. Because you believe him.

All of you do.

In the wreckage, in the ruin, in the ash still curling in your lungs like smoke—

There is still something left.

And maybe that’s how it begins again.

Not with perfection.

Not with fire.

But with you standing in what’s left.

And choosing to stay. Even in the wreckage.

——————————————————————————

Writer’s mote: Caleb calling Sylus the fog prince might be my favorite accidental brilliance to date. I laughed way too hard—one of those hobby-writer moments where your brain just goes: “Yes. That’s it. That’s the entire vibe” lololol. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed this drrrraaaamatic chapter. Also—look at this picture of The Alchemist. Tell me it doesn’t look like Raf’s restaurant. I mean. Come on. God, I love summer holidays. I get to sip wine, proofread, and entertain myself well into the night. Bliss. (Kinda wanna doodle raf in his bathrobe staring Caleb down lolol) Thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[whimsymoonpages]

chapter 24. under pressure

cw: injury, brief medical emergency (concussion), family tension, implied toxic family dynamics, reader is a badass and barty is charming as always

the next several weeks go by beautifully. the boys have been doting on you entirely too much, but you allow it. they kiss you, cuddle you, hold you from behind, and gods it's everything you ever dreamed of. but still, you have a job to do. 

currently, you and barty are in the middle of reorganizing the creature archives.

the air smells faintly of old parchment, crushed beetle eyes, and a lingering hint of singed feathers, a leftover accident from last week’s jar explosion. you’re perched precariously on a step ladder, the wooden rungs creaking under your boots, arms full of disorganized files that crackle and snap like they resent being touched.

"no, no, no, the flobberworms go on the bottom shelf. the salamanders go on top," you grumble, your fingers struggling to balance the weight of the unruly stack.

"what if i put them in the middle?" barty teases from below, one hand lazily levitating a crate of jars labeled with increasingly worrying warnings. 'DO NOT DROP. WILL EXPLODE GOO.'

"you’ll upset the entire categorization system. you’ll send newt into cardiac arrest."

"ooh, maybe he’ll let me take a longer lunch then." barty daydreams and nearly drops the jar.

"barty!" you shriek, your wand pointing at the ground just below the jar. he's lucky you're a brilliant witch, otherwise he'd be covered in the goop!

he smirks, catching the crate and shoving it onto the shelf anyway. "oh, lighten up. you know he loves me."

before you can retort, a paper airplane from the auror’s office zips into the room, smacking barty right in the temple. he startles, swatting at it like it bit him.

"bloody hell. hostile post."

you snatch it from the air, brow furrowing as you read. 

'auror field training. erumpant on site. immediate assistance required in wimbourne.'

your stomach drops. "james is on field training today."

barty’s grin fades instantly. "what?"

"it’s his group, junior. it has to be."

you don’t wait. you’re already sprinting toward the equipment room, grabbing your wrangling tools, your wand, and one of newt’s enchanted cases. if an erumpant was in their field, you'd need to put it someplace safe. fast. 

barty is on your heels, still shoving protective gear over his shoulders. "we’ve got this, yeah?"

"we’ve got this," you echo, though your heart is thudding painfully. "i hope."

you apparate to the field in a crack of displaced air, the damp grass squelching under your boots as you land hard.

the scene is chaos.

an enormous erumpant is barreling through spells, its thick hide shimmering under the pressure of magic. aurors-in-training scatter in all directions. you spot frank longbottom ont he ground, his temples bruised and bleeding. to your right, kingsley shacklebolt is firing defensive spells, his face tight with focus, and then—

james. wand raised, yelling, his curls wild in the wind. your chest seizes.

"james!"

he doesn’t hear you. he and kingsley are trying to back the creature into a rocky alcove, but it’s not enough. you shove your way forward, barty right at your side.

"hands off! we’ve got this!" you shout, throwing your hands up to get james and kingsley to fall back.

james stares at you, a flicker of relief, but the ground shakes as the erumpant charges again. james stumbles, his foot catching on uneven rock. his head snaps backward as he hits the ground hard. your heart lurches.

"james!" you scream louder than you ever have before.

barty grabs your wrist, yanking you back. "focus! now!"

you bite down the panic, your grip tightening on your wand. together, you and barty weave around the beast, stunning it from both sides.

"stupefy!" you yell with all your might, momentarily stunning the creature. this angers it, and it rears, roaring. you slide under its guard as barty distracts it by stomping his feet and sending sparks at the creature. you silently cast the shrinking spell and fall to the ground. barty snaps the suitcase open just in time to capture it.

it’s done.

you collapse into barty’s arms, shaking. "we did it. merlin, that was so much scarier than our day job."

barty laughs, breathless, holding you close to him. "darling, that is our day job."

you rush to james as he starts to stir, groaning as he sits up. "did we win?"

"you were unconscious, antlers." barty says flatly, though visibly relieved that everything worked out okay.

"still counts."

kingsley claps you on the shoulders, his calm returning now that the threat is gone. "impressive. it’s no wonder mr. scamander keeps you both around."

healers arrive swiftly, loading james and frank longbottom onto stretchers. you squeeze james’s hand as they prepare to take him to st. mungo’s.

"i’ll meet you there," you promise. "barty’s going to get remus and sirius."

barty is already gone, sprinting through muggle london. he doesn’t stop running until he bursts into remus’s office, sweat-soaked and panting.

remus looks up from his typewriter, brow arched. "barty? how did you even find me?"

"no time for chit-chat, sweetheart. we’ve got to go to st. mungo’s. now."

remus stands so quickly his chair screeches back. "what? why? what happened?"

"field accident. james is hurt. lovely's with him. gonna send a patronus to sirius on the way. let’s go."

remus is pale but determined, grabbing his coat as they both disapparate on the spot. barty takes his wand out to send his patronus—a sleek, twisting silver serpent—it zips through the air toward sirius, muttering, 'come to st. mungo's, black. james is hurt. not much more to say...'

barty’s breath is ragged as they run through the muggle street, dodging a bus that screeches past too close. he snarls under his breath, ‘bloody muggles’ before apparating with remus, the weight of panic clinging to both of them.

at st. mungo’s, you’re pacing frantically outside the treatment room when remus and barty arrive.

"he’s fine," you blurt, eyes wide, "he’s okay, but—"

the door bangs open and sirius storms in, dripping with rain, his expression frantic. he pushes past a healer trying to block his path. “MOVE!” he barks, his voice ragged and unsteady, wild-eyed as if he’s ready to tear through the entire hospital to get to james. "where is he? what happened? is he—"

"he’s okay! he’s okay!"

sirius crashes into you, clutching you tightly before rushing into the room. in an instant, he is by james’ side. the boy is drowsy, half-awake, but his grin cracks wide when he sees him.

"hey, pads."

sirius drops to his knees beside the bed, brushing james’s hair out of his face with shaking hands. "what happened? why weren’t you careful? you’re supposed to be careful!"

"’m always careful, love."

"you’re not!"

remus squeezes james’s calf, his head bowed briefly like he’s silently giving thanks. "you scared the shit out of us."

"’m sorry, moony. ‘m okay, though."

you sit on the edge of the bed, taking james’s hand in both of yours. "you didn’t even see it, did you? the way we handled it. barty was brilliant."

"you both are." sirius murmurs, still brushing his fingers through james’s curls.

"i didn’t even get to see her be badass," james pouts, causing you to laugh softly. 

"she’s always badass." remus says, his voice thick.

"he didn't even get knocked out by the bloody thing," you tease, poking his side. "he tripped over a rock!"

"smooth like butter, ay, potter?" barty smirks from a chair across the room.

moments later, two older people arrive. they both have gorgeous white hair, and the kindest eyes you think you've ever seen. the man is tall, towering really, with a warm face and sharp honey-colored eyes that crinkle when he smiles. the woman beside him is so tiny you think she might fold under the weight of her own coat, her brilliant green eyes sparkling, her stark white hair twisted into an elegant clip.

“mum, dad!” james perks up immediately, his voice scratchy but bright.

“oh, james,” his mother rushes forward, immediately cupping his face like she needs to check every inch of him. “how do you always find your way into these messes?”

“because he’s a potter,” his father says, his voice thick with fond exasperation, stepping in behind her. “it’s what we do. get hurt, cause a bit of chaos, somehow charm our way out of the paperwork.”

“you’re incorrigible,” she huffs, pressing a flurry of kisses to james’s cheeks, one after the other, making him scrunch his nose and groan. 

“mum, i’m recovering, let me recover in peace!”

“you’ll recover once i know you’ve still got all your fingers.” she grabs his hand, counting his fingers out loud. “one, two, three—don’t you dare pull away from me, james fleamont potter.”

you hover awkwardly to the side, unsure if now is the time to introduce yourself, but his father's attention has already landed on you. “i'm fleamont, and this is euphemia. you must be the girl,” he says, stepping closer, his smile kind but his brow raised in something just shy of teasing. “who saved my boy.”

“she’s the one who does all the saving around here.” sirius mutters, still carding his fingers through james’s hair.

“it wasn’t just me,” you mumble, your cheeks warm. “it was me and barty—”

“junior!” fleamont exclaims, his grin widening as he moves to shake barty’s hand. “heard a great deal about you from your father. you’re quite the quick-witted fellow.”

your brows furrow. barty's dad has been speaking kindly about him? what universe are we in?

barty, who has never been this charming before in his life, stands, perfectly poised, and says, “from my father? you flatter me, sir. james is a dear friend. i’d hardly let him face an erumpant alone.”

remus raises his brows, eyes flicking between you and barty. 'what the fuck?' he mouths to you, causing you to giggle. 

“see?” fleamont beams, giving euphemia a knowing look. “i told you he’d attract good people.”

“but he still gets himself nearly blown up!” euphemia mutters, but the soft squeeze she gives your elbow tells you she’s not really upset.

“how did you know we’d be here so quickly?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“when your son gets sent to the hospital, your floo fireplace doesn’t exactly stay quiet,” fleamont says, resting a hand on james’s foot. “it’s like a bloody gossip chain, that fireplace! ever since we got it installed!”

“i’m just glad you’re alright,” euphemia sighs, her thumb brushing absently over james’s wrist. “and i’m glad you’ve got people who love you so fiercely.”

james’s gaze finds yours instantly, warm and soft, and he tugs your hand closer to his heart. “yeah. me too.”

barty’s eyes glimmer with something sharp, and he leans toward remus, voice low. “you didn’t tell me james’s mum was so...witty.”

“i didn’t think you’d be this into it,” remus mutters back, crossing his arms but fighting a smile.

“i love her,” barty says, awestruck. “i’m going to start writing her letters.”

