#and they tried to do it again...it's absolutely unforgivable

[yuseirra]

Life's been a little bit busy this week but I can get plenty of sleep after tomorrow(I want to draw soon!)

For the meantime, I want to recommend something! Recently I read "Human Acts" by Han Kang, I had to take breaks to rest between the two hours I spent reading the book because it was really painful, it's a very powerful and memorable book. She won the Nobel Prize in Literature last year so I thought I'd finally give her books a try, I read like three so far with the most recent being this one, and oh; I almost felt I had to seeing what's been taking place lately

To think something like that could have happened again. And the "president" who attempted to impose Martial Law last December STILL is not behind bars yet. He's dangerous. He's trying to gather his supporters to prevent him being impeached and things are dragging on.

A lot of people could have been killed. I'm so relieved it isn't the case but it's not over till it is completely. There seem to be people who are unaware of the severity of the situation because there are no casualties. Or maybe they do but they don't care?

Anyway, it's a great book, and I recommend it. I cried a lot reading it, and it's been a while since a book did that to me. I appreciate the English title, too: Human Acts. (The original title is something like "The Boy is Coming (to Us)") So, what makes a human human, and what's the right thing to do? Some people stood up against injustice and tried to save others, while others slaughtered them at gunpoint and with bayonets, so what is a human, how can it be characterized? The author seems to have thought over that a lot while writing this piece and I did too. It's not only human beings that have compassion and love and I don't think we're particularly superior and special compared to other beings on that matter but, there can be so many different sides to "people".

It could get graphical, but the work is so poetic at the same time. I don't think I'll ever forget this book and that's the book working exactly the way it should, serving its purpose.

I hope I get through tomorrow!! Wanna rest and draw soon!!

[aleksatia]

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

[pastryfication]

hi!!! can we get an ollie x reader, frustrated after he misses out on q3 in baku, and fully melts into his gfs arms when he’s out of the car. until someone from the team has to steer him away to the media pen

i guess that's the best i can do

pairing: ollie bearman x reader

note: i absolutely adore writing hurt/comfort so thank u for this request <33 i know it’s been over a month since u requested, and i’m so sorry for that, but i hope u still like it

the streets of baku were unforgiving that day, the tight corners and narrow straights biting harder than ollie had expected as he got into the car. he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but missing out on q3—by just a fraction—hurt more than he wanted to admit.

he climbs out of the car quickly, his helmet still on, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. the moment he’s out of the cockpit, the frustration floods him. all those laps, the careful management, and it still wasn’t enough. he slams the steering wheel back in place a little harder than necessary, trying to keep the emotions from boiling over in front of the cameras. the pit crew is busy around him, preparing for the post-qualifying debrief, but all he can think about is how close he came.

he catches sight of you standing just outside of the garage, your face soft with understanding. it’s as if you know exactly how he’s feeling before he even reaches you. you offer a small smile, but ollie’s expression doesn’t budge. he pulls off his helmet and then his baclava, running a hand through his sweaty hair, before walking over to you, his shoulders heavy with disappointment.

as soon as he’s close enough, he drops his helmet onto the ground beside you and crashes into your arms without a word. his hands grip tightly onto your waist, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, as if all the tension and frustration can somehow seep out through the contact. for a long moment, he just stands there, holding on, and you can feel the shuddering breath he lets out.

you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your hand gently stroking the back of his neck, offering silent comfort. his body, taut with frustration and anger just moments ago, begins to sag against yours, melting into your embrace. he’s letting it all go, just for a moment, here with you, where it’s safe to be vulnerable—where he can show his true emotions.

“you were absolutely brilliant out there,” you whisper softly into his ear, trying to sooth the storm brewing inside him. “so close, ollie. you fought so hard.”

he doesn’t say anything at first, his face still buried in the crook of your neck, his arms clinging to you as if he's afraid you'll disappear. you can feel the rise and fall of his chest, deep breaths as he tries to calm down, to find the words he wants to say. his grip on you tightens even further for a second, as if he needs to hold on to something stable, something real, before he can speak.

“i should’ve made it,” he mumbles, his voice thick with frustration. “i had the pace. i know i did.”

you keep stroking his hair, your other hand rubbing gentle circles on his back. “you’ll get them next time. this isn’t the end.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy with emotion. “i just—” his voice cracks, and he shakes his head, trying to get the words out. “i wanted it so bad. i was right there.”

“i know,” you say softly, cupping his face in your hands. “i know, love. but this doesn’t change how incredible you are.”

for a moment, he just looks at you, the frustration still simmering beneath the surface but dulled by the warmth of your presence. you lean in and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and he sighs again, his shoulders finally slumping in defeat—though not the kind of defeat that lingers, but the kind that comes with acceptance, with knowing he did all he could.

but before he can fully disappear into the comfort of your embrace, someone from the team approaches, clearing their throat. you both turn to see one of the pr managers, looking slightly awkward but aware of the time crunch. “ollie,” they say softly, not wanting to intrude too much. “we’ve got to get you to the media pen. they’re waiting.”

ollie groans quietly against your shoulder, his grip on you loosening as reality pulls him back. “right,” he mutters, clearly not thrilled about it.

he pulls back reluctantly, his hands still lingering on your waist for a second longer before he lets go completely. “i’ll be back soon,” he says, the words more for himself than for you, like a promise he’s making to get through this next part.

you offer him an encouraging smile, giving his hand a squeeze. “you’ve got this.”

he nods, though you can see he’s still carrying some of that disappointment with him. just before he walks away, he pauses, turning back to you. “thank you,” he whispers, his voice quiet but sincere. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“you don’t have to,” you reply, smiling softly as you reach up to caress his cheek adoringly. “i’ll always be here.”

with that, he smiles softly and leans down to give you a hurried kiss before finally allowing the team to steer him away, glancing back at you one last time before disappearing into the paddock. you watch him go, knowing that once he’s done with the media, you’ll be there waiting, ready to pull him back into your arms when he needs it most.

[andorsdoll]

Five Minutes, Tops || Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Summary: There’s a briefing in five minutes. There’s also a locked door, a sink, and Anakin Skywalker. You get the picture.

Word Count: 1.2k || Warnings: essentially PWP lol, public-ish sex, very briefly: innapropiate use of the force, almost getting caught, smug bastard!anakin, p-in-v(unprotected), creampie(aka mutual bad decisions), etc

Author's Note: I, andorsdoll, solemly swear to stop using Obi-Wan Kenobi as the Jedi equivalent of a bad timing alarm clock in my Anakin fics after this one. Heh, thx 4 reading everybody! ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

The mission briefing had dragged on way too long. You were standing stiffly near the back of the room. Restlessly, you shift your weight from one leg to another, only half-listening to Obi-Wan and the senator go back and forth, about trade routes, security details, and a bunch of other things you really couldn’t care about in the moment.

You could feel a certain somebody’s gaze on you—and it was annoying. But you refused to look at him. Not even for a second. Not after what happened in the speeder. Especially not after what happened in the speeder.

Not after the way his hand had slipped between your thighs under your robes while you both pretended to talk strategy. But even without looking, you could feel the air shift—subtle, electric. The kind of tension that didn’t come from eye contact or words. No, Anakin was using the Force again.

His Force signature presses against yours, warm and teasing, like he was tracing lines down your spine without touching you at all. And you tried to keep it together. Really, you did.

But the moment the senator announces, “We’ll reconvene in five minutes to finalize the coordinates,” and the council members file out, Anakin is instantly at your side, already tugging your wrist toward the side corridor.

“Five minutes,” he says, voice low, his grin sharp, wicked, like he’s already got you bent over in his head. “We can make five minutes work.”

“You’re insane.”

He pulls you into the nearest refresher and locks the door behind you with a hiss of the panel. The second it seals, he has your back pinned against it, kissing you like this doesn’t break every rule he’s supposed to follow.

“You gonna waste half of it arguing?” he mutters into your mouth

You shouldn’t do this. You really shouldn’t. In less than 300 seconds, you're supposed to be back in that room, looking like a composed, responsible adult. Not like someone getting absolutely fucked over a sink by the Chosen One.

Your back is still pressed against the door as he kisses you hungrily and hikes up your robes like he’s done it a hundred times before (he has). His breath, hot at your neck and his fingers quick—too practiced—as you bite your lip to keep from moaning when he shoves two fingers in, pumping them shamelessly, just to make sure you're wet enough to take him without hesitation.

"You expected me to sit through another meeting like this?” he mutters on your lips again.

You smirk against him, “You’ve been sitting through them with your cock half-hard all day. What’s one more?”

He exhales hard through his nose, then shakes his head like you’ve finally broken something loose in him. His eyes drop and his hands move.

He walks you to the sink like he’s guiding you into position—deliberate, hands firm. The counter catches your thighs and then you’re folded forward, bent at the waist with nowhere else to go.

His fingers circle your clit a few more times—not teasing, just claiming. Almost like he's reminding you who gets you like this. Then Anakin pulls back just far enough to line himself up. And with one sharp, unforgiving thrust, he’s inside.

The stretch is instant, perfect, obscene. You gasp while your hands grip the sink tighter. Your hips slam into the cold sink edge, and a choked sound catches in your throat before you can stop it—but Anakin’s already one step ahead. His hand clamps over your mouth, just in case. His other hand settles at your hip, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself to you.

He doesn’t wait because patience has never been his thing—and with only minutes to spare, he’s sure as hell not starting now. Instead, he sets a brutal rhythm. Fucking into you like he knows exactly how long he’s got—and plans to use every damn second of it.

Still moving and relentless, Anakin slides his hand down far enough to start circling your clit again. Like he’s coaxing your orgasm out one flick at a time, knowing exactly what you need before you ask.

“Come for me,” he growls, low in your ear. “Be quick, sweetheart. Clock’s ticking.”

Your whole body seizes, a strangled cry caught under his palm as you come hard around him, thighs shaking, knees nearly buckling as he holds you upright and fucks you through it like he planned to make you fall apart exactly like this.

Then—

“Anakin? You in there?”

It's Obi-Wan.

Your eyes fly open and you freeze—still pulsing around Anakin’s cock, breath ragged, face flushed, his hand still over your mouth.

Anakin doesn't stop.

Of course he doesn’t. He just fucks into you harder, grinning, like the reckless bastard he is.

“Bathroom,” Anakin calls out, somehow perfectly steady. “Be out in a sec.”

“Briefing resumes in two minutes,” Obi-Wan says, voice calm but clipped. You hear his footsteps retreat down the hall—measured, fading, gone.

And then, Anakin’s losing it.

His rhythm falters—thrusts stuttering, uneven now, like he’s trying to keep it together and completely fucking failing. A strangled moan pulled straight from his chest escapes his lips, and then he’s coming, hard. He buries himself to the hilt, hands shaking where they grip your hips, jaw slack as he spills inside you.

You’re both breathless, bodies pressed together, still locked in place over the sink as the silence creeps back in. You stay there a beat longer, forehead pressed to your arm, his body still warmly pressed behind yours.

Anakin leans in, voice quiet at your ear. "Told you we had time," he murmurs before pressing one last kiss to your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, grabbing a nearby cloth to fix your face, "Shut up and straighten your hair.”

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

You both scramble to pull yourselves together—fixing robes, smoothing hair, pretending your legs aren’t jelly. Pretending Anakin didn’t just fuck you senseless with a hand over your mouth.

By the time you step out of the refresher, the corridor’s empty. No one waiting, no witnesses. Just the low hum of distant conversation as the others start filtering back into the briefing room.

You fall in line beside Anakin like nothing happened and the doors open. Obi-Wan’s already seated, datapad in hand, brows raised just slightly when he looks up.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice even, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something just shy of suspicion.

Anakin doesn’t miss a beat, “Never better.”

You don’t dare look at Anakin, or Obi-Wan. Instead, you just take your seat, ignoring the heat still simmering in your skin and the way your body aches in places no one else in the room can ever know about.

Then, under the table, Anakin's fingers brush lightly against yours. A silent touch. Warm. Steady.

The senator clears his throat and Obi-Wan starts speaking again. The briefing resumes. Like nothing ever happened.

And under the table, Anakin is still touching you.

