#and to me I don’t think he was trying to be a creep about it

[hoshifighting]

rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

[puckinghischier]

https://www.tumblr.com/puckinghischier/766626512832266240/hiiiiii-ive-come-to-beg-for-crumbs-lol-seeing

thinking about this for no reason tonight…quinn getting home extra pissed bc he got ejected and you aren’t helping, prancing around in only his jersey doing everything you can to get him to take his anger out on you again

you watched the whole thing happen from the tv in the hotel room, choosing to stay in tonight because it was so cold out. you hate to say it, but you were turned on the second you saw him looking down at the player on the ice, jabbing his stick around after the play had already stopped.

you knew he’d be back early, having already texted you that he’s forgoing any media because he just wants a hot shower and some greasy take out. you had other plans, however. you knew he’d have some pent up feelings. he always tries to hide how frustrated he really is, not wanting to set a bad example for any young captains or players watching. so, you decide to use it to your advantage.

you strip yourself from your clothes, walking over and rummaging through quinn’s game bag. you find the clean, black, skate jersey tucked away inside, and slip it over your bare body. you sprawl yourself out across the large bed, jersey ridden up just enough so your ass peeks out. you lay there in wait, wanting to be nothing more than his stress reliever tonight.

when he finally makes his way into the room, he tosses his bag down at the door and stalks towards the bathroom. he doesn’t even look your way, shutting the door and turning the shower on. shock and disappointment clouds your features, a small bit of embarrassment settling in your stomach. you stay put, though. waiting. surely when he sees you, he’ll pounce.

he emerges from the small bathroom twenty minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist. he looks at you on the bed, noticing your state.

“why are you wearing my skate jersey?” he asks, not hinting at whether he’s pleased or not.

you shrug. “just…felt like it,” you try to sound sultry and seductive, letting him know what you want.

he stands and stares for a moment before shaking himself out of the trance, walking over to grab a pair of black boxer briefs from his suitcase, dropping the towel and sliding them up his legs before you can even appreciate his bare ass on display.

“did you find anywhere that’s still open and sounds good? m’starving,” he asks you, not bothering to put sweats or a shirt on.

“not yet…didn’t know if maybe you wanted something…sweeter to eat,” you roll over, spreading your legs slightly, giving him a glimpse of your damp pussy.

he sighs out, closing his eyes and pinching his nose while tilting his head up. your embarrassment creeps back in, picking up that he clearly doesn’t want to do this tonight.

you sit up, tugging his jersey down to cover yourself, cheeks flushed and eyes stinging with oncoming tears you will yourself not to drop.

“s-sorry. i’ll…uh…go look up some menus on my phone,” you whisper out, not meeting his eyes as you stand.

you don’t see the way his eyes snap open to look at you, the embarrassed and dejected tone causing alarms to go off in his head.

he reaches out and grabs your arm as you try to walk past him, stopping you in your tracks. placing both hands on your biceps under his jersey, he turns your body to face his, a soft “look at me,” forcing your attention to his face.

he brings a hand up to push a strand of hair out of your face, letting his hand trail down your face before finding its previous spot on your arm.

“m’sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. s’just…not this time,” he tells you, squeezing the soft flesh of your arms.

you nod, but you need to know if it’s you, or if he’s just really not in the mood. “was…,” you trail off, not knowing if you can handle the answer if it’s not in your favor. “was the jersey too much? just thought, i don’t know…you always say how much you like seeing me in them, and figured you’d need some…stress relief after tonight, so…” you leave the sentence open ended, assuming he understands what you’re not saying.

he chuckles out a dry laugh. “baby, i love seeing you in my jerseys so much, you have no idea,” he lets his gaze travel down to the way your body is swallowed by the black fabric. “but, i don’t trust myself with you tonight,” he confesses, looking back up at your surprised face.

“quinn, i trust you. i do. i know you’d never go too far, or do anything i wasn’t comfortable with,” you rush out, your hands flying up to grip both of his forearms.

he shakes his head, letting it drop. “sweetheart, you have no idea how much i’d love to have my way with you tonight, but i’m so pissed off. so mad at how tonight went. and the fact the team acted like they didn’t even need me?” you can see his eyes darkening the longer he talks, his grip on your arms tightening with each word. “can’t promise what would happen. how rough i’d be. don’t want to hurt you, or worse, scare you off,” he snaps out of his little trance, his grip loosening, but not before you whimpered at the burning squeeze.

it’s your turn to shake your head at him, hands leaning his arms to touch his face.

“q, please, i promise you won’t scare me off, or hurt me. i know my limits, and so do you. i trust you. trust yourself,” you plead with him.

you can tell he’s thinking it over, watching the conversation he’s having with himself in his head.