"so," fleamont says, turning his attention to you once again. "you’re the magizoologist?"

"yes, sir," you say sweetly. "barty and i both are."

"tough work, that is," he admire, his eyes gleaming just like james' do. his familiarity makes it even easier to like him. "i'm impressed!"

the potters settle in, the room filling with gentle conversation and soft reassurances. fleamont tells stories that make euphemia swat at him playfully, and sirius visibly relaxes as he listens, and it's clear he's missed the little family they invited him into all those years ago. you can’t stop glancing at james, still pale but smiling, still holding your hand like he needs to feel you there.

when the healers finally give you the okay to bring him home, james practically jumps out of the hospital bed. the journey back to the cottage is slow and careful, remus and sirius flanking either side of james like they’ll catch him if he so much as stumbles. you couldn't apparate with him, as it could worsen his concussion. you keep your hand on his back, steady and warm, guiding him through the floo, through the door, through everything. and, secretly, you had already bothered regulus for some sleeping and pain potions. 

home feels like a balm. it smells like cinnamon and a leftover storm, like your soaps and sirius’s cologne and remus’s tea. the cottage hums around you, familiar and soft. 'welcome home, jamie!' you can hear it say. the fireplace crackles low, and the evening rain patters gently against the windowpanes, as if the sky itself has settled.

james leans into you, boneless and exhausted, as you tuck him carefully into his bed. you smooth the blankets over his chest, making sure they’re just right, tucking the edges in with deliberate care.

“you’re lucky i love you,” you murmur, brushing his curls off his forehead.

“so lucky,” he breathes, eyelids fluttering. “s’why you should stay right here.”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

remus and sirius hover, settling in around the bed. sirius perches at james’s side, still absentmindedly combing his fingers through his hair, while remus sits next to you, rubbing your back. the three of you fuss over him—adjusting pillows, offering water, brushing your fingers over his cheek like you can’t quite believe he’s safe.

it’s peaceful. it’s safe. it’s everything you could want.

until you hear it.

three sharp taps against the windowpane.

your stomach twists before you even look. you already know.

a sleek, black owl waits just beyond the glass, its feathers slick with rain, its yellow eyes fixed on you. perched perfectly, patient. even the bloody owl acts like a pompous prick.

you open the window with a slow, reluctant flick of your wand. the owl swoops in, landing gracefully on the bedside table, and drops a single letter into your lap.

the wax seal is unmistakable. your family’s crest pressed deep into the purple wax.

your mother.

it’s like ice settles in your stomach. your pulse, still steady from the comfort of home, begins to spike again.

"oh, great," you mutter, fingers tightening around the edges of the letter. the warmth of the room, the softness of the bed, all of it feels a little more distant now.

remus catches the look on your face instantly. “what’s wrong, wheeze?”

“it’s nothing,” you lie, slipping the letter under your leg. “just family stuff.”

"family stuff?" sirius asks, his velvet voice dripping with worry. he knows what family stuff means for a family like yours...for a family like his.

james cracks an eye open, even through his exhaustion. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you say softly, kissing his temple. “we’ll deal with it later.”

cliffhanger!

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget

(maybe i lied about the angst but i promiiiise its for the plot guys)

[futuretrain]

who wants to have long nails? who wants to keep filing them every time so they don't get too long?

[wooahaes]

hi, i hope you're doing okay. i miss you xo

hi nonny im hanging in there!! lots of stuff has been going on between grad school work + health-related stuff so i havent rly been able to sit down to work on longer writing like i would for this blog

i am still active over on @nonranghaes tho if u arent aware!! its all unformatted shorter stuff that i kinda write off the cuff when i feel like it (sometimes vent-y since it helps with (gestures vaguely to everything))

miss u too tho ill eventually try to write and post for this blog again i hope :(

[autosarcophagy-avaritia]

my roommate hasa to get a phone today because of storage. i cant wait to see how much i want to kill myself by the end of this!

[emeraldcreeper]

Why the FUCK do old games not have a hey buddy I think you’re severely frustrated with this hella precise section of this game. You wanna cheat real fast so you don’t break something? It’s okay. Becaue that FUCKING rat in fucking chrono trigger can eat my ass my entire fucking ass I rage quit so hard I didn’t save after the stupid robot I fought so if I ever get into the game again, which will be a WHILE from now, I will be playing the snes version. Because fuck doing that without slow motion available to me. Why the fuck didn’t anyone say here is my save from after the rat? They’re dicks for saying it’s easy it’s so fucking hard it’s like pixel perfect and cronos wide ass gets caught on a pixel width ledge every time when I’ve almost got the thing! I don’t want to practice, I want the TURN BASED GAME to not require quick motions to make any fucking progress!

[mx-pastelwriting]

Saving My Fanfiction Work

First. Side note: This post was only intended to give resources to fanfiction writers and enjoyers. My talk on recent political events was a context/reasoning on why I made this post. Also I’ve had to add more information to this post over time due to people’s confusion in my comments. Explaining it was to make sure that this post didn’t come off as out of the blue for my followers and this community. Which is fanfiction.

Also, why I made this post was from people asking if they could download my fanfiction because of the recent political events in America hence why I named it “saving my fanfiction work” and added my context. So this was also a post to tell people that liked my fanfiction they could download it as long as it was for their personal collection. I merely just wanted to list resources to people who wanted to download fanfiction and don’t know where to start or don’t have the immediate resources. I’m not here to fear-monger. I am just giving resources and the reasoning on why I’m giving them along with urging people to look into those information/recent events as staying aware is important. I respect everybody who’s given their opinion and yes, some of my grammar in this post is not adequate as this post was merely made for giving/stating resources.

Lastly, I will no longer update this post with comments as I’ve said my peace, nor will I pay attention to the notifications as they are muted. As my page is for fanfiction not politics. Thank you for the people in this community who share this post for the resources see you around the tags! Stay safe friends!!✨ Remember I love you! And you are loved!💛

-

Due to the recent events in the United States. To clarify the recent events being Trump becoming president of the United States, Project 2025 more than likely going to be integrated. If you are not familiar with Project 2025 I urge you to look it up.

Along with the KOSA bill that has many problems and it has passed the senate now needing the finally vote in the house, which both are majority red. Go here to learn more on why it needs to be stopped and how you can. This is another component that will harm our communities. Go to: stopkosa.com

With all of its harmful plans some of the plans are to take down/restrict internet sites that have LGBTQ+ communities that means communities like the fan-fiction communities/sites in the United States.

I am only giving resources to those inside and out of the US in case they banned sites that hold fan-fiction. Better safe than sorry.

Being that I live in the US the possibly of mine and many others Fanfiction has the possibly of being in danger. Therefore I'm giving you recourses. (I'm not leaving or stopping my writing, I'm here for the fight!)

For those wanting to save my fanfiction, I give you permission to download them off of AO3 and to be used for your personal collection. Meaning, your eyes only. To clarify I’m saying this as others have asked if they could download my fanfic so for those who would like to you can.

If you do not know how to download them many others on online have tutorials on how to download them and add them to our phone libraries.

Here are some links to tutorials:

Downloading Fanfic

Adding to Iphone & Android Library

Adding to Kindle Library - Video on How (On TikTok)

Adding Book Covers (At the bottom) - Good EPUB Cover Changer (I use this)

Types of Files and What they mean

Please stay safe out there! Remember to follow the rules below.

DO NOT share the downloaded file anywhere online.

DO NOT repost the downloaded file under your name.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does give consent to "reblog," sharing links to direct work, and being in recommend lists.

Please stay safe out there friends! I love you so much! Know that there will always people that love you and in for the fight to make sure you are loved!

And here are some resources in case you don’t feel okay! Resources here

[lay-z]

Things you shouldn’t say around Task Force 141, unless you know how to deal with the consequences.

It’s a rare lazy day at the 141 HQ on base in Hereford.

Lazy for you, at the very least, due to an upcoming long holiday weekend and the blessing of being one if not the most efficient secretary around. 

Days like this mean it’s time for some groundwork, cleaning up messes from the past weeks, and doing all the filing you’ve been procrastinating for longer than you’d like to admit. 

But they also mean that either your boss or one of his men will approach you to ask for your lunch order at some point—more than happy to indulge in some much-needed downtime between training and paperwork. 

While Captain Price sits behind his desk with you standing next to him, signing some documents for you, the other three men all lounge around the room like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves if no orders are given. 

Kyle and Johnny manspreading on the leather couch in the corner, Simon is standing by the open window with his mask rucked up and a ciggy dangling between his gloved fingers. 

“What about shawarma? Haven’t had tha’ in a while,” Kyle suggests, scrolling on his phone as he continues to look for restaurants and chip shops nearby. 

Johnny groans next to him. “Aye, ’s good, but gives me the farts–” A loud smack. “Ow!” Your eyes flit up with furrowed brows, holding out another document to the captain. 

“Bruh.” Kyle kisses his teeth snidely, shaking his head as he drops his hand again while Johnny rubs the rapidly flushing nape of his neck. “There’s a lady present, Soap.” 

Simon snorts, flicking ash out of the window before taking another drag. 

“Muppets,” Price mutters under his breath as he takes the next document from your hold. 

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish— 

Giving you a fat baby, each, and four men utterly obsessed with you along with them. 

[sangunary]

- Hush now Crybaby.

YANDERE BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED READER.

\\ Part 1 // \\ Part 2 // \\ Part 3 //.

You would stay by your rotting corpse, gently brushing your hair out of your face or just starting at it in general. Your corpse was becoming stiff and extremely cold, at times you tried to warm it by holding it.

A soft sigh left your mouth as you give up on trying to warmth the body display infront of you.

"How much longer do I have to wait...?"

You've been thinking alot, wondering why your body is still chained to Earth and you realised your physical body never got the rest it deserves.

The body laying on your coffin underground was a decoy made by your father, as twisted as it sound he only did it in hope of putting your soul back into the body.

Alfred and Bruce knew that, they knew that your current physical body was hidden inside the batcave. Alfred was hesitant at first but Bruce assure him that what he was doing might be morally wrong but it was the best option they have, if they want a new start.

Even after death nothing was better, your life only change slightly and it was for the worst. No one could see or interact with you, but you can uncover all the secrets which was alot more depressing than you expected.

You've found out how your mother died recently after a drug overdose... She was found stiff and unresponsive in her motel and a foam seeping out her mouth, surprisingly everything was clean, no missing things or any sing of struggle.

It was ruled as a sucide, the media claimed it as 'Woman killed herself after her daughter died of her neglection' it was Ironic... You couldn't help but stump your feet a little at that information, first your mother would never neglect you... and Second she was the best mother you could wish for.