[goldfades]

does Hayes ever have times where he’s a total momma’s boy and Joe has to fight for her attention? I feel like you’d have to juggle two pouty whiny children because they’re not getting your full attention and one of them is your husband

i got like five million requests for momma's boy for hayes, and honestly he IS momma's boy, through and through and always will be

It started slowly at first—little things you didn’t think much of.

Hayes had always been attached to you. That much was obvious from the moment he was born, but lately? Lately, it was like he had developed a sixth sense specifically for when Joe got too close to you.

It was in the way he’d suddenly appear the second Joe pulled you into a hug, his tiny hands wedging their way between you both, his little face scrunching up in disapproval. If Joe so much as rested a hand on your thigh while you sat on the couch, Hayes was there in an instant, wiggling his way onto your lap like he was reclaiming what was his.

And bedtime? Forget it.

The second Joe tried to wrap an arm around you in bed, Hayes—who had miraculously woken up from a perfectly fine sleep—would start calling for you through the baby monitor, like some kind of territorial alarm.

Joe brushed it off at first, laughing whenever Hayes pulled one of his little stunts.

"That’s my boy, fighting for what’s his," he’d joke, ruffling Hayes’ hair, acting like it didn’t bother him.

But over time, as the baby barricade between you and Joe grew stronger, the amusement started to wear off.

Especially when Hayes began glaring at him.

You first noticed it when Joe had leaned in to kiss you goodbye before heading to practice one morning. Hayes, perched in his high chair with a fistful of pancake, scowled at his father like he had just committed an unforgivable crime.

Joe paused mid-kiss, catching the look. "Did—did he just mug me?"

You tried not to laugh as you glanced at Hayes, who was now hugging your arm possessively, his chubby fingers clutching onto you for dear life.

Joe scoffed, hands on his hips. "Oh, you think this is funny?"

Hayes remained stone-faced, gripping you tighter.

Joe really tried to be the bigger person.

At first, he played along with Hayes’ little antics, humoring him like it was some kind of funny phase.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he’d mutter whenever Hayes forced his way onto your lap, effectively kicking Joe out of his spot. “You’re trying to replace me, huh?”

Hayes would just blink up at him, completely unbothered, before turning to nuzzle into your chest like some kind of smug little prince.

Joe would shoot you an exasperated look. “You’re really just letting him do this?”

You tried to be neutral about it, but honestly? It was kind of adorable. Hayes was still so little, still so attached to you in that way only toddlers could be. And truthfully, it wasn’t like you hated all the extra snuggles.

But the real breaking point came one Saturday afternoon, when Joe had the absolute audacity to wrap his arms around your waist while you were standing at the kitchen counter.

The moment his hands made contact with your hips, you heard a small gasp from behind you.

Then— "NO!"

Joe barely had time to react before Hayes came barreling into him, tiny hands pushing at his thighs like he was physically trying to separate you both.

Joe stumbled back, throwing his hands up. “Are you serious right now?”

But Hayes was dead serious. His little brows furrowed, lips pouted in betrayal as he latched onto your leg, looking up at you like, Mommy, I can’t believe you’d do this to me.

"Buddy," Joe tried again, voice light and reasonable. "I was just hugging Mommy."

"No!" Hayes clung harder, sending a defiant glare in Joe’s direction.

Joe turned to you, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "Okay, I think I’ve been replaced. This is—this is an actual hostile takeover."

You couldn’t help but laugh, running your fingers through Hayes’ soft hair as he cuddled into your leg, victorious.

"Joe," you soothed, glancing up at your husband’s genuinely offended face. "It’s just a phase. He’s a mama’s boy right now."

Joe folded his arms. "Right now? He’s been a mama’s boy his whole life."

"Can you blame him?" you teased, giving Joe a playful smirk.

Joe groaned, running a hand down his face. "I just want one kiss. Just one."

But Hayes was not having it. The second Joe leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek, Hayes wiggled between you again, little arms pushing at Joe’s chest with all the strength his tiny body could muster.

And Joe? Joe was finally fed up.

"Alright, that’s it. You wanna go, little man?" Joe bent down, grabbing Hayes under the arms before tossing him into the air. Hayes squealed—part delighted, part indignant—before Joe caught him again, holding him up so they were face to face.

"You think you can just take my wife?" Joe challenged, squinting at him playfully.

Hayes giggled, but still, his tiny hands grabbed fistfuls of Joe’s shirt, as if making sure his dad wouldn’t get too close to you again.

Joe groaned, holding him out dramatically. "Babe, he’s obsessed with you."

You smirked. "Welcome to my world."

But Joe wasn’t giving up. He pulled Hayes in closer, staring him down. "Listen, buddy, we’re gonna have to share, okay? You can’t just claim her."

Hayes blinked. Then, very seriously— "Mine."

Joe gasped. "Did you just—?" He turned to you, absolutely betrayed. "Did you hear that? He just called dibs on you."

You shrugged. "I mean, technically, I did bring him into this world, so…"

Joe’s jaw dropped. "You’re taking his side?"

Hayes grinned, sensing his win.

Joe sighed dramatically, plopping Hayes back down. "Unbelievable. My own son. Stabbing me in the back like this."

You rolled your eyes, walking up to press a kiss to Joe’s cheek. "Don’t worry, babe. You’ll always be my first love."

Joe grumbled, wrapping an arm around your waist again. "Yeah? Tell that to our tiny little homewrecker over there."

But you knew, despite all his complaints, Joe secretly loved it. Because later that night, when Hayes finally (finally!) let Joe tuck him into bed, you caught your husband lingering at his door, watching him sleep with that soft, completely smitten look in his eyes.

And yeah, maybe Hayes had stolen you away for now…

But Joe would let him. Every single time.

[heliosunny]

Yandere Stanley Snyder with a darling that was in the Marines with him

Yandere!Stanley Snyder x Reader

The water was colder than you expected. It wrapped around you like an unforgiving embrace, sending a sharp chill through your body as you kicked downward, eyes straining to find the glint of silver among the shifting sand. Your mother’s necklace—it was too important to lose.

You had done this a hundred times before. Swimming, diving, holding your breath, it was second nature to you. But as soon as your fingers brushed against the delicate chain, a sharp pain shot through your calf.

Your breath hitched, bubbles escaping from your lips as panic settled in. Your body refused to move the way you wanted it to. You were sinking.

Then, someone's arms wrapped around you, yanking you upward with a force you couldn’t fight. The next thing you knew, you were gasping for air at the surface, coughing up water.

Stanley.

He was hovering over you, his grip tight on your arm. His sharp eyes bore into yours, a mixture of relief and fury swirling in them.

“Do you have a death wish? Jumping in like that, over a damn necklace?”

You shivered, too exhausted to snap back at him. Instead, you looked down at your hand, where the necklace was clenched tightly in your fist. You had gotten it back. That was all that mattered.

Stanley let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “You’re reckless. You don’t think. And one day, that’s going to get you killed.”

You stayed silent. You were grateful—really, you were—but why did it always have to be like this? Why did he always have to be so harsh?

Your team noticed the shift. The way your usual energy dulled, the way your mood soured when Stanley was around. You tried to brush it off, but even you knew it was getting under your skin.

You weren’t sure when it started, but he was always there. Criticizing.

And worst of all?

You couldn’t do anything about it.

---

The base was unusually loud that day. An argument crackling through the air like a live wire. You weren’t the type to pry, but something about the tone unsettled you.

Stanley had been acting strange lately. Not that he was ever warm, but his usual sharp commands had grown more impatient. And every time you got close to certain areas, he always sent you off somewhere else.

Like now.

"Go check the armory." "Get a headcount."

It was subtle, but it was clear: he didn’t want you here.

Which only made you more curious.

So this time, you ignored the usual order. You moved carefully, staying just out of sight as you crept toward the source of the noise.

And that’s when you saw him.

A man with striking silver hair. And Stanley—who rarely ever seemed affected by anything—stood in front of him, rigid, listening intently.

Something about this man was important.

Your breath hitched slightly, and that small sound was enough. Stanley’s head snapped toward you immediately, his sharp gaze locking onto yours.

You had been caught.

Stanley’s glare was sharp enough to cut, his mouth already opening to scold you for disobeying orders—again. But before he could get a single word out, the silver-haired man suddenly grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward with an unsettling amount of enthusiasm.

“Oh? And who might this be?” The man—Dr. Xeno—smirked. “Doesn't matter. You’ve arrived at the perfect time.”

You barely had time to process his words before he turned, dragging you toward a strange-looking contraption set up on the table.

“Behold,” Xeno continued, gesturing at it with dramatic flair. “My latest invention—marvelous, isn’t it? It will revolutionize the battlefield, once properly tested.”

You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at. Wires, tubes, something that looked like a trigger mechanism, whatever it was, it didn’t look stable. And when Xeno turned to you expectantly, your stomach dropped.

Oh. Oh no.

He wanted you to test it?

Your brain screamed absolutely not, but your mouth had yet to catch up. Before you could figure out a polite way to refuse, a hand grabbed your arm and yanked you back.

“Not happening.”

Xeno arched a brow, then let out a hum of realization. “Ah. I see.” His smirk returned, but this time, it was directed at Stanley. “So this is the one you keep complaining about.”

Your gaze flicked to Stanley, but his expression didn’t change. If anything, his grip on you tightened slightly, like he was resisting the urge to shove you behind him.

“I’ve never seen you this bothered by someone before” Xeno mused, clearly entertained. “How amusing.”

“You complain about me?”

Stanley clicked his tongue, not denying it, but not confirming it either.

Xeno chuckled. “Oh, quite frequently. It’s fascinating, really.” He tilted his head, “After all, he isn’t the type to let anyone get under his skin.”

You didn’t know whether to be offended or worried.

Stanley just sighed and started pulling you toward the exit. “We’re leaving.”

“Come back if you change your mind!” Xeno called after you, clearly enjoying himself.

----

The burning in your legs was unbearable. Every muscle screamed in protest as you forced yourself through another lap, breath ragged, sweat dripping down your back.

Stanley’s punishment was simple—run. A few laps around the base, nothing more. But under his watchful eye, “a few” quickly turned into a lot. He didn’t say much, just stood there with his arms crossed, watching as you pushed yourself forward.

This was his way of drilling a lesson into your head. Disobeying orders had consequences.

You didn’t complain, though. You’d take this over another one of his cutting remarks or that cold disappointment in his eyes.

And so, you ran.

Days later, your legs still ached, but your mood was lighter as you headed back to receive your mail. Letters from home were rare, but when they arrived, they were a small comfort—a reminder that there was still something beyond this harsh world.

But as you approached the building, something felt off.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up. Time slowed as you turned your head and saw it—

A figure, hidden in the distance. A rifle raised.

The barrel was aimed directly at Xeno.

BANG

A sharp pain tore through your body. The force sent you staggering before your legs gave out beneath you.

You took the bullet for him.

Distantly, you heard shouting. Heavy footsteps pounding against the dirt.

“Damn it—damn it, stay awake!”

Your vision blurred as you saw him kneeling beside you, his face twisted in something you had never seen before. His hands, usually so steady, pressed against your wound, but it wasn’t enough.

You were losing too much blood.

You wanted to say something—anything—but your lips wouldn’t move.

Then, through the haze, another gunshot rang out. A scream followed.

Stanley was gone from your side in an instant. Your head lolled to the side.

BANG.

The figure from afar collapsed, clutching their leg. Stanley didn’t hesitate. In a flash, he was on them, pinning them down, his knee digging into their wound as they howled in pain.

“Who sent you? Talk, or I’ll make sure you never walk again.”

You woke up a week later, dazed and aching.

The first thing you saw was Stanley sitting beside your bed.

The beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a rhythmic sound that reminded you that—somehow—you were still alive.

You barely had time to process everything before the door swung open.

A doctor stepped in, giving you a brief glance before his eyes flickered toward the other presence in the room.

“I need you to step outside while I check on them.”

There was a beat of silence.

He turned toward you. “Don’t go dying while I’m gone.”

With that, he exited, leaving you alone with the doctor.

The check-up was routine—questions about pain levels, a careful examination of the wound, the usual reminders about taking it easy. You answered as best you could, your mind still reeling from the events that led you here.

Eventually, the doctor nodded in satisfaction. “You’re recovering well” he said, jotting something down. “Just don’t push yourself too hard.”

Then, as if on cue, the door opened again.

Stanley stepped inside, posture as stiff as ever. He gave you a once-over, eyes scanning for any sign of weakness.