“i-are you sure?” he asks, looking into your eyes for any sign of doubt.

“use me,” is all you say in response, leaning up on the tips of your toes to whisper the words in his ear seductively. for good measure, you lick a stripe from his ear down his jaw and to the base of his throat.

the growl that erupts from where your tongue was just exploring is carnal, shoving you back from his body towards the bed. the force catches you off guard, falling onto your back on the plush surface.

he walks the short steps towards you, hovering over you. “tell me to stop at any time, okay?” he speaks softly, but with meaning, wanting you to know you’re still the one who’s really in control here.

you nod, sighing out a “okay,” as he rests a large hand on your thigh, sliding it all the way up to your chest, bringing the jersey with it.

he teasingly pinches a nipple, earning a moan from you as you arch your back into the sensation. he looks down at your face, loving how desperate you already are for him.

“remember, you asked for this,” he reminds you, causing your breath to hitch in your throat at the hungry, dark look on his face.

‘sure did,’ you think to yourself, knowing if last time was anything to go off of, tonight, coming off of an ejection rather than a simple minor penalty, you were in for a treat.

[goldfades]

CINDERELLA───JOE BURROW

request: "Reader is going out with girlies and dressed sexy that joe almost got mad at reader cuz he doesn’t want reader going out with that dress and suddenly obsessed with boobies and told reader they cant breath in that dress" for @crispppykreme

The dress wasn’t new, but it might as well have been, given how long it had languished at the back of your closet. A slinky little thing, sleek black with a neckline that danced on the edge of scandal and just enough shimmer to catch the light in all the right places. It was the kind of dress that didn’t just suggest confidence—it demanded it.

You were proud of how you looked, admiring yourself in the full-length mirror, twisting slightly to check every angle. The effort had paid off: hair done, makeup sharp, heels that made your legs look miles long. Tonight was about the girlies, a rare night out that wasn’t dinner and wine but cocktails and dancing, the kind of carefree, late-night escapades you hadn’t had in months.

Joe had been fine about it earlier, or at least you thought he had. There was an absentminded “Have fun, baby,” thrown your way when you’d mentioned your plans this morning. But now, as his eyes scanned you from head to toe like he was taking inventory, you could feel the tension radiating off him from across the room.

“You’re really wearing that?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an edge that made you freeze mid-reach for your clutch. You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, trying to read the expression on his face.

“Uh, yeah? What’s wrong with it?” You kept your tone light, playful, even though the way he was looking at you made your skin prickle. Joe wasn’t one to throw around his opinions about your outfits, and honestly, you appreciated that about him. He knew you had your own style, your own vibe. But tonight? Something about tonight had apparently made him forget that.

He stepped closer, his hand running down his face as he let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…” His gaze dropped to your chest, and he gestured vaguely in that direction. “That dress. I mean, are you sure it’s comfortable? They—uh, you—don’t look like you can even breathe in it.”

For a second, you just blinked at him, your brain scrambling to catch up. Then it hit you, and the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“Oh,” you said, the teasing lilt unmistakable. “That’s what this is about.”

Joe crossed his arms, clearly trying to play it cool, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I’m just saying. It’s kind of… tight, don’t you think?”

You couldn't stop the grin spreading across your face, even as Joe tried—and failed—to keep his cool. He was too easy to read, the faint crease between his brows giving him away completely.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, grabbing your clutch and turning back toward the mirror. “You’ve seen me wear tighter.”

“That’s not the point,” he shot back, his voice firmer now, enough to make you glance at him in the mirror. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like some kind of judgmental Greek statue, all broad shoulders and furrowed brows.

“Then what is the point, Joe?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m getting the vibe that it’s not about how tight this dress is.”

He huffed, running a hand through his hair in that way he always did when he was trying to sort through his words. “The point is,” he said slowly, “you’re going out looking like… like that. And I know exactly how guys are gonna act when they see you.”

You turned around now, giving him your full attention. “Guys? Plural? Is that what this is about?”

“It’s not about guys,” he said quickly, but the words came out too rushed, too defensive. He shifted his weight, unfolding his arms, clearly trying to walk the line between annoyed and reasonable. “It’s about… I don’t know. I just don’t want anyone thinking they can look at you like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, stepping closer, biting back a laugh as you pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your hand, but you could feel the tension in him.

“Like… like you’re up for grabs or something.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted away from yours, like saying it out loud embarrassed him.

You blinked, genuinely taken aback for a moment. “Joey,” you said, softening your tone, “you realize that’s not how this works, right? Just because I look good doesn’t mean I’m inviting attention. And even if someone does look—so what? I’m coming home to you.”

His eyes flicked back to yours at that, softening slightly, but his lips pressed into a stubborn line. “Yeah, but you’re mine,” he muttered, the words barely audible but so pointed they hung heavy in the air.