You couldn't bear the silence inside the room so you decided to go outside to check on a particular individual.

Dick Grayson.

He was sitting infront of your grave cleaning it with his bare hand, replacing the previous flowers with Rose's. Since your relationship with him was on the edge when you died he doesn't even know your particular taste in flowers , as a result he would pick out new flowers everyday and replace them each day.

Your ghostly figure sit next to his watching him clean your grave once again, atleast he was being productive. Some especially Tim was coping in an unhealthy way.

Locked himself and barely ate anything, everything reminded him of you... His favourite coffee was now leaving an extremely bitter taste on his tongue, it was only because he realised how involved you were in his life and how without you his daily routine weren't the same.

Tim have also started to spiral into madness, doing research on you instead of his usual detective work. Who have hurt you and who have been nasty to you, he was willing to do anything but blame himself for your death or the family.

He's been looking back at every video footage of you and him and storing it into new files each file were specifically made for each video.

"Im sorry little wing... I couldn't find anything new today, so you'll have to take this for today"

Grayson gently murmured as he pluck out the old Lily's- old by one day - Wiping the vase carefully, holding as if it were the most fragile vase in the word.

"Life been abit hard... I know I shouldn't burden you with my problem especially when... You never had them. But, Kory and I took a break..."

His voice was more high-pitched than normal... Yet he continues to look after your grave, dealing it with great tenderness.

His mind flashing back to everything he had done wrong, prioritising joker over you... He remembered how he left you inside a burning building and instead saved the joker, as a result you got a nasty burn mark on your left hand.

Although he doesn't know who to blame you or the joker. Cause you're a hero, he thought you could save yourself... It doesn't matter that you were like what 7? Thought he did half heartily apologise after being lectured by Bruce.

"If you were back... Everything would be fine, im not blaming you of course... Just, I don't know anything good from bad especially after you left us"

"I do not know what possess you to be so reckless... I can't imagine what you must have felt but it's selfish"

"If you were here, Kory and I would take you before any of those... people could. It'll be just the three of us, I'll be the one you will depend on... You won't need to worry anymore, We'll never let you get hurt. Never again"

Dick continues to pour his heart out and slowly he began to smile, his mood began to shift from gloomy to thrilled, suggesting places and activities as if you were still alive.

If anybody was to come across this interaction it's either they'll lable him as mentally challenged or is high on sadness that they ended up talking to a grave.

You stood up getting ready to walk away, it's abit hard to pity them. They never acknowledged you when you were breathing and it's messed up that they only care after realising their mistakes.

"...Huh?"

A mysterious man was standing infront of you, you wouldn't be startled if he wasn't staring right into your eyes. A white lantern...?

You know him only because of the file you would read when you were bored out of your mind. Bruce must have called him, afterall he was a very new and surprising face to see in Gotham.

"...Nice to meet you?"

After your short introduction and your very long introduction on why he must not interfere at all, because as much as it suck being a ghost being alive with your current family would be hell.

Thought he does not seem to value your opinion at all, directly telling Bruce about your presence.

"You can speak... she can hear you"

Deadman informed Bruce.

"I apologise for my negligence and your mother unexpected death. She was a great woman just like you... I don't expect you to forgive so easily but, I want to see you smile again"

You didn't utter a word. You wanted to comfort him yet it was hard pitting the same man who avoid your presence when you were alive.

"Can't you bring her back...?"

"No, she's too far gone"

Your corpse look fine from outside but your inside were rotting and molding. Bruce tried his best yo preserve your body but what's gone is gone. All you want is for your body to rest.

"I refuse to believe. There must be a way for her to be back."

"I have no saying in logic. But there are artifact's that allows one to see ghost"

"I will do anything to see that smile again... I want to apologise to her face to face as well"

Your Father was one of the rare people in the family taking the responsibility in your death, this wasn't the first time he utter an apology. He would slept in your bed missing you, crying or talking in his sleep apologising it seem as the guilt never stopped chasing him.

Though he was the same man who left you unattended during gala surrounded by random man while you were a child. The same one who lecture your brother for leaving you in a fire only because he would have to explain why the burnt mark was there and not because it was wrong.

It was only natural for guilt to cling onto him the longest, he already lost Jason. But you were different, Jason died while having a somewhat happy memories. You died with nothing but bitterness and salty tears.

As much as you would love to fulfill your father's dream you couldn't help but be uncomfortable.

You've overhead Bruce and Jason conversation once and you regretted it. Jason being the most experienced in dying suggested the worst thing possible.

A new bedroom, made just for your liking.

A dingy room with chains to restrain you. All the window must have bars, even if you somehow managed to broke the iron chain you wouldn't be able to jump out and possibly risk breaking a bone.

"It's a necessity, I went mad when I came back, what gives you the idea that she won't be the same and in our case you'll be her first victim"

Jason harshly spit out. You couldn't help but disagree you wouldn't dare to hurt your family, even if they have hurt you in unexplainable ways. Your heart still ache for them in vain.

"Even if she dare to break out I have another method, far more wise and useful but I rather we use it as a last resort"

The last resort was, smashing your ankle. It was simple and Jason already have experience to make sure you won't be in more pain than necessary.

To put anything between your foot and for that object to be used as a support, tying the foot and arm's to restrain you. With a hammer all they have to do was to smash the bone into pieces, you wouldn't be able to walk at all but it was also necessary to treat the bone to avoid disability.

If the bone was to be left to heal by itself it would reconstruct themselves wrong leaving you to excruciating pain, not being able to depend on your foot and you might need to cut your foot off.

Another reason why you dread to be brought back, no amount of convincing or pleading would make them understand... They'll break you and rebuild you as if that was nothing.

They can't treat you like a daughter or a sister even tho they seem so willing... To you they only love you because of the guilt and not because they understand.

Damian was a reason itself, didn't even let a single tear drop during your funeral and the visit at the hospital. He did cry in secret which was pleasant to watch.

He's either beating people into pulp for the smallest crime or is actively trying to bring you back in another form. He have asked Raven to assist him but even the girl found it inhuman, suggesting for him to just mourn you and let your soul be in peace.

It was now noon the whole family jam inside the living room discussing.

"She can't be brought back? Jason died, the Lazarus pit can and must brought her back"

Damian argued, as much as he doesn't wanted to be emotional your absence was taking a toll on him.

You were the first to treat him like a human and he took that for granted. When he realised others weren't as understanding as you were he would get bothered... As much as he hate you that was just the crust of his heart, to him the core matter more... It was totally not an excuse for his horrible behaviour.

"You haven't tried that, father we must try before coming into conclusion!"

"I have tried Damian, nothing worked. Her body was rotting from the inside I was not aware"

Finally Barbara spoke up.

"You have tried? I have been visiting her grave everyday when did you di-"

"It was a decoy"

Jason decided to told the truth. The room felt into a long silence and suddenly shouting and names. They weren't happy that Bruce didn't tell them about the decoy, to them that was a breach of trust Bruce desperately tried to build after your death.

"Silence! There is another way we can see her, Deadman suggested using special artifact's that allows people to see ghost... We will us that as a temporary comfort and we'll find a way to bring her back... with us "

Everybody agreed, unknowns to them you were contemplating life whether you should leave your family and risk the chance of being brought back to life against your will or... Leave.

TAGS: @lovebug-apple, @leeiasure, @invinciblewaffles, @dangeroustravelermultiverse, @shycreatorreview, @bellethesleepypotato , @cluelessteam , @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @doggyteam2028 @icryat2

SPECIAL TAG: @megasweetbones.( TYSM for the great idea 🫶)

[astonmartinii]

feel you | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem blind!reader

a long awaited reveal is more than meets the eye

MASTERLIST | LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST

kymillman

liked by user3, user4 and 45,281 others

kymillman: a new pup in the paddock … and they belong to this mystery woman? she’s been seen in and around the mclaren hospitality so could she been the super secret girlfriend of one lando norris!

view all comments

user5: …. that’s it?

user6: yeah i’m kinda underwhelmed after this long of a soft launch

user7: does he know he’s lando norris? that he could get anyone he wants?

user8: well isn’t this comment section a barrel of laughs

user9: people on the internet be normal about f1 drivers challenge (failed)

user10: i mean she’s brave as fuck in my opinion because the way people are insane about him, oh i know her DMs will be horrifying

user11: also - yall actually don’t know these f1 drivers you know? your opinions on their love lives actually have no impact whatsoever

user12: shush you’re making too much sense for them

user13: hiding behind a bush i think she looks cute!

user14: also they’re clearly somewhat serious if they have a dog together

user15: i mean i wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been together a lot longer than we think - he knows some of his fans are crazy, it would make sense if he waited to show her off

user16: i feel so bad for them honestly

user17: since no one else is saying it… stunning!

user18: seriously how did he get her?

user19: maybe the lando norris charm does really work?

user20: as much as those sunglasses slay… did she take them off at any point this weekend?

user21: not as far as i have seen with like the broadcast and fanpage posts

user22: does this rub anyone else the wrong way?

user23: no i think it’s real snobby to not even take your sunglasses off to greet your boyfriend and his family

user24: also the way she just walked past everyone in the paddock, like not even turning her head to acknowledge fans or workers ???

user25: ugh i thought lando had gotten better with his love choices

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, oscarpiastri and 182,943 others

tagged: lando

yourusername: finally decided to turn up to ‘bring your gf to work day’

view all comments

user26: SLAY

user27: ohhh the unseen pics of lando… we’re being fed

user28: i need her to unleash the files

lando: love you baby

yourusername: i love you too !!!!

lando: i promise i’ll be out of this boring debrief soon…

yourusername: how boring can it be? you won?

lando: any room without you bores me

yourusername: oh!

yourusername: i’m sat next to your momma, she can see all of these comments

lando: whoops! eh, they’ve heard worse

yourusername: just hurry up, peaches is getting sleepy

lando: anything for my two girls

user29: they’re so stinking cute

user30: her being with his family constantly + peaches… how long have they actually been together

user31: well we can defo deduce that she’s been to the norris family home plenty of times

user32: too many times by the sound of it, poor cisca

carlossainz55: why have i been deprived of my peaches time?

yourusername: she’s been working mister - not everything is about you :P

carlossainz55: god forbid a guy wants to cuddle the cutest dog in the world

charles_leclerc: you are no longer welcome back in the ferrari garage

yourusername: but i am?

charles_leclerc: can peaches teach leo to actually listen to me please ???

lando: she’s not a miracle worker…

user33: is she ever gonna take those damn sunglasses off?