“Looks like you’ll live.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

You weren’t sure if he meant taking the bullet or interfering in the first place. Maybe both.

But before you could respond, he spoke again. “Rest up. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and left.

It was so fast, so abrupt, that you barely had time to process it.

Then, before the silence could settle, another voice filled the room—

"Y/N!"

Your head turned just in time to see your family rushing in, concern and relief evident in their faces.

---

The moment you were deemed fit for duty again, you were immediately assigned to train a group of newcomers. Fresh faces, some nervous, some cocky, all of them utterly clueless about what they were walking into.

You were patient, though. You drilled them hard, made sure they learned discipline, and when it came time for their first real mission, you were tasked with leading them to their commanding officer.

Stanley was already waiting when you arrived with the recruits. He stood tall, eyes sharp as they swept over the group.

You had half expected him to say something to you—anything about what happened that day at the hospital. Maybe an acknowledgment, maybe another one of his usual blunt remarks.

But he didn’t.

He simply nodded at you, then turned his full attention to the recruits.

“Let’s see if your training wasn’t a waste of time.”

You weren’t expecting some grand gesture, but nothing? Not even a comment? Not even one smart remark about you almost dying?

Tch. Whatever.

You shoved the thought aside and focused on the mission.

Later that night, back in your shared room, you busied yourself with packing up and cleaning. You weren’t leaving yet, but your parents had sent another letter, and the words were weighing heavily on your mind.

Come home. You’ve done enough. Find a safer job.

You ran a hand through your hair, staring at the letter for a long moment before sighing.

“…They have a point,” you muttered to yourself. “Maybe I should consider it.”

You didn’t hear the footsteps outside.

Didn’t notice the way someone lingered just beyond the door, listening.

Stanley had only come back to grab something he left behind. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—but he had heard enough.

He didn’t say anything.

He just turned and left.

But when he did, the faint scent of cigarettes lingered in the air.

You wrinkled your nose, scowling. “Who the hell was smoking in here?”

The next day’s training followed the usual routine, but something felt different.  Stanley’s gaze lingered on you longer than usual, like he was picking apart every move you made.

You didn’t think much of it until training wrapped up and the recruits were dismissed. Just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the air.

“Stay.”

You stood there, waiting. Stanley remained silent at first, leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his fingers. The scent was subtle, but you recognized it now—the same one that had clung to your room last night.

“So you’re leaving.”

“Yeah. I am.”

His mood darkened, his fingers tightening slightly around the cigarette before he crushed it in the ashtray without a second thought.

“…You finally get my attention,” he muttered, “and now you’re just leaving.”

You frowned. “Finally? You never cared before—”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re the idiot who didn’t realize it.”

Stanley let out a slow breath, pushing himself off the wall. “You really think it’s that easy?”

You took a cautious step back. “What?”

“You think you can just walk away?”

Faking a death in this line of work wasn’t difficult. And if it meant keeping you, ensuring you never left him…

Then so be it.

You were never a match for Stanley one-on-one. He was faster, stronger, and deadlier than most soldiers you had ever encountered. But despite knowing that, you had never expected him to actually charge at you.

Your instincts kicked in instantly. You barely had time to react, sidestepping just enough to avoid a direct hit. Your body protested—the remnants of your recovery slowing you down, your muscles not quite as responsive as they should have been.

Still, you weren’t going down without a fight.

You threw a counterattack, aiming for a weak spot—his ribs, maybe, if you could get a clean shot. But Stanley anticipated it with ease, twisting his body just enough for your strike to miss.

His hand slammed into your wrist, forcing your arm down. Before you could recover, his other arm hooked around your waist, knocking you off balance. You stumbled, trying to break free, but his grip was unrelenting.

Your legs were swept from under you.

The impact came hard and fast. Your back hit the ground with a thud, the breath leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp.

Before you could even attempt to push yourself up, he was already on you—one knee pressing down against your stomach, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, struggling beneath him.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he just watched you, his grip tightening slightly.

Your breath came out ragged, your wrists aching under his grip. You thrashed beneath him, twisting your body in an attempt to break free, but it was useless.

“Get off me!” You grit your teeth, trying to kick at him, but he had you pinned too well.

Nothing. No reaction. Just that same, unnerving silence.

Your patience snapped. “Damn it, Snyder, I just recovered! You’re hurting me!”

That made him pause—just for a split second. His grip on your wrists loosened slightly, just enough for you to feel it. But then, before you could take advantage of it

He moved.

A sharp gasp left your lips as the world suddenly tilted, your body lifted effortlessly off the ground. Before you even registered what was happening, your stomach pressed against something firm—his shoulder.

“What the—put me down!” You squirmed, pushing against his back, but he held you in place like you weighed nothing.

Stanley didn’t say a word.

He just started walking.

Your fists pounded against his back. “I swear, you’re out of your damn mind! This isn’t funny!”

You twisted your head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but all you could see was the way his grip on your leg was firm.

Your eyes darted around frantically, searching for anything within reach.

Stanley’s grip was strong, but his hold wasn’t perfect—if you could just get one good hit in, you might have a chance. Your fingers brushed against something—a metal canteen strapped to his belt.

It wasn’t much, but it was heavy.

You clenched your jaw, gripping it tight.

“I’m sorry” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

The impact was solid. Stanley’s body tensed, his step faltering. A sharp inhale was all you heard before his grip slackened—before you fell.

Your body hit the ground hard, pain flaring through your side. But there was no time to think. You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the ache in your limbs.

Run.

That was the only thought in your head.

The air was thick. The only sound was the rapid pounding of your heart, the distant rustle of leaves as you pushed your way deeper into the base’s outskirts.

Somewhere behind you, he was looking.

You swallowed hard, pressing yourself against the cold concrete wall of an abandoned training facility. The dim light barely reached inside.

You forced yourself to breathe evenly. To listen.

Footsteps.

He wasn’t rushing.

Why would he?

You could almost feel his presence in the air, the weight of his gaze sweeping over every possible hiding spot.

“...You really think you can run from me?”

You pressed further into the shadows, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to quiet the sound of your breath.

A boot scuffed against the ground, the noise sending a cold shiver down your spine.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t dare move.

Didn’t dare breathe.

And then—

The cold press of metal against the back of your head made your entire body freeze.

You didn’t need to turn around to know.

He was right there.

“Surrender.” His voice was eerily calm, steady, like he wasn’t pointing a loaded gun at you. “Or I’ll shoot.”

You clenched your fists, weighing your options. But there weren’t any. Your body was still weak from recovery, your stamina drained from running. And he—he never missed a shot.

Slowly, you lifted your hands in silent surrender.

“Smart choice”

Then, in a swift movement, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward. Your knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t let you fall. He just dragged you along, not saying another word.

---

The room was dimly lit, barren, save for the reinforced door and the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The lock clicked behind you.

You pressed against the cold wall, watching as Stanley stood on the other side of the door, staring at you through the small viewing slit.

“You’ll be safe here”

Your jaw tightened. “Safe?” Your voice came out sharp, incredulous. “You kidnapped me.”

“I kept you. Away from danger.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

The report was made public within hours.

An unfortunate accident. An elite soldier lost during a high-speed chase with an enemy spy. The fire had spread too quickly. No body was found—only ashes and the scorched remains of what used to be a base of operations.

The official report listed you as deceased in the line of duty.

To the rest of the world—

You were already dead.

[qiu-yan]

avoidance

if i had been in jiang cheng's position immediately after the fall of lotus pier, i probably would not have tried to strangle wei wuxian.

i don't like dealing with negative emotions, so instead i'd probably say some bullshit like "whaaat? no, it's not your fault and i don't blame you at all, so don't worry about it," and then just put all my energy towards trying to survive. except i would blame wei wuxian. i would very much blame him, from the depths of my soul. even if i tried my hardest to convince myself not to blame him, that i should not blame him, that i do not want to blame him - nonetheless, my subconscious would remain convinced that, were it not for him, my family and everyone i grew up with would still be alive.

and, because of that resentment, i would begin to pull away from him.

i would not save wei wuxian from that wen patrol. even if i did love that deeply, my resentment would still blunt my reaction time and i would not be able to act in time. for the sake of convenience, let's say that wen ning rescues wei wuxian from lotus pier anyways. wei wuxian lives. what happens then? on one hand, i still resent him for causing the deaths of all my family; on the other hand, though, now i also feel guilty for allowing him to be captured and tortured simply because i would not die in his place. how do i deal with these complicated emotions - these unsightly, ugly emotions? i don't. i bury them and pretend they don't exist, because running away from difficult feelings is how i've always lived my life - i run away from him, because whenever i see him, this twinned of resentment and guilt rear their ugly heads again.

thus, because of my emotional unavailability, the relationship tanks. maybe wei wuxian gets his core melted, somehow picks up demonic cultivation anyways, and is thus pulling away from me as well; maybe the avoidance comes from both ends. and if wei wuxian instead notices that something is wrong and starts pestering me about what's wrong - well, i have full faith in my ability to deflect. i am long-practiced in diverting the focus of a conversation specifically to imply that the other party's concern isn't welcome.

thus, by the time the sunshot campaign ends, our relationship would have severely deteriorated. and then, because of this, i would take wei wuxian leaving our sect to protect the wen remnants as the actual end of our bond. unlike jiang cheng, i would not even argue against wei wuxian's leaving, nor say things as sentimental as "if you insist on protecting them, then i cannot protect you" - instead, i'd simply write off our relationship as doomed and sever it peacefully.

after all, he owes me nothing. i am entitled to neither his labor nor his presence. if he wishes to leave, then he is free to go; if he wishes to no longer be family, the i will no longer think of him as so. in fact, the less familiarly i think of him, the better: it is at once much easier and much more comfortable for me to believe, in a post-hoc sense, that someone who has left me actually never wanted to be with me to begin with, and i therefore have not lost anything of value at all. and this loss would not hurt me as much as it hurt jiang cheng in canon. after all, i, unlike jiang cheng, am a veteran at avoiding all thought on topics that distress me; instead, i'd soon find something new and exciting with which to distract myself.

i would not visit wei wuxian in the burial mounds. if jiang yanli insisted on seeing him, perhaps i would accompany her there, but i would not make any conversation with him myself beyond what is absolutely necessary. i would consider the death of jin zixuan unforgivable. i would consider the death of jiang yanli unforgivable. but perhaps i would not feel as wretchedly betrayed as jiang cheng does in canon: after all, i in this scenario, unlike jiang cheng, have already given up on wei wuxian a long time ago.

i would probably lead the first siege of the burial mounds. i would not hold the same level of animosity against the wens as jiang cheng does in canon - in general, while i can hold onto subconscious resentment for a long time, actively clinging onto seething hatred for extended periods of time is difficult for me. perhaps i'd even speak up more for the wen remnants, out of purely some abstract moral concern for the wellbeing of POWs; however, i'd stand down the moment any of said speech put my own people in danger. perhaps i'd lead the first siege of the burial mounds because it is expected of me. or perhaps i'd genuinely want the man who hurt my sister to die.

either way, if i then encountered wei wuxian in the burial mounds battlefield, i would actually kill him. it would be easy for me to do so.

---

as you might have guessed, the "i" in this passage is not actually me (yanyan) from real life. if it were Me In Real Life in jiang cheng's position i would probably just die.

instead, the "i" in thjis passage is a different MDZS character. prize for you (bragging rights) if you can guess who it is!!!!!

[evilminji]

You know that Post about Danny becoming the False Villian, Expose?

To train all these kids, who are running around with shitty priorities and the self preservation instincts of lemmings? Because they were arrogant. Didn't listen to the concerns of those they "protect". Didn't listen to the concerns of a fellow Hero. So now, they WILL learn, at the hands of a "Villian".

Cause he TRIED pointing things out nicely.

Was met with a brick wall of condescension and dismissal.

THAT post.

You know where he would not only do that, but go APESHIT into it? Because he is a Hero and holy SHIT these kids are gonna get themselves killed? Gonna kill somebody ELSE? Have fucked up priorities and live in a fucked up system they do not even question?

Boku No Hero Academia.

Why the FUCK are you posing for the cameras? Why the absolute FUCK are you beating that man down on the worst day of his life, instead of TALKING him down? Why are you jumping too conclusions and splitting up and playing for the crowds? Why. The ABSOLUTE AND UNFORGIVING FUCK do you seem to ASSUME that every innocent soul, that doesn't look default generic human, is the AGGRESSOR in every situation you arrive at?!