user34: ZERO respect for those around her

user35: and those comments about peaches 'working' ... omg reeks of those girls who claim emotional support animals because they think the rules don't apply to them

user36: yeah something weird is going on here

lando

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 1,094,388 others

tagged: yourusername

lando: weekends like this

view all comments

user39: the fucking sunglasses… yall are going to have to sedate me

user40: it’s a crime to be stylish now guys

user41: god a girl gets with an athlete and all of a sudden they’re ‘stylish’

yourusername: bestest weekend ever!

yourusername: after your race wins of course

lando: nice save there

yourusername: i didn’t save anything, you know i love being with you when you win

lando: and i love seeing your beautiful face when i get out of the car

lando: and the fact that you get all up in my sweat

yourusername: dude…

lando: sorry, it just slipped out after hiding for so long

yourusername: worth it in the end though

lando: anything is worth it for you

user42: yeah there’s something wrong with this girl

user43: “being with you” instead of you know watching him race… way to expose you’re with him for one reason and one reason only

user44: ding ding ding gold digger alert

user45: imagine being that desperate for a person and still being rude as fuck to his family/coworkers - not even taking off sunglasses or making eye contact

yourusername: omfg you people are pissing me the fuck off

yourusername: I’M BLIND?

yourusername: i prefer to wear sunglasses in new environments?

yourusername: take ‘be kind’ out of your bio because as soon as someone doesn’t conform to what you think lando deserves you are so fucking hateful

oscarpiastri: FUCKING FINALLY

oscarpiastri: obviously i wanted you to share your business but i was so ready to fight the people in these comment sections

lando: awwwww osc so protective

alexalbon: he’s not the only one

alexalbon: coming for y/n was bad enough but PEACHES AS WELL?

yourusername: the jobless hate to see a working girl

lando: oop.

user46: YALL ARE SO FUCKING DUMB

user47: peaches being a guide dog makes so much sense and the sunglasses thing was such a non controversy to like normal people ?

user48: y/n should’ve been allowed to shoot yall idc

mclarenf1

liked by oscarpiastri, adamnorris and 1,754,034 others

tagged: lando & yourusername

mclarenf1: look who’s back in the garage! y/n always has a unique race day experience, due to her visual impairment, y/n cann’ watch the race but she sure knows what’s going on! instead of having the commentary in her headset, she has the noise of lando’s car. based on the sound of the engine, upshifts, downshifts and braking, y/n knows exactly where he is on the track!

view all comments

user49: so she’s basically a superhero is what you’re telling me

user50: imagine being so in love with a boy you learn the sounds of his engine i can’t

lando: erm actually she loved the sport before she loved me

yourusername: but i love you even more now

lando: i know you do because you learnt the sounds of the … MCL36 for me

yourusername: guilty!

user51: THEY’VE BEEN TOGETHER THAT LONG?

user52: oh so they’re locked in for life?

lando: 100%

yourusername: we threw away the key a long time ago

maxverstappen1: this is so freaking cute

lando: you’ve known the whole time?

lando: you helped teach y/n to do this

maxverstappen1: still cute as fuck

yourusername: not as cute when i hear a big whack to the side from a certain red bull

maxverstappen1: just because I think yall are cute doesn’t mean I’m gonna give lando a break

user53: i’ve known about this couple for a couple weeks and i would already die for them

user54: they’ve raised the bar FAR too much for the remaining dating pool

user55: the men or women on hinge would NEVER do something like that for me

user56: yall speaking all about this like y/n isn’t moving mountains for lando… wtf does he do for her?

yourusername: not that i need to prove that he’s a good boyfriend to you guys but he does way more than you all think, including learning braille and completely rearranging any rooms i go into for optimal movement

user57: this comment just shot me in the face

yourusername: thank you guys for being the loveliest ever!!!

mclarenf1: anything for our no 1 fan

yourusername: not this peaches erasure

mclarenf1: i think she only likes us because everyone keeps slipping her treats…

lando: STOP BRIBING MY DAUGHTER

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, georgerussell63 and 406,345 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: my beautiful boy shot by me (yes i know he’s beautiful, a man with a soul like his has to be)

view all comments

user61: user61 found dead, cause of death: this post

user62: the way this is not dramatic at all lol

georgerussell63: you sure you want to be stuck with … that?

yourusername: i don’t like your tone mr russell

georgerussell63: does lando … have a soul?

yourusername: you’ve got ten seconds to delete that tweet before i strangle you

yourusername: and don’t think peaches won’t lead me to you

georgerussell63: bullying george russell… you people are made for each other

lando: ‘you people’? i’ll put you in the barriers

user63: i love how all of the photos are clearly taken by y/n because they’re slightly off centre

user64: omg i didn’t notice… if you go through loads of his old posts they all look like this :0

user65: they’re so in love

alexalbon: oh how i remember coaching lando to ask you out - how times fly

lando: when you’re having fun!

alexalbon: i was having fun, you were a trainwreck

lando: no i was SMOOTH

yourusername: you did your best

lando: but i didn’t even stutter?

yourusername: i could hear you shuffling constantly and wiping your hands on your trousers…

lando: but you love me now so WHO CARES

yourusername: yes i do!

lando: you what?

yourusername: i love you

lando: i love you tooooooooooooo

user66: they’re parents for real

user67: can’t believe some people wanted them to break up over SUNGLASSES

user68: at least there’s silence in these comment sections now

oscarpiastri: as much as i love you guys… y/n can you turn off the feature that reads the texts from lando aloud in my vicinity

yourusername: how was i meant to know what he wrote?

oscarpiastri: i’m not blaming you i’m blaming hIM

lando: my bad… winning makes me horny

yourusername: just winning?

lando: any you too. mainly you. just you

yourusername: HEHEHEHEHEHEHe

oscarpiastri: free me omg

fin.

note: AHHHHHHH I HOPE THIS IS FUN !!!

[lovesickchoi]

📁 FILE 01: CHOI SOOBIN

⋆·˚ ༘ * After a missed anniversary and weeks spent out of sync, Soobin just wants to be close to you again—really close. No rush, no performance. Just you, him, and the quiet reminder that you still belong to each other.

✦ Love Language: Quality Time

pairing: soobin x reader ���⋆˙✐ 3.8k

warnings: smut, f!reader, no protection, soft dom!soobin, sub!reader, cock warming, slight oral f!rec, praise, romance, no protection, finishing inside

🗂️ click to access all txt member’s files

˚₊ · »-♡→ main masterlist

The apartment is quiet when you finally come home.

Way too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavier than your bag slung over your shoulder, heavier than the late hour blinking back at you on the microwave clock.

Stepping inside, you make sure to lock the door behind you. You take off your shoes, drop your keys into the bowl, and glance toward the couch.

He’s sitting there, asleep—just barely. Half curled into the throw blanket, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he was waiting for you but gave up halfway through.

You stand there longer than you intend to, just wanting to watch him for a moment. He stirs before you can say anything, lashes fluttering, voice groggy.

"You're late again..." Soobin grumbles. It wasn't accusatory, just worn thin.

You give him a small apologetic smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't even get a lunch break today."

Soobin nods and tries to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks toward the TV, and the silence stretches on longer than you'd like. With Soobin's recent comeback promotions and your new late-night shifts at the office, quality time together was few and far between.

Even when you managed to spend time together, it was never just the two of you. There were always friends around, always the other members. Never a moment that felt truly yours—never a chance to just be alone with Soobin.

And still, he loved you with a quiet kind of devotion. Soobin would wait up long past midnight just for the quiet privilege of walking you to bed. Even the smallest moment alone with you was worth losing sleep over.

You were so used to running—meeting quotas, ticking boxes, always being on—that you hadn’t noticed how little of yourself you’d given him lately. Not your stories, not your softness. Not your time.

And apparently not even your memory for important days, like today.

You realize it the moment your eyes flick toward the calendar on the fridge. The date. Your heart sinks.

"Shit," you breathe. "Our anniversary..."

Soobin doesn’t even flinch. He just watches you quietly, eyes soft but ridden with exhaustion.

Your own eyes shift down to the uneaten container of food and unopened bottle of wine on the kitchen table—he waited to eat.

"You didn't have to wait."

He responds quickly. "I wanted to." Soobin doesn't say for you, but it's written all over his face. He'd do anything to savor a moment with you.

"I am so sorry, Binnie," you're barely able to get out. "I care about you so much. I would never..."

You feel a twist of guilt settle in your stomach, but he doesn’t pile on. Nor does he guilt you. That’s not who Soobin is.

“You didn’t forget because you don’t care,” he says softly. “I know you. You just… never forget things like that. I know how overwhelmed you've been.”

Soobin doesn’t say more. He just lifts the blanket, a wordless invitation smoothed between the wrinkles in the couch cushions. When you lie down beside him, it’s quiet again. The kind that’s warm this time—full of unspoken things and shared breath. His arms curl around you instinctively. He presses his face into your neck like he’s been holding in the need to feel you all week.

"I hate this," he breathes out, almost like he's embarrassed to say it. "Hate only seeing you like this."

You swallow hard, because you feel it too. You've never been good at this. Never been good at showing Soobin just how close you want—no, need—to be near him.

You try to apologize. To say something, anything about work. About your stupid boss, the lack of breaks, the lack of appreciation, the unpaid overtime.

And he lets you ramble on. Because this is his favorite thing in the entire world—hearing your sweet voice talking about your day, getting to hold you while you do it. His eyes are sparkling and trained on your face, attention undivided as you vent. Soobin's heart thunders beneath his rib cage.

You’re halfway through telling him all the messy details—words spilling too fast, casual but unfocused, like you’re trying to outrun your own exhaustion. There’s a thin sheen of energy in your voice, but it’s cracked at the edges. You yawn mid-sentence, barely stifling it behind the back of your hand.

Soobin notices the way you press on like you aren't seconds from collapsing. He always does.

You brush it off like you usually do, reaching for a water bottle on the coffee table, already moving on to the next thought. But before you can, Soobin gently lays his hand over yours.

“You’re tired.”

You blink at him. “I’m fine.”

“You come home and talk like you haven’t breathed in hours," he chuckles through a sigh. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a quiet hurt.

That makes you stop. Not because you disagree, but because he said it like he’s been holding it in for too long. You never really knew how to be present with him. Even in times like this, when you knew he needed it most.

He sits up straight, shifting his body to face you fully. His hand doesn’t leave yours.

“I know you don’t like stopping. I know being tired makes you feel like you’re falling behind. But I promise it's okay to slow down once in a while.”

"Binnie..." Your voice trails off.

“You didn’t forget on purpose,” he says again, because he needs you to believe it. “But I still need you. I still want today to matter. Even if it’s just here, like this.”