Danny would have a conniption. Just a full body rage seizure, as his Ghost-y lil brain LIT UP with the BURNING NEED to fix everything, everywhere, at once. Right. Now.

But do they listen?

Ha!

Cool, cool cool cool cool..... he's gonna burn the entire country dow- No! That way lies Dan! Breathe, Fenton. Just.... Breathe. You can fix this.

The older ones may be set in their ways, but the younger ones are still learning. They can get better. BE better. They're kids. They just need opportunities to grow. And they WANT to be Heros, right? All he has to do is show them HOW. Poke their weak spots and point out their mistakes.

He can do that!

And just? Out of NO WHERE? This foreign villian decends upon Japan? What's worse, seeming to TARGET HEROS STUDENTS. Young, just debuted, Heros. Everyone freaks out. Older Heros closing rank, where they can, to try and Protect These Kids(tm).

But they can't be everywhere at once.

And this menace? Seemingly CAN be. Can make copies of himself. Use Ice. Fly. Energy beams. Intangiblity. Invisibility! What monster are they DEALING with?! That plays the flamboyant fool, dispensing deadly peril, only to then turn around, and in chilling sobriety absolutely destroy seasoned heroes?

That LECTURES them while doing it.

He's undermining the people's faith in the system!

(But should they have faith in it? Doesn't he have good points? Aren't they getting stronger, faster, better heroes for facing him? Where did he come from? Hasn't anyone else noticed that not a single civilian has gotten hurt, at his hands? That he annihilates any true villians foolish enough to think he's on their side?)

(How many "thugs" and "minor villians" have these guys not noticed, they wonder, who have just... disappeared. Come into contact with this guy and then? Stopped. Turned up somewhere else, weeks later, healthy again. Smiling with illegal lifestyle support gear, a new job, a new life, and better future. Finally free of the violence.)

Amity may be at peace by the time Danny turns 20(-ish? Maybe? Is he? Clockwork! How old IS he? You've sent him on so many of your weird timebend-y missions he lost count!). But? Danny is a Heroic Protector Spirit. His Obsession has demands. And his Human sides Space Obsession will never really be quite strong enough to support him.

You know, since it can't die.

Just because it HAS a Soul aspect to it, doesn't mean it'll ever come into practical use. So? The more powerful Heroic instincts it is! And honestly, he wasn't even planning to STAY. Just check the place out. You know, compare his options. But... *twitch*

They Are Doing It Wrong.

So now he lives here!

.....it's awful! They don't even have any space exploration! No studying, no stars, no futuristic moon base! Nothing! And he doesn't even SPEAK Japanese! In human form? He has no idea what anyone is saying! At least the Sorta-But-Not skeleton Ghost guy across the hall is helping. Dude might be taller then his DAD. Seriously ecto-starved though. It's like he somehow GAVE all his body's ecto to someone else!

How's he supposed to heal like that?! Guy really needs to learn how to take care of himself.

@hdgnj @babbling-babull @lolottes @nerdpoe @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

[ellemarianne555]

(Pumpkin) Spice

Summary: cozy fall vibes incoming, Aegon is a cute house husband baking cookies and you just want to spoil him a little. Modern AU.

Content warnings: mdni, swearing, blowjobs, implied ass play, hint of pegging/rimming. Minor mentions of alcoholism, very subby Aegon.

Word Count: 1k ish

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🍁๋࣭ ⭑🍂༘⋆

After a long day at work, you slid your keys into the front door only to be greeted by the sweet smell of cinnamon and brown sugar. You smiled to yourself, your boyfriend must be baking again.

Placing your keys in the bowl by the door, you slowly crept into the kitchen where you could see Aegon singing along to the radio as he shaped little balls of cookie dough. Leaning back on the counter, you smiled to yourself. He was just so sweet. When you had first met Aegon, he was just out of rehab, you had seen him coming into your building looking so sad you just couldn’t help but talk to him. Pretty boys shouldn’t be so upset. You learned that he had just moved into the building in order to escape the strict rules laid out by his parent’s trust fund, that had driven him to his unhealthy dependency on alcohol.

Over time, Aegon would come over to your apartment with baked goods. Explaining that he had no real job and wanted to do something useful with his time. His pumpkin cinnamon rolls were out of this world, and it wasn’t long before you two were together and he slowly moved his few things into your home.

“Hey, Sunfyre.” You said as the small fluffy blond dog ran up to you and expectantly dropped his bone at your foot. Aegon still hadn’t noticed your entrance, he was too busy dancing to some radio hit by his new favourite artist about that movie, was it Juno?

You came behind your boyfriend, and slotted your body behind his, kissing and nipping his neck softly. He froze before smiling happily as you kissed him sweetly.

“How was your day at work?” He asked thoughtfully.

“The absolute worst.” You moaned as you tucked your head into the crook of his neck. “But a lot better now that I’m here.” He grinned and turned around, wiping his hands on the apron decorated with pumpkins you had bought him. He was wearing a white cream jumper, several sizes too big with a sausage dog embroidered on it. With his pale skin and white blond hair, he looked like an angel. One you wanted to ruin.

He grinned again, mischievously this time, as he deepened the kiss between you and grabbed at your blouse so as to pull it off. Cursing at the small buttons, you giggled and helped him to take it off. His face seemed to light up as he saw all of you, and you knew you would never get used to how much he adored you.

Sinking to your knees, you untied his apron and impatiently tugged down his sweatpants. His half-hard cock fell out and you laughed. “No underwear?”

He squirmed before smiling shyly, “I was hoping you’d be home soon”. You responded by taking his cock into your mouth. He groaned, so devastatingly, you were sorry that your mouth was occupied and you couldn’t tell him to be a good boy and keep quiet.

Aegon didn’t necessarily have a big dick, but you were perfectly content with the four and a half inches he did have. It stretched you out perfectly and left you wanting more, that he was happily able to provide with his tongue and clever hands. Sucking on his fat cock, you hollowed your cheeks as he sunk back onto the counter and tried to cover his face with his hands. You paused and reached up, swatting his hand away.

“I want to see you come undone for me.”

You hollowed out your cheeks and ignored the ache in the back of your throat as you took him down deeper. Using your spit as lube, you took what was left of him into your hands and tugged slowly.

“M-more. P-please” he whined as you smiled around his cock. The pace become fast and unforgiving as his sharp, high cries filled the room. He squirmed furiously as he choked out “I’m coming. I’m coming. Please!”

You started sucking him even harder as your wrist nearly cramped with the pace. Finally, he groaned, deep and content as he spilled his load into your mouth.

You rose up and kissed him, letting the remnants of his cone flow back into his mouth as you held his chin. “Swallow.” his eyes were teary and red as he nodded and gulped before he leant in to kiss you again.

The kiss was sweet and tender as you both sought to get back your breath. He broke off the kiss and leaned back in the counter.

“You know. The cookies aren’t the only surprise I have for you.” He turned back around towards the sink and you could see a gleaming pink jewel nestled between his cheeks. You swore low and filthily, as the fire alarm went off and Aegon lunged to pull his burnt cookies out of the oven.

You really couldn’t care less about eating them, not when your boyfriend had prepared a whole different kind of treat for you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🍁๋࣭ ⭑🍂༘⋆

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you want a part two, I know pegging isn’t everyone’s cup of tea so then you really wouldn’t want to know what Aegon has stashed in the pantry. Love you all xxx

[yesihaveaobsession]

His Antlers

Alastor x female!reader

Summary: A question has been brewing in the readers (you) mind, it was a filthy thought, but it's needed to be answered.

A/N- Heyyy, I’m back! I’m planning to write more this year. I didn’t finish many fics last year, mostly because I ran out of ideas, haha. So if you’ve got any Alastor fic ideas, feel free to drop them! I’ll pick a couple that catch my interest.

ALSO this was inspired by the questions and fics for us Alastor simps

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF FINISHING?

It was a quiet afternoon in the hotel lobby—the kind of quiet that felt almost suspicious, given the usual chaos that unfolded within its walls. You were slouched in one of the very worn-out armchairs, nose-deep in a magazine. Well, not really nose-deep. It was more half-heartedly clutched in your hands, and you hadn’t turned a page in what felt like forever.

Across from you sat Alastor, perfectly composed as always, a newspaper spread out in his clawed fingers. His crimson eyes scanned the pages with unnerving focus. But you couldn’t focus on your magazine. No, your thoughts had wandered somewhere... unforgivable.

Your gaze drifted to him again. The sharp angle of his antlers. The slight twitch of his ever-present smile. The occasional glimmer of mischief in his eyes. And then that cursed question popped into your head like a firecracker: Do his antlers… grow when he’s about to… finish?

You desperately tried to shake the thought. Why would you even think that?! It was awful and ridiculous. But now, the question had lodged itself in your brain, and no amount of page-flipping could erase it. Worse still, another thought followed. Has he ever… finished?

Your eyes flicked up from the same page you’d been stuck on to him again. He turned a page in his newspaper, looking perfectly unaware—or so you hoped. When he adjusted the angle of the paper, his antlers shifted slightly. The cursed thought burned brighter in your mind. You stared.

Alastor’s eyes suddenly darted up from his paper. Caught.

You snapped your gaze back to your magazine, heat rushing to your face, pretending the words—now a blur—were the most fascinating in all of Hell. Moments later, curiosity got the better of you, and you glanced up again.

But he was already looking at you, his crimson eyes locked onto yours. A sly, knowing smile tugged at his lips. He said nothing, simply raising a brow before returning to his paper. Was it hot in here?

This silent game of stolen glances and panicked averting went on for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. Finally, Alastor spoke, breaking the unbearable silence.

“You seem distracted, my dear. Something on your mind?” His voice was lilting, teasing, and far too amused.

You froze. There was no way you could ask him. Absolutely no way. He’d kill you—or worse, laugh at you forever. But the words bubbled up in your throat before you could stop them. Taking a deep breath, you blurted it out.

“Do your antlers grow when you… finish?”

The air in the room grew still. Too still. The hum of Alastor’s static seemed louder now, filling the silence that followed your question. Your eyes drifted to the old-timey radio on the table next to him, its static crackling ominously. He was going to kill you, wasn’t he? Slowly, he lowered his newspaper, folding it neatly and setting it aside. His grin widened, sharp and dangerous, his eyes gleaming with unmistakable delight.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his expression frozen in that wicked grin. Then his shoulders began to shake. A sound bubbled up from his chest—a low chuckle that quickly escalated into full-blown hysterical laughter.

“Oh, my dear!” he howled, clutching his stomach. “That is positively the most delightful question I’ve been asked in decades! HAHA! Oh, you do amuse me so!” He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye as his laughter subsided into soft chuckles.

Your face burned crimson. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “I—just forget I said anything,” you mumbled, burying your face in the magazine.

But Alastor wasn’t done. He leaned forward, his grin sharp and mischievous. “To answer your question… no, my antlers do not grow. Though,” he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. After all, it’s far more fun that way, wouldn’t you agree?”

You stared at him, speechless.

He leaned back in his chair, picking up his newspaper as if nothing had happened, leaving you to stew in your embarrassment. You knew you’d just given him endless ammunition to tease you with.

[lvis44]

Senna or Superman // LH44

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst, Talk of this seasons difficulties, Suggestive dialogue, (Felipe Massa jump scare mention), Not Edited

Word Count: 4.3k+

Summary: Brazil 2024 was unforgiving, but amidst it all some greatness can still be achieved.

Notes: Hey y'all, like I said, I was feeling like typing and needed to work on something different for a second and I think I can speak for all of us that today had me feeling all of the emotions. There's definitely some angst in here but a lot of it is just absolute fluff and reader being an absolute Stan of her boyfriend, bc who wouldn't be if they were dating Lewis Hamilton, lets be real. Also, I've said it once I will say it again, I cannot follow a tense to save my life to ignore that. Kisses xxxx!!!