His voice dips, eyes searching yours. "I know we've both been working a lot. But to be honest, this has been really killing me. Can't we just take our time tonight?"

And then he’s pulling you in—slowly, gently—his arms around you. The kind of embrace that doesn’t demand anything, only offers.

You don’t fight it, don't say anything. You just let yourself sink into his chest, right into the warmth of him. It’s the only place where you don’t have to be composed or efficient or fine. You just needed to be his.

His hand slides up your back. “Just… be here,” he murmurs into your hair. “For a little while.”

And for once, you let yourself stay still. His lips brush the crown of your head, barely there.

You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. He doesn’t rush you. But when you tilt your head up to look at him, his eyes are already on you. Warm and desperate. It’s not lust, not at first. It’s pure longing.

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s trying to memorize you. You can’t help but lean into his angelic touch. Then his mouth is on yours. A slow and needy kiss that says I’ve missed you, stay forever.

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back even as his fingers slip under your shirt, testing you, as if he’s asking for permission with every touch.

You give it with ease.

When you shift into his lap, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck, the ache of it all hits him.

Soobin holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear again. His tongue is pressed between your lips, scaling every inch of your mouth that it can reach. An exasperated moan leaves you in a low sigh, and he swallows it down greedily. You unravel against one another, piece by piece.

The growing tightness in Soobin's pants presses firmly against you. You were beginning to throb for him and his attention alone. No distractions or distance, just this—focused and intentional.

Even though your lips moved unhurriedly, you have to pull away for air. But he doesn't let you escape so easily, keeping his forehead pressed firm against your own.

Soobin wants your attention on nothing but him tonight, that’s a promise he kept for himself. Before your mind can race, he's rubbing circles with his thumb over your leggings, stealing your mind away from stress and thoughts of work, locking them away where they’d be forced to put Soobin at the forefront.

Your leggings, usually an inconvenient barrier, were completely soaked through to the skin. It left Soobin no problem in rubbing every sensitive spot you yearned for him to reach.

A shaky breath leaves your lips. "Fuck, been needing you so bad. Been so stressed out." His eyes are trained on the outline of your folds, your cunt basically sucking in the soaked fabric and begging for his finger to follow suit. He wondered just how well you would suck his cock in if you were dripping and swelling like this already.

He groans loudly without remiss, throaty and strained, head dropping against your shoulder in self-control.

He continues to rub you lovingly, tearing his gaze from between your thighs to your face, smiling at the blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. His eyes flood with warmth when he speaks. "I want to do something."

“I’ll do anything,” you answer to him like you always have. Your time, your mind, your soul—he’s always had access to all of it, whenever he wanted.

Soobin’s smile spreads wide across his face, unable to contain it. His hands grip your hips before slipping beneath your shirt, slowly lifting it over your head with care.

Your breath catches. He looks almost shy when he speaks again.

“Can I just… stay inside you tonight?” His voice is hushed and reverent. “I don’t want to rush. I just—want to be close.”

A nod is all you need to deliver him. His hands are gripping just beneath your ass, standing up from the couch as he holds you. Your legs lock around his waist, keeping him close amidst the trek to your shared bedroom.

You noticed how deliberate Soobin was tonight—every step he took toward the bed felt endless. And when he finally lays you down against the soft cotton sheets, it’s like the world exhales. For the first time in a long time, you feel breathtakingly alive.

His movements flow into each other, rewriting time just to make this moment last longer. The only moment he disconnects himself from you his to peel off his own t-shirt. Your clothes are stripped from your body as well, more carefully than ever. Tender fingers work at the hem of your leggings, dragging them down your goose-bump ridden skin.

Soobin's lips are the only things moving quickly, wanting to feel your warm skin against them. He's kissing a trail across your chest, down your stomach, breath sucking in at the laced panties staring back at him.

The black material is sticky, soaked, and completely lost between your folds. Your head rested gently against a pillow slightly cocked to the side, peering down at him through hooded eyelids. He was so beautiful. All the time in the world belonged to you two.

"Mm, fuck baby," you're already whining out. Fuck these new schedules. Fuck your late nights. This is what you've both been denied for too long.

Large hands splayed across the curvature of your hips, gripping the flesh and securing you in place. Between your legs, he helped himself to one long, and slow drag of his tongue up your cunt. He breathed you in, fabric and all, with greed. It felt like a reward for the time he'd spent patiently craving for your presence.

Tender teeth got hold of your panties, dragging them halfway down your legs. A chill shoots up through you, his teeth grazing your inner thigh just enough. Soobin's fingers took over, sliding the material the rest of the way off.

One more lewd kiss against your cunt, this one hard and claiming, and he's up on his knees removing his sweatpants and underwear just as painfully slow. You'd never felt so prepared for Soobin in your entire relationship. Thighs and sheets stained with splotches of your sweet arousal, out of control.

Now fully undressed and erect against his toned stomach, Soobin takes his place next to you on the bed. He's propped up, back against the headboard, looking at you expectantly.

"Come here," his voice is so careful as he pats his lap. His voice holds the kind of care reserved for precious things.

You swing a leg over his waist with his help, straddling him where he sits. Soobin is silent, but his face says everything. His chin pressed to his chest as he looks between your legs, lips drawn rough between his teeth.

He keeps his hands at your waistline, lifting his hips just enough to align himself with your sopping entrance. You both hiss softly as the head of his cock slides against your folds, hot and thick. But he doesn’t push in just yet. He’s waiting for you again, asking for permission.

“Can I?” he whispers, even though you’ve already said yes in every way that counts.

You nod and sink down slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. Neither of you moves. You just sit there, wrapped around him, buried in each other.

Your walls clench instinctively, and he emits a broken groan. But he doesn’t move, he doesn't fuck up into you—just presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes.

This isn’t about sex for either of you. It’s about connection. Closeness. The ache to feel like you still belong to each other. Skin on skin, hearts syncing with every breath, you melt together until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

Soobin stays nestled inside your warmth for so long that you begin to lose track of time. His hands draw lazy circles over your back, his lips brushing your shoulder in silent worship. Your arms hang around his neck, holding him close. Every now and then, your walls flutter around him, and he exhales a quiet curse into your skin.

Every moment spent inside you is marked by a kiss—some soft and delicate, others deep and bruising, left like claims on your neck. Soobin's voice is hushed, whispering over and over how much he adores you. His hands roam your body like he's rediscovering it all over again, tracing every dip, outlining the shape of you with his touch. He’s etching you into him.

Eventually, the stillness turns to tension. You shift your hips just slightly and feel him twitch inside you. His breath hitches, and you notice.

“Don’t do that,” Soobin murmurs, voice taught with restraint.

Your faces are pressed close, cheek to cheek. He can feel the graze of your hardened nipples against his chest, your shaky, uneven moans fanning hot against his ear. And suddenly, he’s entirely too aware of you—of how impossibly tight and perfect your body feels around him, like you were made to fit just like this.

"Sorry, Binne." You don’t mean for it to come out as a whimper, but it slips, drenched in need. “I’m just so full…”

You try to remain still, but your eyes are already glassy with want. And when your lips find his again, more desperate this time, he gives in.

He starts to move, gently at first. Rolling his hips into yours like it’s the first time all over again. You can tell he's afraid to shatter the moment, but can’t help needing you more.

Soobin's hand finds your hair, gripping firmly—not to dominate, but to really see you. He pulls back just enough to watch your face, to pass every wave of pleasure back and forth between your eyes. He makes love to you like he’s savoring it, dragging his cock in and out at the perfect angle, hitting your g-spot again and again with a patience that feels more like devotion than control.

But it’s not enough, not with how he feels inside you. How his cock stretches you open just right, how his eyes celebrate every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

So you shift again—this time intentionally—lifting your hips just slightly before sinking back down. The friction makes your mouth fall open, a soft moan filling the air.

Soobin groans, his hands flying to your waist. “Baby…”

But you’re already moving again. A slow, teasing roll of your hips that pulls breathless curses from his lips. Your hands brace against his chest as you rise onto your knees and start to bounce—gently, at first, letting yourself adjust, letting the stretch fill you again and again. His cock drags along your walls in the most maddening way, kissing your sweet spot again and again.

His fingers dig into your sides, but he doesn’t stop you. He wouldn't dare. Instead, Soobin just watches you with his lips parted, chest rising and falling with every bounce. The expression on his face is pure awe. He can’t believe this is real. Spending time with you has never felt this heavenly. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, voice trembling as your thighs work to keep the pace. “So big…”

He sits up more to meet you halfway, arms wrapping around your waist as his mouth finds your chest—kissing, sucking, biting gently at your sensitive skin. Every time you sink down, his cock hits deeper, and the pleasure tightens in your belly like a fuse burning too close to the edge

“Just like that,” he breathes, kissing up your throat. “You ride me so well, baby. So fucking good for me…”

Your movements grow faster, more desperate, chasing the high together. Each bounce has you both gasping, moaning, gripping onto each other like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

His hands slide up your back, anchoring you to him, and when your forehead presses to his, his voice is barely audible.

“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.” Soobin’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you squeezing tight around him. The sudden surge of pleasure makes your entire body jolt—your thighs trembling, your rhythm faltering.

“F–fuck!” he cries, his voice cracking as his core tightens beneath you. One hand claws at your back, desperate to ground himself, while the other keeps working your clit, coaxing you closer to the edge with each drawn-out stroke.

Your body trembles in his lap, chest heaving as you ride the crest of sensation. His name leaves your lips in a gasp, hips stuttering as you start to unravel for him. But Soobin doesn’t let up—he leans in, kissing you fervently. His voice is gravelly in your ear.

“That’s it, baby… you’re doing so good. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And you do—your whole body shaking as pleasure rips through you, fluttering tight around him, squeezing him so perfectly he groans through gritted teeth. Your forehead drops against his shoulder, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. Soobin holds you through it, murmuring praise into your hair, letting you ride the waves until your hips finally still.

But he’s still hard, still tucked deep inside you. You blink, dazed, and meet his eyes.

“Soobin—”

“Not done,” he breathes, cupping your cheek. “Let me love you a little longer.”

He shifts, lifting you slightly before guiding you down onto your back, never slipping out. His body settles over yours, and he kisses you so slowly you forget how to breathe. It’s not rushed, none of this was. He wants to remember every expression and sound you make beneath him.

Soobin starts to move again, hips rolling deep, cock gliding into you with a drag that has your toes curling. Each thrust is slow yet hard, filling you to the brim. He's making sure you'll feel him for days.

“Still so wet,” he whispers, voice shaking from restraint. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod with teary eyes, hands gripping his shoulders as he begins to fuck you just a little harder—still slow and sensual, but with the kind of focused passion that makes your whole body scream.