I am not a professional writer and all of this is a work of fiction and is strictly for fun. Enjoy! xxx

You hadn’t gotten much sleep and you were feeling it as you sat in the back of the Mercedes garage. Lewis had been hyper and full of anxious energy when he returned to the hotel last night. He had spent most of the previous day bobbing around the paddock like an energetic child, complaining about the delay in qualifying and trying to convince anyone that would listen to him that they should be sent out to try and put a lap together. He’s in Brazil, he wants to put on a show, but he’d been forced to wait much to his dismay and that had left you having to deal with him. He had been hyper after being so ready to go but never getting the release from his adrenaline and also annoyed that the sport had changed so much, yapping on about how when he first got to F1 they would have sent them out and that danger and adrenaline is a key part of the sport. You tried incessantly to get him to chill but you really had to just let him wear himself out, much like an actual child. It wasn’t until later in the evening, laying against his chest after finally convincing him to try to get some sleep, that you really got the answer to his emotions.

~

“I’m so excited and honored that I’m driving the MP4 tomorrow, but I’m also nervous. I was so prepared to do it today but having to wait, delaying the gratification, it’s really getting to me.” Lewis whispered into the comfortable silence, surprising you with the unprompted admission.

“It’s even more iconic to do it on race day.” You told him softly, rubbing your hand against his warm chest hoping to lighten the weight of whatever way playing in his mind.

He just hummed in response, evidently deep in his thoughts, his arm tightening around you ever so slightly.

“It’s understandable that you’re nervous Lew, you’re driving a piece of history, not just history to the sport but to your own personal journey and career. You’ve been asked to drive your idols car, the man is the reason you found your calling. Superman or Senna, right?” You kept your voice quiet, realizing that he needed to talk this through a bit more but not wanting to disrupt the peace that had settled around the two of you.

He smiled down at you as he heard the last part of your statement, chuckling lightly,  “Superman or Senna, yes indeed.” He trailed off for a moment, the soft smile lingering on his lips as he stared at the ceiling, almost as if reminiscing over those years when those were his two goals in life, back as a young boy in Stevenage. “What’s kinda funny is that it’s not that I’m really nervous about driving the car itself, like I feel confident in that part, I feel like I’m more than capable. It’s that I’m nervous that I don’t deserve this or something, this is a big deal and I would never want anyone to regret this decision or something. I honestly don’t even really know, like I don’t know why they would regret it I just, I don’t know. Just not really sure I’m worthy of this.” He finished his rant, letting out a deep sigh.

Hearing his thoughts caused you to sit up, no longer caring if you broke the peace in the room. You stared directly at him, eyes locked with his that were evidently startled at your abrupt departure from your cuddle.

“Lewis, I need you to listen to me. They chose you, Senna's family specifically chose you and asked you.” You started, poking him in the chest for emphasis before putting the same finger over his lips to shush him when he tried to argue. “They could have asked any of the other drivers on the grid, they could have asked a retired driver, they could honestly have asked whoever the hell they wanted, but no they asked for you. Not the current reigning champion, not the owner of the car, not even a Mclaren driver. They asked you, not only because they recognize your talent but because they see him in you. They see the love and respect that the people of Brazil have for you and they see you return that tenfold. This beautiful country made you a citizen for a reason, they see you carry that flag with the same pride as your own. Lew even Felipe Massa said that you deserve to be the one to drive that car and isn’t he like literally suing you right now?”

You finally let out a huff before the both of you erupt in a fit of giggles, Lewis forcefully pulling you back down to him to wrap you tightly in his arms. 

“I didn’t know he said that, honestly rather shocking because yeah, pretty sure he is. But ya know, I heard he’s running out of money.” His lips hold a smirk as he looks down at you before you’re both consumed by another fit of giggles. “Thank you,” He whispers once you’ve both calmed down, his lips against your forehead, “I needed to hear that. You know I get too much in my own head sometimes. Still have a hard time believing that all of this is real after everything I’ve been through, where I came from, ya know?”

“I do,” You say, tilting your head up to press a soft kiss to his lips, “you’re allowed to still revel in it, even after all this time. It truly is mental, even if it’s been this way for a while now. And by the way, I’m pretty sure the only reason they would ever regret letting you drive that car is if you crash it into a wall and break it, so just don’t do that and I’m pretty sure everything will be just fine.” You giggle, giving him another kiss.

“Well damn woman, no pressure or anything.” He fakes offence before splitting into a grin with you.

“Hey,” you say, your voice softer again, “I know I’m biassed and all, but know that I can’t think of anyone more deserving of this honor and I am so incredibly proud of you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back the tears when I see you in that Mclaren tomorrow. You are an incredibly blessed man but you do not take it for granted and I am honoured that I get to see how incredible you are every single day, as a driver, as a partner, but most importantly as a human. Let yourself enjoy this Lew, you deserve it and I will be there watching in awe.”

“I love you so so much.” He says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls you impossibly closer to him.

“I love you too,” You tell him softly, placing a kiss on his chest where he has squished your face into him, “now get some sleep, you have to be up in a few hours for that stupid early morning quali.”

~

Lewis had left early in the morning, sneaking out of bed around 3:30 to get ready. Only waking you accidentally when he placed a soft kiss on your forehead as he was leaving. He was apologetic, telling you to go back to sleep and that he would see you at the track. Not that you were able to get much more sleep, needing to get up and get ready yourself if you wanted any chance of making it there on time. When you had finally arrived to the garage, you made sure to perch yourself in the back, trying to stay out of the way of all the busy people rushing around you.You only got to see Lewis for a brief moment, only having enough time to give him a quick kiss and send him off with a final good luck encouragement. It was pointless though, you both knew the car wasn’t going to perform to Lewis’ liking. If anything it had somehow gotten worse for this weekend. 

As you sat in the garage watching on you couldn’t help but cringe. Lewis was battling with the car, not even making it out of Q1. You knew his mood wouldn’t be amazing when he finally made his way back to you after going to be weighed and speak to the media. You watched the next session, baffled by the sheer chaos unfolding and you couldn’t help but pray that the race would end up being better. The grid was out of position and red flags were being thrown left and right. You let out a sigh when you saw your man finally enter the garage, his helmet still on. He stopped momentarily to speak with some of his engineers, shaking peoples hands and thanking them for their hard work. He finally locked onto you, gesturing for you to follow him as he made his way to his drivers room. When you walked in behind him you could see how heavy his shoulders were. His helmet had been discarded on the bench beside him but he still hadn’t turned around.

“Hey, we knew it was gonna be shit, right?” You said quietly, putting your hand on his damp back.

“Yeah, we did. I’m just so ready for this season to be over.” He finally said, letting out a deep breath as he turned to face you.

“We’re so close babe, so so close. And for now we get to take a little time away from this devil of a car.” You told him, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands found your waist. Not caring one bit that he was soggy from the rain and the sweat, just content to be with your guy.

“Still got a race to do hun.” He reminded you, kissing his teeth.

“Oh I know, but let’s not think about that right now. I was talking about you getting behind the wheel of a Mclaren MP4 for a little while instead.” You smirk, leaning up towards his now smiling face.

“A proper race car.” He says, his smile threatening to split his face.

This is what you wanted, you wanted him to revel in the joy, revel in the honor of driving such an incredible car. Enjoy being behind the wheel of a Championship winning car once again even if it was only for a few laps and unlike the cars he was used to winning in. 

“A legacy meant for a hometown hero to carry on, and a race car meant for a World Champion. It’s been waiting for another great to stretch its legs and they found just the right Brazilian for the job.” You whispered to him, your faces incredibly close now. 

“If you keep talking like that I might end up locking you in here.��� His voice is teasing as he wraps his arms around you.

“As much as I desperately want to say yes to that, I do believe you have something to get ready for.” You sigh, pulling back and patting his chest.

“I do, but we’ll use it for motivation later, I might need it.” He says as he peels himself off of you, his voice is playful but you both know he’s dead serious.

“The second we leave this track, I am all yours for as long as you want or need.” You promise, watching as he starts to change and prepare to go meet the Mclaren mechanics that have been looking after the historical car.

You sit in a comfortable peace for a while, occasionally exchanging words about little things that don’t really matter that much, just enjoying being in his space. You know that when the day is over you will have a full debrief, all of the frustration that he’s setting aside for this moment will inevitably bubble up once he’s in the safe privacy of the two of you alone, but for now you entertain his small talk and let him start to get excited about his incredible moment as he gets himself ready. When he’s ready he turns to  you with childlike excitement bubbling at the surface and you can feel your heart swell.

“This is a good look for you.” You tell him, eyeing the all white suit with the Brazilian flag at his waist.

“I’m still mad I can’t wear his actual helmet.” Lewis grumbles with a shake of his head.

“I hate to say, I actually agree with them on that one babe, let’s keep your head safe, yeah?” You laugh.

“I know I know, don’t think it would even fit on my head anyway.” He playfully groans, making his way over to you.

“I like the special helmet for this weekend though, it’s still a tribute.” You remind him, knowing he’s half joking but wanting him to be fully confident when he steps out.

He nods, taking a moment to admire you before he’s pulling you close and landing his lips on yours in a kiss that takes you by surprise with its force.

“Thank you, for everything,” He starts when he finally pulls away, his forehead resting on yours, “for reminding me that I’m allowed to revel in this, for keeping me grounded,for letting me be excited, just for everything.”

“Hey, that’s why I’m here. You do the exact same for me when I need it, it’s why we work so well.” You say quietly, your hand coming to stroke his beard gently.

“If I don’t get to see you before I get in the car, just know your words from last night are gonna be in my head the entire time. I’m gonna let myself enjoy this, let myself feel this. Nothing else about today matters other than honouring and paying tribute to my childhood hero and getting to live out my childhood dreams of driving the car that made me want to start racing around the circuit that introduced me to another home.” His voice holds excitement and certainty as he speaks that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You’ve never been quite so proud of the man in front of you. Yes, you’ve cheered for him since the beginning, before you even met him. You’ve wept when he’s broken records and won each and every championship. Yet nothing quite compares to seeing this amazing moment and knowing just how much he deserves it, knowing that there is no one better to hold this responsibility and honor. There is no one like Aryton Senna and truly there never will be, and there is no one like Lewis Hamilton and there truly never will be. 

“You know you’re doing for millions what he did for you, right?” You whisper, hoping he knows just the level of inspiration he gives to everyone watching him, young and old alike.

“I know, and it’s amazing to be able to do that.” He says, his smile warm.

You don’t say another word, giving him a long kiss, feeling connected to him in a way you both need in the moment, albeit for much different reasons. You are pouring every ounce of pride and amazement into the kiss, hoping he can feel it, while he is absorbing the love and reassurance that comes with your touch, letting himself feel his greatness and humble himself all at once. Finally there is a knock at the door, signalling that he really needs to get going, causing you to part from each other reluctantly. 

“Okay, I gotta go do the most amazing thing of my entire career.” He says with a smile, “Be here when I get back?”

“I can’t promise I won’t be sobbing out near the pit wall but I will definitely find you, promise.” You laugh, giving him one last kiss before he grabs his helmet and makes his way over to the media garage where the incredible car is being stored for him.

It takes you a little while to get out to the pit lane that is already lined with people. You wish you could be closer, see the car up close but this isn’t your moment. Today is for Senna's family and the people of Brazil, you are just lucky enough to be able to witness the incredible moment in person.You know Lewis is somewhere down the pitlane, most likely trying to stay calm as he geeks out over the amazing machine he is about to drive. He has driven one of Senna’s cars before, but not in a long time, and not in this setting, not with this honor and audience. You also know that no matter how many times he may have had the privilege of being around and driving incredible race cars, he is a racing driver through and through and the excitement will never change. While you’re standing there smiling to yourself, thinking about how excited Lewis must be and taking in the incredible aura of the crowd, you catch sight of the live stream playing on the jumbotron. There he is, getting in his idols car, you watch as he takes a moment to really take it in just before he’s being strapped in. It’s funny to you to see him surrounded by Mclaren mechanics again, to see the goodyear tires you remember from your first ever F1 races. Then they’re rolling him out and the crowd gets their first in person glimpse of the car over the wall and the cheers echo through your soul. It takes a few more minutes for them to be ready and the atmosphere is building with anticipation but then they start the engine. The first rumble sends a chill down your spine and silences the track. The sound of the V10 roaring to life evoked a visceral feeling from you, bringing back memories of why you fell in love with the sport as a child in the first place and you could only imagine what the emotions coursing through Lewis in that moment were. You saw him shake his head in disbelief as he revved the engine and you could just picture the boyish grin that would be covering his face at that moment. Then it cut, he stalled, and you heard the boos and wanted to run and protect him. You knew it wasn’t his fault, and realistically you knew the crowd wasn’t booing him, they were booing the disruption of the soundtrack that was the incredible V10 engine and you also knew Lewis was smart enough to know that as well. The mechanics were quick, getting the engine back up rapidly and soon enough Lewis was headed out toward the track. He took a moment, the mechanics meeting him again and you prayed that everything would go to plan, this moment was too important to everyone for anything not to be perfect. And then you saw him, speeding past you in Senna’s Mclaren down the pit straight. The spray of water adding to the moment as he waved at the fans who were evidently stunned at the spectacle in front of them. Their recently adopted hero bringing them back to a moment with their lifelong hero. You couldn’t hold back your tears as you watched him complete lap after flawless lap, handling the car like he’d been driving it for years. You could only imagine what the emotions flowing through his body must be, so incredibly grateful to be able to witness the moment. When you saw him stop to grab the flag your tears picked up, watching the beauty of the moment as he completed his dream of waving his new country's flag as he drove his idol's car with no hands around the wet track. Everything about the moment was pure poetry. 

By the time he parked the car on the grid, you were sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the entirety of Sao Paulo. You watched through teary eyes as Viviane went and spoke to him as he collected himself in the cockpit. You could see her thanking him and you knew that he was thanking her just as profusely. You tried to dry your eyes as you watched them pose with Senna's helmet while Lewis sat in the car, but they came back quickly. You finally managed to pull yourself together just a little bit as you watched him pose with flag but the second he knelt down next to the car as if to thank it for everything it had done for him and his idol, you lost it again, You couldn’t help but laugh at yourself just a bit, your emotions were definitely getting the best of you. You could see the emotion on Lewis’ face as he too pulled himself together to get ready for the interview. He was beaming, eternally grateful for the opportunity. You listened as he described his love for Brazil and the love he has received from the fans, you could hear the emotion thick in his voice the entire time, even through the incredible joy that was paired with it. You knew he meant it when he said it was the ‘honor of his career’ and you were certain this would be a moment that neither of you ever forgot. Everything about it was purely beautiful, seeing everyone pause for something so meaningful, you weren’t sure you had ever seen the sport so at one in your entire life.

When you saw him finally making his way to the pit lane you scramble to try to pull yourself together, hoping to be somewhat emotionally sound when you went to meet him in his drivers room, but he found you first, a strong arm slinking around your waist before you were being crushed in a tight hug. When he finally let you go you took a moment to take him in. The emotions were written all over his face, the weight of the profound moment sinking in for him as the joy was palpable. He took in your state, his eyes softening, knowing that every emotion on your face came from your love for him and your love for the sport.

“C’mon, lets go be alone for a second.” He said softly, guiding you toward the garage.

When you were safely inside his drivers room you turned to him, your words dying on your tongue as they didn’t feel enough to express just how proud of him you were. Instead you opted to grasp his face in your hands and kiss him, hard, tears falling down your cheeks as you did. When you finally parted from him you saw that the smile had never left his face.

“I think you’re more emotional about that entire thing than I am.” He teased you softly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

“Stop it,” You laughed, swatting at him pathetically, “I’m just so proud of you and so happy for you. I can only imagine what that meant to you.”

“Yeah, it was surreal, never had so many emotions at once. It felt incredible, it truly felt like a dream come true.” He said as he placed his hands on your waist, pulling you toward him.

“I was right you know, there was no one more suited for that than you.” You tell him softly.

“You were absolutely right, that felt perfect, Viviane was so kind and so grateful, I will never forget this.” He sighs and you can tell the weight of the weekend is leaving his body with it.

“Nothing else that happens this weekend matters, okay? This was what it was all for.” You assure him, placing your hand on the side of his neck.

“Thank you, you’re right, that was truly the only reason I am here this weekend, none of the rest matters in the slightest.” His eyes are soft as he melts into your touch.

“I know you said you wanted to be Senna or Superman but I think you may have achieved both just now. You are more than a hero to just about everyone here, me included.” You tell him softly, staring deep into his eyes as you do.

“That means a lot, I felt it while I was out there. It was a crazy feeling, getting to be that for everyone.” He says earnestly.

“You do it way more frequently than you think, even if you haven’t been feeling it lately.” You assure him, wanting him to know just how much you mean it.

He doesn’t respond but you can tell he’s just taking it in as he lets out a breath and traces circles on your hip. He’s a confident man, cocky at times, but even the strongest of soldiers can be weak in the face of defeat.

“I know you are a natural born competitor, but let's make a deal that your only objective today is just to come back to me in one piece. That’s all I ask of you.” You say after a moment, listening to the rain pickup against the roof.

“I will absolutely come back to you, but I ain’t making any promise about not also trying to pull that tractor as far forward as I can.” He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Okay fair enough, just need you in tiptop shape to be my superman when we get back to the hotel tonight.” You smirk, pinching his bicep.

“Well when you put it like that why don’t we just leave on a high note and head back right now?” He asks playfully, pulling you closer to him.

“I’m down, but you’ve gotta go keep being both Senna and Superman.” You giggle.

“Okay, I’ll do my best, but I’m still holding you to that even if this race is shit.” He says, pinching your bum.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[apricot-blossomss]

Halluuu, may i request for a Hermes x f reader comfort where reader is just having a bad night and Hermes comforts her?

☛ hermes comforting mortal! fem! reader on a bad night

☛ sfw, tw: self-depricating thoughts and anxiety; my therapist would have a field day with this

Why did your thouhts have to torment you on a night like this? A night that was supposed to be perfect, with a light breeze, soft sheets and your ethereal lover's arm holding you lazily as his soft breaths filled the room. And yet, thoughts were running wild in your head and wouldn't grant you any rest. But you had to sleep, you had to stop, you had to enjoy this.

How many of these nights would be in your future, if any? What was stopping Hermes from getting up tomorrow and never returning again? You wouldn't be able to blame him. He was a god. Why would he settle for someone like you? Someone mortal, plain, who had nothing to give but mere kindness. Who wasn't divine, wasn't extraordinary, was so easily replacable.

Anxiety wrapped its unforgiving fingers around your heart and squeezed tightly. You loved Hermes, but how could he love you? What made him stay in the first place? You knew what his family and friends thought about you, you knew it yourself. You weren't enough for him. He was an olympian god, and what about you?

There was no way you could ever tell him what you felt. If you brought his attention to the fact the he could do so much better, he would leave you. It was selfish, and you despised yourself for trapping him with you. You didn't deserve him.

And there was something else. You didn't want to let him know. He always said you were like a ray of sunshine, you were so kind to him, always cheered him up when his work exhausted him, always looking out for him, always making him smile. It was your job to be happy, it was what made you a little valuable at least. What reason could he have for staying than you being fun to be around? And moping around surely didn't make you fun to be around. A sorry sack of misery wouldn't make him stay, now, would it?

You hadn't realized you were crying and scolded yourself, trying to choke down the sobs that threatened to leave your throat. but the hand on your mouth did anything but help when your felt your lungs tighten. A sudden panic shot through your veins. You couldn't breathe. Gasping for air, you felt your chest constrict and scrambled to get rid of your clothes, but you couldnt move your arms.

"Hey, hey!" With half a mind, you realized Hermes was calling your name and holding your hands. "Whoa," he breathed, "Calm down. I'm here, alright? Just- I'm here." He sat you up in the bed and the sound of his voice brought the air back into your loungs. His concerned face hovered over you as he brushed sweaty strands of hair out of your face.

"Ah, uhm, sorry for waking you." You cursed your shaky voice and tried to wipe the tears away as inconspicuously as possible. But your hands were shaking so hard you could hardly brush away the obvious wetness on your cheeks. His brows only furrowed deeper. "I'm fine, go back to sleep."

"No, you aren't," Hermes said with a seriousness you rarely got to see from him. A little awkwardly, he wrapped an arm around you and took your trembling hand. "You're shaking all over, baby. What's going on?"

Despite your best efforts, the smile you forced onto your face must have not been very convincing because he only frowned harder. In your best attempt at a cheery voice, you answered: "It's nothing, really, I'm sorry for waking you and being all-" At the worst possible moment, your voice broke off and you tried to overplay it with a cough, but new tears stung in your eyes. You smiled at him anyway. "You should go back to sleep."

"Absolutely not!" Hermes argued firmly, very unnerved by the new tears streaming down your cheeks that you tried to wipe away. "Please," his voice got that pleading tone that you could not resist. The one that always had you put down everything and fall into his arms. He took your hands from your face and kissed your fingertips lightly. They were glistening with your tears. "Tell me, I want to know."

You broke. It just all broke out of you as heaving sobs shook your body and tears streamed down your cheeks. His arms closed tightly around you and you could only cry into his chest as he held your shaking body with the utmost tenderness.

"I don't deserve you," you sobbed. "Why would you ever stay with me? You're a god, and I'm just-" Your voice broke and you had to start again. "'M so so sorry, I want to be happy with you and I only want you to see my bright sides but I can't-" Only chocked sounds left your lips and you wet his chest with salty tears.

"Shh," he hummed and cradled you in his arms. "Calm down, baby." His chest rumbled as he spoke and you found solace in the sound, burying your head even further into the heat of his body.

After a few minutes, you managed to shakily wipe the tears away and look up at him. You imagined you were a very pathetic sight to behold right now, but the smile Hermes gave you was so tender and gentle your heart swelled with overwhelming affection. The same affection was laced into his voice as he spoke.

"How could you ever think that I would leave you?" Hermes whispered and ran a hand through your hair. "Baby, your obliviousness is admirable. And I- I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that you couldn't trust me with your baggage." When you shook your head violently and opened your mouth to protest, he shushed you. "But I want you to give me a chance to love all of you. The bright and dark sides, the good and bad days. 'Cause I love you. All of you."

Shakily, you nodded, and he leaned down to press a kiss onto your lips. It tasted of salt and tears, but the way he cradled your face, angled it just right made up for it. A long sigh left your mouth and he swallowed it up, pulling you impossibly closer and caressing your face as he kissed away your worries- for now.

When you were out of breath, you parted from him and managed to let out a small laugh. Small, broken, but real. "I don't think there will be any sleeping tonight, I'm afraid."

At your words, you could see an idea forming in his head, and a smile on his face. You knew that smile. The god leaned down to your ear and you felt his hot breath on your neck. "How would you like a little walk?"

"Uh, sure," you said, completely dumbfounded by his proximity, as always. He grinned down at you triumphantly and booped your nose. You frowned at him and he laughed lightly. "You just stay right there, baby, while I get my shoes."

"Your shoes?" You froze as he hopped off the bed and searched the darkness for his winged shoes. "Your- what- but- You don't want to-" He did, you saw it in the smirk he flashed you as he put them on and held his arms open for you to throw yourself into them. "May I invite you on a romantic nighttime fly, m'lady?"

Clumsily and very skeptically, you crawled towards him to the foot of your bed and put your arms around his neck. A mix of excitement and panic twirled around in your stomach that made you forget all about your worries and fears. His arms came up to lock around your waist securely and with you in his arms, he approached the open window. "Hermes, I swear, if you drop me I will kill you, and no immortality will be able to save you," you said, alarmed.

You only got a small laugh and a peck on the cheek in return, the next moment he had launched the both of you out of the window. It felt like you were falling, but upwards, which didn't make any sense. The speed with which he catapulted the two of you towards the stars had you scream and hide away in his tunic. Your hands were for sure drawing ichor with how they were digging into his shoulders. The wind howled in your ears, so loud you would have almost missed the ecstatic laugh coming from your lover. This was his turf.

A few breathless seconds of noise and speed and then it all stopped. You looked up carefully to see you were floating mid air, far above the ground under a sea of stars. Your stomach made a violent jolt when you made the mistake of looking down, so you looked up at the formations. "That's Ursa Major," you said, proud of yourself for remembering. "And Orion." Your eyes followed the Milky Way and you exclaimed in wonder.

"You like it?" Hermes asked and you looked back at him to nod. The stars reflected in his eyes, they held such affection and adoration that you suddenly felt stupid for not believing him when he said- "I love you," he breathed and you smiled giddily.

"You do!"

"Yes, I do," he laughed and whirled you around in a truly adventurous fashion. His hair tickled your throat when he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Gods, I adore you so much, baby. Don't you ever doubt that."