His lips find your neck again, then your jaw, then your mouth, speaking softly with his mouth pressed on yours. “Want you to feel everything, baby. Want you to remember this whenever our schedules are busy.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, clutching at him.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he promises instantly, fucking into you with a little more urgency. “I’m right here. You’re mine.”

You moan his name again as he rocks into you, shifting his angle just slightly to hit your g-spot head-on. The overstimulation begins to take you over. Your back arches off the bed, and he catches you with one arm wrapped beneath you, pressing your bodies flush together, like even air between you would be too much distance.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, watching your face. “So good for me.”

You barely manage to choke out a response. You’re too full, too overwhelmed, and too wrapped up in the heat of his body and the impulse in his gaze.

He slows again as he nears the edge, you for a second time that night. Thrusts going deeper, heavier, until you’re clutching his hair, pulling him closer, whispering into his ear, “I want you to cum inside.”

Soobin groans deep in his chest at your admission and presses his forehead to yours, breathing unevenly.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

It only takes a few more slow, grinding thrusts before he’s burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you, arms shaking as he holds you close. His lips tremble against yours, his moans drawn out and desperate as he fills you. The inappropriate sounds quickly have your own, blinding orgasm flowing from you with ease.

He still doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he kisses you again, even sweeter, before shifting both of you onto your sides, tangled together, still joined.

You’re panting, but your heart is calm. You feel full in every way, wrapped in his warmth, your body and soul entirely his. Soobin strokes your hair, nose brushing your cheek.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers. “Let me keep you.”

You nod, one leg hiked over his hip, arms tucked against his chest. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he murmurs, breath hitching when your walls flutter again. “Fuck. You’re still gripping me so tight…”

You press your face into his neck, smiling softly. “That’s ‘cause I want you to stay.”

He chuckles, fingers tracing your spine. “Then I will. All night, baby. However long you’ll have me.”

You both fall quiet, still connected, warmth shared between flesh. The room feels sacred, filled with love, comfort, and the kind of silence that means everything. You make a mental note to call out of work the next morning.

Soobin stays inside you until you’re both asleep—bodies tangled, time slowed, nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

tags: @bunnysoonie @zznblr @twilght-talks @gyudollies @beomgyusluver @dawngyu @boba-beom @taebatu @simpforseoho @another-lemon-tree @yyeonbinn @chubichubs @jooyeonsvape @txt-thelmi @zorange13 @jellyyjn

feedback/comments/likes are always appreciated <3

[botanicsoul]

The Secretary

agedup! Katsuki Bakugou x (Fem) Reader

MDNI!! (18+)

description: Your entire world flips when you become the explosive hero’s secretary. In the world of high stakes and even higher tension, will you be able to resist his pull, or will you find yourself lost in the heat of it all?” (this bitch is loooooong)

❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❀ ❊ ✿

Pro Hero Dynamight has always been known to overwork at his agency.

Go above and beyond until something is perfect. Every file, every mission plan, every recruit—flawless or you’re wasting his damn time. He doesn’t do breaks. He doesn’t do patience. And he sure as hell doesn’t do mistakes.

People line up to work for him.

Because once you’ve worked under Dynamight, you can work anywhere. You’ve been sharpened by fire. Agencies compete for people who survive even six months at his side.

But just because everyone wants the job doesn’t mean they keep it.

He doesn’t notice most of his staff—doesn’t care to. The only people who get a fraction of his attention are his sidekicks and his PA team. The rest of you? Replaceable. Background.

That’s what you were. Just background.

A newly hired secretary brought in to replace the last one—fired, rumor has it, for leaving a single classified folder out overnight. You were pulled from a random list. No connections, no special qualifications. Just a name picked in a moment of desperation.

And from the beginning, you kept your head down.

Did your job. Stayed quiet. Didn’t try to get in his way. You figured if you didn’t bother him, you’d survive longer than the last girl.

And for a while, it worked.

Until he looked at you.

⸻

It was barely a glance, the first time. You were handing him a folder, and your fingers brushed his. That was it.

But the next day, he asked for you by name. “y/n go to this next meeting for me in 40 minutes and take some notes have it on my desk by 3”

The day after that? He called you into his office to retype a document you knew damn well his PA could’ve handled. He started showing up at your desk more. Asking questions. Staring a little too long when you answered.

No one said anything, but the change was obvious.

Your name started circulating in whispers.

Not in a good way.

Because Dynamight had a reputation. Not just for being a perfectionist or a hard-ass—but for being a flirt. The kind who smiled in interviews and left parties with models on his arm. He was cocky, crude, and didn’t hide the fact that he could get whoever he wanted. He was in the tabloids almost as much as he was on the news. You weren’t his type. Not even close. So whatever attention he was giving you? It had to be temporary.

⸻

Recently one of your male co-workers had been interacting with you a little more than usual lately. He’d stop by your desk for small talk, lingering longer than necessary and dropping subtle hints of flirting—hints you quickly brushed off.

One afternoon, as he stood by your desk chatting about the new coffee shop that had just opened a few blocks from the agency, you heard the unmistakable sound of heavy, aggressive footsteps echoing through the hallway. The air shifted. The floor seemed to still as the explosion hero’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade.

“Kato,” Dynamight said dryly, voice low but so loud and commanding that it echoed across the entire floor. “Leave my secretary alone and get the hell back to work.”

Everything went quiet.

You could feel the eyes of your coworkers flicking between you and Bakugou, the tension thick in the air. Kato blinked, visibly flinching before muttering something under his breath and practically scrambling away. After that? Silence. No more desk visits. No more awkward compliments. He disappeared.

A few days passed, then a week. You hadn’t realized just how quiet it had been until you were in the break room, talking with Yumi, one of the only people you were actually close with at work. She was leaning against the counter, sipping her tea when you brought it up.

“Hey, Yumi,” you said casually, trying to sound nonchalant as you stirred your drink. “Have you seen Kato around? Last time we talked, he mentioned grabbing coffee at that new place nearby.”

Yumi gave you a look over her cup. “Oh? You don’t know?”

You blinked. “Know what?”

She lowered her voice, leaning in slightly like she was about to share a secret. “After Dynamight yelled at him, Kato got transferred to the other floor—support tech. Apparently he asked for it himself.”

Your eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Word is he went to HR the same day. Said something about ’not wanting to interfere with higher-up dynamics.’” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “You ask me? I think he got the message loud and clear—and maybe a little scared. Bakugou doesn’t exactly play subtle.”

You felt your cheeks warm, not sure if it was from embarrassment or something else entirely. You looked away, but Yumi smirked.

“He’s totally territorial over you, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart was beating just a little faster. “He’s my boss.”

Yumi laughed. “Right. And I’m just here for the free snacks.”

⸻

Things started getting more odd after you grabbed your paycheck, scanning it quickly. Your eyes widen. There’s an extra $200 in there. What the hell?

You head straight to HR, a bit confused. “Hey, I think you guys messed up my pay. There’s, uh, an extra amount in here.”

The HR rep looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “No, we didn’t mess up. You got the raise from the boss yesterday. Didn’t you know?”

You blink. “A raise? From Dynamight?”

They nod. “Yeah. He approved it. It’s all there. So… enjoy the extra cash?”

You stand there for a moment, trying to process it. He didn’t say anything about a raise.

Later, you march into Bakugou’s office. He looks up from his desk, not even bothering to look surprised.

“Aren’t you supposed to be re-organizing those files? I told you I needed that done today y/n” he grumbles, like it’s just another day.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were giving me a raise?” you ask, arms crossed. “I went to HR, and they said it’s from you. You just… threw in a $200 bump like it was nothing?”

He shrugs, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, and?. You’ve been working hard, so you get a bump. Don’t make it a big deal.”

You stare at him, trying to hide the confusion. “But you couldn’t have just said something, I thought it was a true and honest mistake? I didn’t want to get in trouble or anything.”

“Not my problem. It’s in your paycheck. Deal with it,” he grunts, turning his attention back to his papers.

“But I-“ you were quickly cut off by his desk phone ringing.

“y/l/n can’t you just fuckin’ thank me? now get back to work don’t ever question me again” he says before answering the phone.

You stand there, a little speechless. You eventually turn around and leave his office just to sit at your desk still confused as ever.

⸻

work had been piling up, you started staying later than usual at nights. But this night was different.

It was supposed to be simple—just a few files left to organize, highlight, and prep for tomorrow morning. Everyone else on the floor had cleared out hours ago. You liked the quiet. No one breathing down your neck. Just your thoughts and the occasional creak of the building.

Then the elevator dinged.

You didn’t look up until you heard the crash—something hard slamming against the wall near the lift.

And then, there he was.

Him.

Pro Hero Dynamight. In full gear. Hair still wild from battle, jaw tight—and in his arms? A woman.

Not just any woman. A model. One you’d seen in magazines, ads, maybe even a billboard or two. And they weren’t just walking. They were clawing at each other, lips locked, her dress hitched halfway up her thighs. His hands all over her.

He didn’t even glance your way—until he did.

Right as he shoved open his office door.

His eyes locked on you. Smoldering. Unbothered. Maybe even a little amused.

And then he shut the door behind them. Click.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Then you heard it.

The moaning. The banging. The desperate, ugly sounds of sex through that too-thin wall, and you didn’t even hesitate. You gathered your things, barely breathing, and booked it for the elevator before your face could give anything away. You didn’t look back.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way he stared at you.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

⸻

The next morning, you came in earlier than usual—half-hoping, half-praying you wouldn’t have to see him.

Your desk felt different. Like it had absorbed last night’s shame. The pens in your cup were crooked. The light too bright. You reorganized your files twice just to stop your hands from shaking.

You told yourself he wouldn’t bring it up.

He wouldn’t have to.

Because it meant nothing.

To him, it was just another Tuesday night. Another random girl. Another fuck.

And then… you saw him.

Striding across the hallway from his office—jacket slung over his shoulder, hair freshly wet from a shower, and a goddamn coffee in hand like he hadn’t just traumatized you twelve hours ago.

He didn’t even look at you. Not at first.

He passed your desk with that same practiced indifference, talking to a sidekick about an upcoming mission, barely blinking. You exhaled. Maybe it was just another night. Maybe he really didn’t care.

Then, without warning, he stopped mid-step. Turned his head just slightly. Your blood ran cold. But he kept walking. That was it. That tiny little jab, buried so deep it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else—but you knew.

He knew. And now he was watching to see what you’d do with it.

⸻

You didn’t do anything. What could you do?

You buried yourself in your work. Avoided his gaze when he passed your desk. Ignored the little smirk that tugged at his mouth every time your fingers trembled while handing him a report. You told yourself it would fade—that he’d get bored and move on.