You could only nod, because the moment was too magical to be disrupted by words. His lips on your neck, his confession lingering in the cool air and the contrasting warmth in your heart that was doing backflips of joy. There you were, entangled under the watchful stars, and in that moment you could only feel happiness, happiness and love.

[cheshirebitch]

Alastor with a 1950’s housewife styled reader. When he sees her he doesn’t even understand why she’s in hell in the first place.

!!Mentions of domestic violence!!

She killed her husband for laying a hand on their child. She was slow and methodical with her kill, and when Alastor finds out he becomes enraptured by her. In awe of how proper and kind she is but how devastatingly cruel she can be if the circumstance calls for it.

He finds her duality alluring in a sense, and he’s so curious to see what fresh hell she’d let loose in hell if she decided to unleash herself upon some poor sinners.

This is my first request in a long time and I’m super tired so I hope this makes sense 😅

Oh boy, oh boy, did I love this idea and I hope I did you justice on it :)!

ℂ𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕪 𝕊𝕖𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕤

Alastor x Reader

“Alastor, dear, can you do me a favor?” I asked while smoothing my dress out nervously.

“Of course darling! What can I do for you my Angel?” Alastor started calling me that the day he met me. He was adamant that heaven messed up or I was a fallen angel for being too good. Every time he would go on one of his long stipples, I would have to keep my lips tight and calm my beating heart for two reasons. He really was too sweet to me and because I never want anyone to know my ugly truth. Not that I’m ashamed but because I don’t need everyone hunting down the man, especially considering he was alive and well in hell with me. I think he suffered considerably for his actions and I didn’t need the whole hotel, that was supposed to be a walking advertisement about redemption, trying to murder this man. Especially Alastor, he would be completely unforgiving.

He was always so polite when it concerned me and always had a compliment to throw my way.

“Mon Cher, looking elegant as always.”

“Darling, do smile more often. Hell would be much better with your sparkling smile.”

“What’s a looker like you doing at the bar by yourself? Care for company Angel?”

“Mon Cher,

“Would you be so kind to help me make dinner today? I truly didn’t expect the King of Hell to be visiting or I could’ve handled it on my own.” Exasperated that Charlie failed to mention, again, about her fathers visit. I rather not have him thinking an old housewife, such as myself, failed to uphold the standards I was raised with. This place will be spotless and perfect in two hours by my own hand, if Alastor agrees to assist me. I always batted his hands away when he’s tried before, being conditioned that all this work is only my job. My ex husband made sure I learned that too.

“Absolutely! Anything for my sweet Angel! Are you certain there is nothing else I can assist you with? Perhaps some cleaning, laundry, anything?” Alastor was leaning in towards my personal space as I pushed a finger over his massive smile. He truly is a pure gentleman despite his horrific sins he’s committed. Maybe that’s why I’m so attracted to him?

“Oh, no. Just some help in the kitchen will be fine. I just need someone to watch over the meal as it cooks so it doesn’t burn while I clean the rest of this hotel.” I smiled at him as polite as I could while trying not to tremble over the simple act of asking for help. It’s always involuntary when I flinch at a man, so much so that I’ve overheard conversations about it from the group. Charlie and Angel express their concerns to me but the rest just watch with pity in their eyes.

“Angel, certainly there is more I can do?” He gave me his smile still, slightly strained, but concern and a small hint of frustration were in those burgundy eyes. I pretended to think on it before shaking my head.

“That simply won’t do. I will handle all kitchen duties and you can clean. Don’t try to stop me.” Alastor morphed through the shadows as I raced to beat him to the kitchen, only to be met with a locked door. I huffed before giving in, but only because I was on a tight schedule. Fighting with Alastor’s stubbornness was at the bottom of my list and making sure this place was spiffy was at the top. So, I raced around on the lobby floor, cleaning everything and everything. I couldn’t help but notice how Alastor was trying to slyly send his shadow and Niffty to help. Ignoring them on purpose, faking ignorance for his sake, and kept cleaning at my full speed.

By the time I noticed there was nothing left to do, I was out of breath and was done one hour earlier than I thought I would be. That was also considering how I had two extra sets of helping hands plus the fact I didn’t have to check the kitchen at all. I smiled as I panted out, wiping the sweat from my brow. I sauntered into the kitchen, now with unlocked doors, and had my hands on my hips as I watched Alastor finish cooking everything I had laid out. I had a bandana on to keep my hair pulled up and stop the sweat from running down my neck. It was the pretty maroon and black one Alastor gave me the first year I knew him.

“Lovely to see you using the things I get you.” Without even turning around, he knew what I was wearing and didn’t degrade me for not completing these tasks completely on my own or faster. The smile spread on my face as I began to tease back.

“Always lovely to see you cooking. Don’t think I don’t see that tail wagging happily, deer.” I emphasized on his nickname being used more so as what animal he was. His ears twitched as he turned around with a playful grin. My tail whipped around behind me, showing I was teasing him playfully. He leaned closer, invading my personal space again.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Angel. I’m just helping a deer friend out.” He chuckled at his own pun, making me smile and nudge him. This is what normally happens when one of us tells a joke, it turns into a pun war. Right now though, I guess it was deer themed with a hint of good tension between us. He had us switching places, where I was the one with the counter behind me and he with nothing. Walking closer and closer, getting more into eachothers spaces with no complaints. Which of itself, others would find quite odd how Alastor wasn’t upset by myself being this close to him.

“That pun wasn’t one of your best. Dare I say, I wasn’t too fawn of that one.” His smile widened with genuine happiness without anything evil being the cause of it. It really was beautiful. I couldn’t help but morph my smile from a playful one to a genuine smile as well, full of admiration. I could even feel my eyes basically forming heart shapes for him.

“Angel?” His eyes looked relaxed along with his smile, he was still leaning so close to me I could feel his coat tickling my skin.

“Yes, deer?” He smiled more before continuing.

“How are you in Hell? Really?” My smile froze as I panicked slightly. He was someone I could see hunting my ex husband down and brutally killing for what he’s done, especially towards me and my family. My hands moved before I could stop them, gripping his with mine. His eyes looked confused at our hands before looking at me, waiting for what it was.

“Promise me, Al, that you’ll let it go after I tell you.” His eyes searched mine before he sighed out.

“You know I can’t promise that, my Angel.” One of his claws carefully brushed my cheek slowly. He started moving slower with his movements when they were towards me after noticing how I flinched. The bright red claws remained on my face as I looked away, defeated.

“It wasn’t always horrible with him, my late husband and father of my two beautiful girls.” I smiled as I mentioned my children, who have long lived their lives after my death, and both in heaven.

“But after a couple years when my youngest turned four, Paul wasn’t the same. He was laid off from his fancy office job and started drinking when he couldn’t find work. We had to sell our home and move. I started working at a couple diners and cleaning for a couple homes, anything to make the bills.” My smile turned sad as Alastor’s turned strained the second I spoke of alcohol. His grip tightened slightly but never enough to hurt me.

“He would get angry when I came home late, how the house was a mess, when the children got fussy, and just anything that involved work for him. That’s when I got tired and mouthed off.” Alastor’s upper lip curled in disgust at what was about to be spoken next.

“He didn’t like that, slapped me back in place.” Alastor’s eyes squinted.

“I think you’re downplaying it, Angel.” I sheepishly grin, knowing he’s right.

“A little.”

“Tell the truth now, darling.”

“He beat me till I couldn’t stand anymore. I tried fighting back but…” I shook my head and felt my eyes burning.

“I was just a silly housewife.” He took his claw and gently swiped away a fallen tear. It was the only tear I will let fall.

“I only said enough when he went to hit the oldest for trying to pull him off of me.” Tension was rising up my spine and locking my jaw tight. Alastor’s radio static picked up even more the second I spoke that sentence. I could feel his anger radiating from him.

“I hated him for it, so much so I killed him.” I looked up at Alastor right when his eyes dilated, recognizing the shock and admiration that was swirling in his eyes. His smile spread out across his face more as the radio static cut silent, then he spoke without any static in his voice.

“My, my, what have we got here? Dare I say my Angel is really a demon after all?” I could tell he said it with slight humor, still thinking I’m too pure to be in hell.

“I poisoned him for months with rat poisoning in his alcohol. He chose his own death, I just sped it up. Everyone thought he died of alcohol poisoning but it was me. I’d do it again if it meant my kids never had to see that ever again. He could’ve lived if he just chose his family over the alcohol.” I shrugged with no remorse for my actions.

“While he was getting more and more ill, I would watch from the doorway of our bedroom, where he slept. Just holding a kitchen knife and sharpening it, watching him sleep horribly.” Alastor smiled wider, wider than I thought possible really, and dipped me down gracefully. His arm behind my back holding me completely as his other hand delicately glided his ruby claw down my cheek.

“Mon Cher, penser que je ne pourrais pas t'aimer davantage.” **

Alastor was immediately thinking about how he’d worship her forever and was intrigued to see what fresh hell she would unleash by his side with this daunting loyalty and protective spirit. He also took note to pay a visit to dear ol’ Paul, the current bartender that replaced Husk at the casino in town.

** translation - “My dear, to think that I couldn’t love you more.”

(As always, characters belong to their owner and the story belongs to me. If you have any requests or ideas, send them over :)! I will gladly try to write things for my supporters! Thank you for the love and have a great day! <3)

[zombieumbreon]

separate headcanons with shoto, neito, tamaki, shindo and rin and another poly with bakugo & kirishima being called daddy/daddies for the first time by their girl

Please n thx

Shoto>>The first time you say it he’s caught completely off guard. He’s slightly confused as to why he likes it so much. His cock is pistoning in and out of you at an unforgiving pace, his heterochromatic eyes are screwed shut as he tried to keep from coming right then. And then it becomes a regular thing when you’re desperate to feel him.

Neito>> He’s already cocky. So when you let the word fall from your lips from the first time. Phew. He has you screaming and creaming for him. “You’ll never belong to anyone else. Tell who you belong to.”

Tamaki>> oh sweet baby. He is BLUSHING. You don’t use it in a submissive way with him either. No. You’re the dom in the moment, demanding him to cum for you. But, in the same instance you’re just as whiny and needy as he is when you say it. When you manage to string out a coherent sentence again he’s done for. “Come on, Daddy, be a good boy for me and cum.”

Shindo>> Man is using his quirk to make you go wild. “Da-daddy please, can’t take it.” He licks his lips, like a hungry wolf and speeds up. “Of course you can, babygirl. So good for me, come on just a little more for Daddy.”

Rin>> likes it more than he thought he would. Degrades you for it. “Such a slut. You love my cock that much?” But, all you can do is whimper. Until he stops. “Beg” is all he says and you’re crying for him. “Please, Daddy, please. Need to feel you”

KiriBaku>> “Daddy!” And they both turn to look at you, your arm wrapped around a new plushie. A shark. They’re annoyed you’ve added to your collection, but you look so pretty for them all fucked out clinging to the red shark adorned with a Dynamite mask and tears rolling down your cheeks. “Da-daddies, please,” you’re overstimulated and they give absolutely zero fucks that you are.

[hoshizor4a]

18+ MDNI | afab! reader | masterlist

virgin! gojo pt.2 | pt.1 here

virgin! gojo who will probably snap and give in over some stupid but oddly intimate thing, probably just you in one of his shirts, sleeping peacefully on his couch waiting for him to come back from a mission after not seeing each other for a couple of days, just the usual really, but for some reason this time was a bit different

while it's true that he had been a bit needier these last few days, especially after what had happened last time right before he had left for his mission, and what with the insistent thoughts of you (and the messages and pictures shared between you while he was on a mission away from you)

to be honest, part of him did also kind of feel like he was leading you on, promising you things he couldn't actually deliver

so it really didn't take much for him to finally convince himself that it was time (definitely did it for you and NOT bcs he's a horny idiot)

after gently waking you up on that exact same couch he had managed to cage you against it and himself, one leg over you while the other still supported him from the ground

he not so gently had shoved his over excited tongue between your sweet lips battling with your somewhat slower own, and while you couldn't be happier to be treated like this by him right after waking up it had seemed a bit unlike him so ofc you managed to tease the truth out of him

while he tried to play it off cool while it wasn't all that big of a deal but also subtly trying to apologize and make up for all the lies, you honestly couldn't care less, bcs what's better than an overly cocky gojo who thinks he's all that?

a gojo basically caught red handed, a gojo who is lightly blushing, a few drops of sweat coating his skin, those bright blue eyes of his that are looking anywhere but you, a gojo that is actually a virgin and so ready and willing to be destroyed by you

bcs let's be honest that's exactly what was going to happen no matter what

so when you ended up on his lap, his tongue once again in your mouth and his dick between your hands, it was game over for him

teasing him over that leaky tip of his that you had wanted to see, to touch, to taste – for months now, gojo a heaving twitching mess below you

sure you would make this – his first time, as enjoyable and memorable as you could, but that didn't mean you couldn't torture him a bit first

let's just say that edging him a few times was his punishment for all those months of lying to you (which you would have to reassure him once again that you actually didn't mind)

even after all that, the stamina monster that is (horny) gojo would still want to do things properly for you, too, so after switching your positions once again he would put that mouth to proper use instead of babbling abt random things like he had done in an attempt to keep his composure while you had jerked him off for what felt like forever in his opinion lol

while he would listen to your instructions on how to properly eat you out or finger you, he would eventually get fed up and just do it himself and ofc bcs this is gojo ofc he would be so unbelievably good at eating pussy

so messy and unforgiving (pay back to your pay back this bitch refuses to be the looser) he would try all kinds of things and find all the spots that did it for you basically instantly

with long fingers that reached to places you could never and a tongue that never stopped moving, either against you or to spill absolute filth abt how good you tasted, how he could and wanted to do this everyday from now on (that's a promise) how he couldn't wait to feel himself wrapped around you

and once he did, well not to anyone's surprise at all, he came right away

the feeling of your tight wet walls that had barely even wrapped around the tip of his cock had been all that was needed to make him tip over that edge you had brought him close to and then robbed him of so many times

and not even a few seconds, not even rly waiting to catch his breath, he would start thrusting against you again and again, rubbing his lithe fingers over your clit making as much a mess of you as he was

his whole body shaking, pleasured shivers running all over him, he couldn't understand why anybody wouldn't want to spend the rest of their lives like this

wrapped around you like this, he felt a different type of peace he couldn't find anywhere else, or with anyone else

so he really couldn't be happier to do this with you, and now virgin! gojo would be a thing of the past long forgotten considering all the sex he would have with you after this lol (or well at least until he gave you a reason to bring it up again oops)

[whatifitis]

♡ Good Riddance - FC 43 ♡

Summary: part 2 to this fic but can be read as a one shot! you and franco find yourselves tied by a string but it's hard to tell if its cursed or not. was it fate that brought you two to the same place at the same time?

Author's Note: this is absolute shit and i'm sorry i feel like everything i write gets worse and worse. feedback is always appreciated <3

WC: 2211

CW: angst, fluff, overuse of references, happy ending

Every lake here is frozen. Here you sit, in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, trying to get better. You knew you fucked up, big time. Seeing Franco so soon was a mistake. You hadn’t healed all your wounds yet so you still exploded on him. You knew all he wanted to do was be there for you and help you but you didn’t let him. 

You left your past life on the ground, trying to find who you were. You used to like who you were, but somewhere along the way you lost her and you can’t seem to find her again. Not only did you lose yourself, but you lost everyone that ever cared about you. You pushed them all away by being mean and unforgiving. 

You’re not sure if the work you’ve been doing to get better is working anymore. It feels like everythings the same. You're not the way you were.

It’s cold and windy out, leaving your nose bright red from the harshness of the air. You trudge through the cold, bitter snow and walk to a cafe that’s not far from where you’re staying. You come here every so often just as an excuse to get out the house, they also have the best chai latte you’ve ever had. 

You order your latte and take a seat in the corner. You enjoyed sitting in the furthest corner of the room, people watching. Watching as people came into the warmth of the shop, smiling as they took in the atmosphere of cinnamon and coffee scents. 

The bell ringing of the door caught your attention, your breath freezing from the sight. Franco, with a red nose as he tries to blow some heat into the palm of his hand. He’s holding the door open for someone, a blonde girl. When they’re both through the door, she grabs his hand. Their eyes meet and you can see it, some sort of spark. 

Sudden silence.

The girl is beautiful. She’s got long, blonde hair, blue eyes, and she’s thin. She’s everything anyone could ever want. She was that girl. You watch as their hearts leap in a giddy whirl. He could be that boy, but you’re not that girl. 

You’re not sure if you should stay put or try to sneak out of the cafe without being seen. But it’s too late. Franco looks around the store, his eyes stopping when they meet yours. It’s like you can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything. You feel frozen in time, watching as he gets dragged around a corner. 

Your feet started moving on their own, taking you outside, almost running through the snow. You kept running, refusing to look back at him. Refusing to acknowledge that the story of the two of you was officially over. 

So you missed seeing his face as he watched you run from him. You didn’t see him almost run after you. 

-=+=-

By the time you got home, you were out of breath. Your face was painted red from running against the cold winds. You closed the door behind you and leaned your back against it, falling to the ground until your legs fully gave out. 

What was he doing here? This was supposed to be a safe space. 

Your mind was reeling with thoughts so that you couldn’t keep up. You clenched your fists and tried to regain your composure. You couldn’t believe it. He was here. God knows why but there he was. Your heart falls through your body as you remember everything. How you left things, how you treated him. 

You’re a fool for having done those things. You spun and spun until you ran out of breath. You pushed and pushed til you exploded. You can never take back the things you did or said, you’re not even sure if you can fix any of it. 

Stuck on the floor of your flat, you feel a buzz from your coat pocket. It’s your phone. No one calls or texts anymore, it’s probably a commercial. As you pull out your phone to mute it, the name on the screen makes you pause. Franco’s name is there with a text, “why are you running?”

You weren't sure how to answer. You sat there, chewing on the skin around your nails before texting back, “you’re seeing someone, what does it matter?”

He feels a sting in his chest. Because yes, he might be seeing someone else, but he’s only doing that to replace your absence, the memories of you and the moments you’d spent together that continuously haunt his mind. So yes, it does matter. Because he can’t let go of you, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many dates he might go on. At the end of the day, he always catches himself thinking the same thing: they are not you.

A minute passes before his fingers tap the screen, telling you “Can we meet, please?”

“Why?”

“I think we should talk.” “What about?”

“Can you stop asking questions and just say yes?”

“Fine.”

It was settled. The two of you planned to meet the next day at a park near the cafe. 

You were afraid of what would come of the meeting, considering the last went downhill pretty quickly. But tomorrow, the words unspoken will be shared. Maybe you could start fixing all the bridges you had burned. Maybe everything will be okay again. 

-=+=-

The night was spent tossing and turning, not being able to get much sleep. You were so nervous, you swore your heart was going to burst out of your chest from how fast it was racing. At a somewhat sensible hour, you got out of bed and got ready to meet Franco at the park. 

It’s not as cold outside today, you knew Franco would be able to tolerate this type of cold. He never really was a fan of the cold. You remember how he always used to complain about it being cold, even if the two of you were just in a movie theatre. 

You got to the park a bit early so you took a seat on a nearby bench. You watched as people walked their dogs, jogged by, and just enjoyed the morning sun. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a butterfly garden. It made you smile. Franco used to call you butterfly, and he used to keep a butterfly sticker on his phone case for you. 

The nickname came from your days in karting. You were one of the only girls so they called you ‘butterfly’. They always saw you as fragile and delicate. But in reality, butterflies were fierce as hell. Butterflies also actually try to eat humans, they just can’t because of their size. It’s quite terrifying but butterflies are bad ass is your point. 

Franco never called you a butterfly in a demeaning way though. When he first heard people calling you that, he thought it was because you were as beautiful as one. Leave it to Franco to flirt with you the second you two had met. 

Closing your eyes, you tried to soak in some sun and clear your anxieties. Until you heard someone clear their throat.

Opening your eyes, you see Franco standing in front of you. He’s bundled up in multiple layers of clothing as a motion to fight the cold. But it doesn’t seem to be working too well as he’s still shivering like your grandmother's ancient chihuahua. 

You stand immediately, “Hi”

“Hey”

“Uh, did you wanna sit or walk?”

“Let’s walk. It’s too cold to just sit.”

The two of you walk side by side. It’s silent for the first few minutes, just the noises from the people in the park fill the atmosphere. The silence between you and Franco isn’t as awkward as you’d expect it to be. It’s almost comfortable. 

It was Franco who broke the silence, “How have you been?” 

“I’ve been okay. Could be better but I’m here. How about you? How have things been?”

“They’ve been okay. I’m okay.”, beats of silence pass, “I think about you a lot.” he confesses. 

“Really? Doesn’t seem like it.” you scoff, how can he be saying that when he was on a date with a girl just yesterday. 

“I just started seeing her. I don’t think it will lead to anything.”

“And why is that?” you question. You doubt his words, that girl is stunning and definitely his type. You even bet she’s smart as hell. 

“She’s not you.”

You stop dead in your tracks, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means, y/n. I’ve tried to forget about you. I’ve talked to people, gone on dates with them and none of it rids my mind of you. For some fucking reason, I’m still in love with you. Through all the shit that’s happened. Despite everything that’s been said between the two of us. I still love you and I can’t seem to let you go.”

You feel like you can’t breathe suddenly. What the fuck was he on about? You said horrible things and you did horrible things. Things you’ll never forgive yourself for. Why is he here? 

“Why are you here? In this town.”

“There was a meeting with a sponsor. That’s where I met that girl you saw. She asked me out and I thought why not. But I can’t see myself living my life with her or anyone else. Not like I can with you.”

“Why me?” you ask, your breathing is growing quicker, nothing is making sense. 

“I think we made mistakes, a lot of them. But I think we can get past that and at least be friends again. If you’ll allow it. I’ve missed having you around and talking to you and just being with you. Everytime something happens, I just want to run to you and tell you but you’re not there.”

“Why? I was a complete bitch. I was mean and you didn’t deserve any of it. I ruined everything. All I do is ruin everything. Everything I touch turns to sadness. Why do you want me back?” you can’t breathe anymore. You’re pulling off your scarf and throwing it on the ground. Tears are filling your eyes and it feels like the walls are closing in on you. You feel your arms as they lose feeling and begin to tingle. 

Franco is by your side in an instant, helping you sit on the floor. He sits next to you and holds you close, trying to help you calm down. 

“Amor, breathe. Can you breathe with me please? Listen to my heart beat.” he tries and tells you, pulling one of your hands to his chest, above his heart. You try to focus on the beating of his heart, trying to follow his breathing. 

“I can’t breathe.” you barely whisper between sobs. 

Franco is quick to unbutton your coat, trying to help relieve some pressure from your chest. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Just stay with me, okay?”

After a few moments, you seemed to calm down. You’re breathing slower now, you can see clearer now. 

You turn to look at Franco, his eyes looking back at you intensely. He softly brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before softly tracing his finger along the side of your face. 

“I ruined everything.” you softly say. 

“You did not. I could’ve done better as well. It’s not all on you.”

“It was all me. I ended a friendship the day that I left. I was never the best to you and I can’t promise that I’m better now. I can’t promise I’ll stop making mistakes. I can’t promise to be perfect.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, amor. You’re already perfect for me. Both of us made mistakes and we learned from them. We’ll keep learning together. You’re not alone.”

“I’m sorry for everything. I’ll fix it and I’ll-” 

“Listen to me, butterfly. You can’t carry all of this weight on your own. You can’t take blame for everything when not all of it was on you. Let me carry the weight with you. Let me follow you til the end.”

He brings his nose to touch yours, begging you to let him back into your life. You’re not sure if you should let this stay buried, or let it happen. 

“I’ll never leave. And I’ll never let you leave again. Let me love you.”

His hand moves to hold the back of your neck, slowly bringing you closer. He hesitantly captures your lips in his. You freeze at first, doubting if you deserve to let him back in. If you deserve the man who wants to walk with you still. Linger on with you still. You give in, kissing him back, holding the side of his face. 

Franco’s other hand grabs your waist and pulls you closer, not wanting you to go anywhere else. 

The two of you are smiling into the kiss, close to tears. It feels like you’re meeting for the first time. And maybe you are. These new versions of yourselves. The ones that will not give up on each other, no matter how hard times get.