But he didn’t. He kept finding reasons to come by. Most times it was work-related. sometimes it wasn’t.

“Where’s the file from yesterday? The one you highlighted.”

“There’s a typo on this one. Wanna tell me where your brain was?”

“You always jump when someone groans, or is that just me?”

“do you always wear skirts that short?”

And the worst part? He never looked guilty. Never embarrassed. Just amused. Like he’d found a new game to play—and you were the only one who didn’t know the rules.

⸻

The next night came.

You were once again the last one in the office, filing mission reports. This time, you double-checked the elevator schedule before staying late. Dynamight had a press conference that evening. He wouldn’t be back until hours later—if at all.

You let your guard down.

Big mistake.

Because when the elevator dinged around 10:43 p.m., and you turned expecting to see a janitor or a delivery guy—

It was him. Alone.

No model this time. Just Dynamight. Loose black tee, sweats slung low, dog tags catching the hall light. He didn’t say a word. Just walked down the hall, slow and deliberate, until he was standing at your desk.

You blinked up at him. “…Can I help you, sir?”

He stared for a moment—eyes hooded, lazy. Then leaned a forearm on your desk. “You’re always here late.” Your throat tightened. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, gaze dipping briefly to your lips. “That why you stayed last night too?”

“I—I didn’t realize anyone else was—”

“Oh, you realized.” That smug look returned. “You saw everything, didn’t you?” Heat crawled down your spine. He tilted his head slightly. “And what’d you think, secretary? Get a good show?” You stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m—going home. I’m done for the night.”

But as you tried to slip past him, he didn’t move.

Just let his fingers graze the edge of your desk—then yours. Soft. Barely there. Enough to make you stop.

And his voice? Lower this time. Quieter. Laced with something darker. “I fucked her thinking about you all alone out here” he said under his breath, not loud enough for you to hear.

As you took the bus home after work, his words lingered in your mind. he made you feel like some dirty pervert.

⸻

The following day came, you were a nervous wreck coming to work and praying to whoever was up there to not see him again. But for some reason lady luck was on your side because word got around that Dynamight wouldn’t be in office due for a little to an over ran mission a couple of cities over. You felt the weight of what was like an elephant lift from your shoulders hearing it. The next couple of days you could breathe and get your work done, until the night he came back. You weren’t planning to stay late again but the mission reports were a mess, your inbox was full, and your brain was too fried to say no when your team lead asked for help. Plus you wanted to get it all done so you could go home early for the weekend tomorrow.

Everyone else had left. The sun was long gone, the sky a navy blur behind the tall glass windows. You figured he was still out. Same patrol mission or high-level meeting.

You were so fucking wrong.

The elevator dinged at 11:36pm. You didn’t even look up because you just KNEW. you heard the heavy bootsteps crossing the hall, slow and measured—each one landing like they meant something.

You slowly looked up. There he was.

Hair messy from the wind, shirt clinging to his frame, jaw sharp with tension like he’d been gritting it for hours. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, watching you behind that massive front desk like you were the one interrupting him.

You swallowed. HARD. “…e-evening.”

A low hum left his throat, his gaze staying on you like you were the only thing in the room.

He didn’t walk away. Just shifted his weight slightly, his eyes scanning your desk. You could feel the pressure of his stare, like he was seeing right through you.

You followed his line of sight—realizing too late that your files were fanned out everywhere. Messy. Color-coded. Your pink highlighter cap left open next to your now cold coffee.

Shit.

You scrambled to get up and gather everything, heart thudding harder than you’d like to admit. “I—I’ll get these off before I leave. I just wanted to finish highlighting—”

He didn’t let you finish.

One step closer, without warning.

His body moved with purpose, no hesitation. He didn’t lean in, didn’t raise his voice, but somehow his presence swallowed you whole.

He just tapped twice—once, twice—on the corner of a sticky note beside your hand.

Then, his voice came, low, clipped, a little too calm for your liking.

“Next time you highlight mission details…”

“…don’t use pink.”

he paused for a moment looking at you while his finger was still resting on the sticky note.

“I fucking hate pink.”

You stiffened, trying to shake off the irritation that bubbled up in your chest.

“Well, maybe I’m not here to impress you,” you muttered under your breath, your annoyance pushing you further than you meant to go.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even react at first.

You tried to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck. It was just a comment—nothing more.

But then you saw it.

His lips curled into a faint smirk, that signature cocky grin of his. He leaned in just a little more, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he was too relaxed, too calm for the situation.

“Not here to impress me?” His voice was smooth, almost condescending. “Then why the hell are you even still here, huh?”

Your jaw tightened. You were about to fire back, but he wasn’t done.

He took another step forward. This time, there was no space left between you.

His eyes narrowed, gaze dropping from your face to the pink highlighter in your hand. He reached out, slowly, deliberately, taking the cap from the table and flicking it absentmindedly.

His eyes met yours, cold but sharp. He didn’t blink.

“You wanna talk back to me, huh? You wanna act like you don’t care what I think?” He leaned in closer, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. “You’ll get real fucking tired of that attitude real fast.”

You tried to hold your ground, but something in the air was shifting. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating in a way that made you feel small. Vulnerable. He was in your space now—too close. But you couldn’t bring yourself to back away.

“What, you think I’m scared of you?” Your voice was steady, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

His lips curled into a knowing grin, his fingers brushing the back of your hand like it was nothing. But the touch was deliberate. “No, but I think you like it.”

You inhaled sharply, your pulse quickening.

“Like what?” you breathed, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“Like it when I call you out,” he replied, his voice dripping with something dangerously close to amusement. “Like it when I make you feel something you don’t know how to handle.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he stepped back.

His eyes locked onto yours one last time, with a smooth, and mocking tone. “Not here to impress me, huh? Guess what? You’re not fooling anyone.”

You bristled at the implication, trying to pull away from the tension that was building in the space between you two. But he didn’t let up. Instead, he moved even closer, stepping into your personal space until there was barely an inch of air between you.

“Keep playing it cool,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But I know exactly what you want.“

His lips were only inches from yours now, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin.

Your heart pounded, and the words escaped you before you could stop them.

“And what exactly do you think I want?” you breathed.

His grin widened, a wicked, confident curl of his lips, and then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he answered, “You want me to prove it.”

“fuck you” that’s all it took.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was on you.

His hands found your waist, lifting you onto the desk, making sure there was no space between you. The way he kissed you, with so much force and urgency, made it clear he wasn’t about to stop.

You gasped as he trailed his lips down to your collarbone, his hands already pulling at your shirt, lifting it over your head. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but in the best way. The heat in your body was building rapidly, your skin tingling where his hands brushed.

“I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before,” he growled, his lips back on yours with a hunger you couldn’t resist.

You pulled him closer, urging him to take what he wanted, because deep down, you knew you were past the point of no return.

And when his hands moved to the waistband of your pants, you didn’t hesitate, lifting your hips to let him undress you completely.

He didn’t waste any time, his mouth back on your neck, his hands working to free himself from his pants, all while he never broke eye contact with you.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his voice thick with lust, the words slipping from him in a low growl.

You could hardly breathe, let alone think. But somehow, you managed to whisper, “Dynamight.”

He smirked against your neck, his hand coming down on your ass with a harsh smack, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You jolted, a breathless gasp escaping your lips, and he leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

“I said, say MY fucking name,” he repeated, his voice a little sharper this time.

You moaned, your body aching for more as you looked up at him with a pleading expression. “Katsuki,” you whined, your voice higher, desperate. The sound of his name on your lips, the way it twisted in the air between you two, sent him into a frenzy.

He didn’t give you a moment to recover—he grabbed your thighs and dragged you to the edge of the desk, his mouth crashing into yours again, hungry and unrelenting. You felt the hard press of his cock against your bare core, still hidden behind the fabric of his boxers, and you instinctively rolled your hips, chasing the friction you so desperately needed.

“You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane,” he hissed against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, panting, pupils blown wide. “Actin’ like you didn’t want this. Walkin’ around the office in those tight little skirts… lookin’ at me like that… like you wanted to be fucked.”

You whimpered, and he chuckled darkly, pulling his boxers down and letting his cock spring free. The sight alone had your breath hitching, and he noticed.

“Yeah?” he muttered, stroking himself slowly as he watched your reaction. “This what you’ve been needin’? Bet your fingers couldn’t even come close to makin’ you feel this full.”

And then he pushed in—slowly, almost teasing, stretching you inch by inch until your back arched and a breathless moan spilled from your lips, your eyes rolling in the back of your skull.

“Fuck—you feel better than I ever imagined,” he gritted, gripping your hips so tight you knew he’d leave marks. “Tight little pussy takin’ me so well.”

He set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours, the desk creaking beneath you both his as your body rocked with each thrust. You could barely form words—just whimpers and his name on loop like a prayer.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get filthier, he leaned in, his voice rasping directly into your ear.

“You know how many girls I’ve fucked the last two weeks?”

Each word was punctuated by a hard, punishing thrust.

“Every. Single. ONE of them—I thought about you.”

You gasped, your nails clawing at his back as your orgasm built dangerously fast.“Thought bout how beautiful you’d look bent over my fuckin’ desk takin’ my cock.”

Your eyes rolled back, the filthy words and his relentless rhythm dragging you closer to the edge. Your whole body trembled under him, your mind trying to deny it, trying to keep up, but your body had already surrendered. It needed him. All of him.

“And how amazing your tits would look bouncin’ in my face as you ride me.” he leaned down to your chest and sucked on your tit as he fondled the other with his free hand.

You gasped as his words hit you like a wave, the sharpness of his growl sending a tremor through your body. Every word he spoke, every thrust, made it harder to remember what it was you were supposed to resist.

His pace quickened, and you were helpless under him. Each snap of his hips felt like a jolt of electricity, shooting through your veins, making you gasp and moan for him. The desk beneath you scraped against the floor as he pushed you closer to the edge, and all you could do was hold on, your fingers digging into the wood as you clung to whatever semblance of control you had left.

“Say my name again,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Say it and mean it this time.”

“Kats-sukiiiiiaaa,” you breathed, your head thrown back, the sensation of him inside you almost too much to handle. You could feel your walls tightening around him, your body already on the brink of breaking. You were so close—so close you could taste it.

His lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the desperation in your eyes, his pace never slowing. “That’s it, princess,” he growled, his hand snaking down to rub your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You’re mine now. All mine and not any of these shitty extras around this place”.

You could barely respond, your mind clouded with the pleasure he was giving you. Every inch of your body felt like it was on fire, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core until you were trembling with the effort of holding back.

And then, with one last, forceful thrust, he drove you over the edge. Your body arched against him, your moans a desperate mixture of his name and incoherent sounds. His name tumbled from your lips again, this time louder, as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and weak.

But Bakugou didn’t stop. He wasn’t done with you yet.

He kept going, pushing you through your orgasm with a brutal determination that had you gasping for air. His thrusts grew erratic, faster, harder, as his own release approached. His breath was ragged in your ear, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours filled the room.

With one final growl, he pulled you closer, his hand gripping your hips as he buried himself deep inside you, his release spilling over as he held you against him, each shuddering breath making it clear just how much he needed you—how much he’d been holding back.

For a long moment, you both stayed like that, tangled in each other’s arms, breathless and spent. He kissed your forehead softly, a rare moment of tenderness after the storm, but the fire in his eyes never fully faded.

“Next time,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll be fuckin’ you in my bed not some flimsy office desk.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the muscles in his back as you both tried to catch your breath. This… this was just the beginning.

[gf2bellamy]

omgg could i request bubbly reader whos always smiling and giggling but one day an officer (or whoever) says shes being unprofessional and too much and it makes her so so sad so she tones it down and spencer is so upset seeing her like this bc shes the light of his life

-🦨

light — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: sunshine!reader feels insecure abt herself, mention of officer saying she's being unprofessional a/n: hii 🦨 !! hope this is what you asked for <3

"Morning." Your voice was quieter than usual, your smile smaller, just a polite curve of your lips rather than the bright grin the team was used to. You walked into the conference room, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you took your usual seat.

Morgan and Emily immediately exchanged a glance.

Normally, your entrance was impossible to miss. An enthusiastic, cheerful “Good morning!” ringing through the air, maybe even a comment about someone’s coffee choice or how exhausted everyone looked.

“Morning, sunshine.” Morgan’s voice was gentler than usual. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, forcing another smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Thanks, Derek.” The words felt rehearsed, like a line you had practiced just to avoid further questions. You glanced up at him for only a second before lowering your gaze to the table.

Emily’s frown deepened as she studied you, before cutting her eyes to Morgan again. Neither of them were buying it. The door opened, and Spencer walked in, carrying two coffees. He placed one in front of you like he always did. A silent little tradition between the two of you. Normally, this would earn him that smile, the one that made his heart stutter in his chest. The one that felt like warmth on the coldest days. You would’ve reached for his hand, his hand, the one no one else was allowed to touch, and squeezed it, your fingers lingering just a little too long, just like they always did.

But today?

“Thanks,” you mumbled, barely looking up. You wrapped your hands around the cup, but nothing more. No smile. No touch.

Spencer’s spine went rigid. His fingers twitched at his sides as he stood there, processing, waiting, hoping, for a second longer than necessary. When nothing else came, he hesitated before reluctantly taking his own seat. Emily and Morgan’s eyes were already on him when he looked up, their silent concern mirroring his own. He swallowed hard.

Something was wrong. But it just got worse from there.

When Garcia called, her voice bubbled through the speakerphone. "Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite team of crime-fighting superheroes! Tell me, my loves, who needs saving today?"

Usually, you’d fire something right back, some exaggerated response about how she was the real superhero or how you were tragically in need of her brilliance. Instead, silence stretched for a beat too long before Rossi finally spoke up, filling the gap where your usual laughter should have been.

At that moment, even Hotch, who rarely indulged in team gossip, glanced at you, his gaze lingering longer than usual. A whole five seconds in Hotchner time. That was basically a siren blaring that something was wrong.

Your usual energy, the energy that kept them all going, was gone. Every word you spoke was muted, every sentence clipped.

You kept your gaze trained on files, your hands fidgeting with the corner of the page, and when someone addressed you, your responses were polite but distant.

Spencer watched you more than he paid attention to the case briefing.His mind ran through every possibility, every variable that could explain this drastic shift. Were you sick? Had something happened? Had someone said something? His stomach twisted at the thought.

Spencer caught up to you just as you reached your hotel room that night. You glanced at him, surprised. The cool metal of your keycard was still in your hand when he spoke.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice was careful and concerned.

You hesitated. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this was about. The stolen glances from the team, the way Spencer had been watching you all day. It was obvious. You could still avoid the conversation if you wanted to. You could brush it off, say you were tired, say you had work to do. But a part of you knew you couldn’t do that. Not to him.

So you sighed, slipping the keycard into the slot and pushing open the door. “Yeah. Sure.”

Spencer followed you in, shutting the door behind him as you plopped down on the bed. You leaned back on your hands, crossing your legs, trying to look nonchalant, trying to make this feel like nothing.

“So,” you said, offering a weak smile, “what did you want to talk about?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He just stood there for a moment, watching you, hands fidgeting at his sides.

A beat of silence. “You.” The word landed between you like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer took a step closer, his voice dropping. “You haven’t smiled all day. You didn’t laugh at Garcia’s joke. You didn’t even—” He cut himself off, fingers flexing at his sides. “You didn’t squeeze my hand.”

Your stomach twisted. He noticed. Of course he noticed. You looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“That's a lie.”

Your head snapped up. Spencer was rarely so direct.

“You think I don’t know you?” he said, voice cracking. “You think I wouldn’t notice when the best part of my day just—just disappears?”

The honesty in his words punched through you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Because what could you say? That some stranger’s offhand comment had unraveled you? That you’d spent the entire day replaying his words in your head like a broken record?

Unprofessional. Too much. Annoying.

Spencer took another step forward, his voice softening. “Talk to me. Please.”

Your throat tightened as you stared at him. Spencer Reid, your Spencer, was looking at you like you’d just ripped the stars from his sky. You swallowed hard, forcing out a breath that barely made it past the knot in your chest. “It’s stupid,” you whispered.

Spencer shook his head immediately. “It’s not.”

You let out a hollow laugh, rubbing your palms over your thighs. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

His voice softened even more, barely above a breath. “And I still know it’s not stupid.”That did it. The dam cracked, then crumbled, then completely shattered.

“Someone—someone said I was too much.” You exhaled shakily, finally putting the ugly truth into the open. “That I was being unprofessional—that I need to tone it down because I laugh too much, because I smile too much, because I don’t act like—” Your voice wavered, and you clenched your fists against the overwhelming sting in your eyes. “Like I belong here.”

Spencer inhaled sharply. You finally met his gaze and all you saw as fury. Not at you, never at you, but at the words that had managed to dull your light.He took another step closer. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if you’d let him.

“Who?” His voice was controlled, but barely.

You shook your head quickly. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me.”

God. Why did he have to care so much? Why did he have to look at you like that, like you were something precious, something irreplaceable, something he wasn’t willing to lose to someone else’s careless words? You chewed on your bottom lip, shaking your head again. “It’s not like he was wrong, Spence.” You forced a smile, but even you could feel how empty it was. “I am a lot. And maybe I do need to—”

“Don’t.” The word was firm. Gentle, but unyielding.

Spencer exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself. “You are not too much,” he said, each syllable deliberate. “And whoever made you think that doesn’t understand what this team—what I—would be without you.”

Your breath hitched, tears threatening to spill over.

“You make things better.” His voice cracked, and it nearly shattered you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to see you walk into a room and not light it up?” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It—it hurts.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. You swiped at it quickly, but Spencer had already seen. And that was when he finally moved.Slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand. His fingers curled around yours, just like they always did. The same comforting touch you’d given him a hundred times before.

Except this time, he was the one holding you together.

“Please don’t dim yourself because of someone who doesn’t understand how lucky they are to know you,” he murmured.

Your heart clenched. Your lip quivered. Spencer slowly let go of your hand, his warmth lingering even as his fingers slipped away. He didn’t move far, though. Instead, he lowered himself in front of you.

His hand hesitated just inches from your face, his breath uneven. “Can I?” he asked softly, his fingertips ghosting near your cheek.

You swallowed hard and gave the smallest nod. Spencer wiped away the tear with a touch so gentle it made your chest ache. But his hand didn’t drop. It hovered there, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His thumb traced just beneath your eye, barely skimming your skin, as if he could erase not just the tear but the weight of everything that had led to it.

His voice, when it came, was a whisper. “Whoever said that to you… they don’t know you. Not the way I do.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking at him.

“They don’t know the way your laugh makes even the worst days bearable.” His thumb barely moved, brushing against your cheekbone. “They don’t know how your energy—your light—makes all of us better. How it makes me better.”

A fresh tear slipped free. Spencer caught it before it could fall. His other hand lifted then, resting gently on your knee. Another silent plea for you to believe him.

“I don’t want you to change.” His voice cracked. You bit your lip, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it was useless. His words, his kindness, were unraveling you.

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was gathering courage, and then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your breath hitched. A teary-eyed smile broke across your face before you could stop it. And then, without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms. Spencer barely had time to brace himself, but to your luck, he held firm, his balance steady despite the force of your embrace. His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you close.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into the crook of his neck, your voice muffled. Spencer let out a breath. His hand moved in slow, soothing strokes along your back. When you finally pulled back, you sniffled, brushing away the last few stray tears that had slipped down your cheeks. Spencer watched you, his expression impossibly soft, his own smile small but so incredibly fond.

You inhaled deeply, gathering yourself before flashing him a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow—back to being the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Spencer’s ears went bright red. He opened his mouth, whether to protest or agree, you weren’t sure, but all that came out was a flustered little laugh as he ducked his head.

The next morning, Spencer was already waiting for you when you stepped into the conference room. Two coffees sat on the table, one in front of his usual seat, the other carefully placed at yours. You bit back a smile.

Spencer was flipping through a case file, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

“Good morning, everyone!” you greeted, voice bright and chipper, just like always.

Morgan and Emily, who had clearly been watching you like hawks since yesterday, immediately exchanged a look before turning back to you.

“There she is,” Morgan grinned, arms crossing over his chest. “I was starting to think we’d lost our sunshine.”

You smirked. “Please. You could never get rid of me that easily.”

Garcia gasped dramatically through the speakerphone. “Oh, thank God! Do you know how hard it is being the only source of light in a room full of broody FBI agents? I almost cracked under the pressure.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the team, but you weren’t really paying attention.Because across the table, Spencer was staring at you.Not in the way he had yesterday, all worried and desperate to fix something he didn’t understand, but in the way he always did.

You sank into your chair, reaching for the coffee he’d placed in front of you. The cup was still warm, and when you took a sip, it was exactly the way you liked it. You glanced at Spencer, eyes twinkling. When you reached under the table to squeeze his hand, just like you always did, Spencer let you.

And just like that, the warmth returned. And Spencer knew, without a doubt, he would do anything to keep it shining.