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. “Yours?” you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “What, are you going to put a sticker on me that says ‘Property of Joe Burrow’?”

He groaned, his hand raking through his hair again. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” you shot back, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Because it kinda sounds like you’re saying I can’t wear what I want unless it gets your approval.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” he said quickly, but the way his ears were turning pink made you think he was second-guessing himself.

“Then what?” you asked, crossing your arms now, mirroring his earlier stance. “Because, if you think I’m changing out of this dress just because it makes you nervous, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He stared at you for a moment, his jaw working, clearly torn between frustration and surrender. “It’s not nervous,” he mumbled finally. “It’s just… look, you’re too damn sexy, okay? There. I said it. And I'm not there to make sure nobody thinks they can have you.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grin growing wider. “Ohhh, I see,” you said, dragging out the words. “So, this isn’t about the dress at all. It’s about you being jealous.”

His face scrunched like he wanted to deny it, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he settled for muttering, “I’m not jealous.”

“Right,” you said, stepping closer to him again. “Because you’re totally fine with me going out looking like a ‘damn goddess,’ as I’m sure some guy at the bar is going to say.”

Joe groaned again, tipping his head back against the doorframe. “Do you have to do this?”

“Yes,” you said brightly, standing on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Because it’s fun watching you squirm.”

He sighed, his hands finally coming to rest on your hips, pulling you in closer. “I’m serious, though,” he said, his voice lower now, quieter. “You look amazing. Too amazing. And I trust you—I do—but that doesn’t mean I trust every drunk guy who’s gonna see you tonight.”

“I can handle drunk guys,” you said softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “And besides, you know I’d never let anyone get too close.”

“I know,” he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. “I just hate the idea of someone thinking they even have a chance.”

“Well, they don’t,” you said simply, smiling up at him. “You’re the only one who gets to peel me out of this dress later.”

His lips twitched into a smirk at that, and you could feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

You grinned, giving him another quick peck on the lips before stepping back. “Now, are you done being dramatic, or do I need to remind you that this is my night out?”

He sighed, letting his arms drop but not stepping back. “Fine,” he said, though his tone still had a hint of reluctance. “But if you’re not home by midnight, I’m calling.”

You laughed, grabbing your Chanel clutch and heading for the door. “Sure, Cinderella. Whatever you say.”

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[muletia]

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader

summary: what if optimus' obsession bypassed his memory loss? what if he was so infatuated that even his past self yearned for you?

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, canon divergence: orion is taken by the autobots, obsessive thoughts, clinginess, orion literally cannot be left alone for one(1) second, tbh nothing happens in this, i just wanted to write obsessed!orion interacting with you, bad writing, silliness

an: i wanted to implement more ideas, but it came out as it did. i will definitely write some more fics with orion, maybe some smut??? ;)) who knows

word count: 4700

"Come to the base. It's urgent."

As you stare at the terse message from Ratchet, your chewing slows and stops. A storm of questions whirls in your mind, panic creeping into your body. Before you can even type a single letter, your phone rings. The caller is none other than the Autobot medic himself. You answer in less than a second.

"Hello? Ratchet, please don't scare me—what exactly happened?"

"It's about Optimus." Your heart skips a beat. "During the last mission, he was... injured. Or, to be precise, damaged."

"Is it serious?" you ask, pacing nervously around the break room. Lunch now long forgotten. "Will he be all right?"

"Physically—he's never looked or felt better. Mentally, however... that's a different story. I'll explain the details when you get here. And make it quick."

"Hold on, wait—I can't just leave work early like that. There's a whole procedure for this. I can't just waltz out, even though I’d love to leave right now."

"...In an hour and a half, I expect to see you here at the base. See you then."

He hangs up. You stare at your phone screen for a moment, replaying the conversation in your head. Something serious must have happened—Ratchet wouldn’t disturb you at work otherwise. And it involved Optimus... You bite your lip, torn by indecision. You need to at least make sure he's okay, to see with your own eyes what Ratchet was talking about. Otherwise, you'll regret your negligence and spend the rest of the day worrying.

Shoving the half-eaten sandwich into your bag, you rush to your computer to draft a request for early leave, praying fervently that your boss will grant it.

You kept pressing the gas, speeding toward the base, trying to balance obeying traffic laws with worrying about the Autobot. You knew he had been preparing for a mission recently, he had told you about it during a ride you shared, but you didn’t expect it to end like this. Maybe you should have, considering you were associated with a race of aliens deeply embroiled in a centuries-long war, but you always pushed such unpleasant thoughts to the back of your mind, wishing your friends the best. Now, though, all the worst scenarios were coming to the surface. Had he fallen into a coma? Was his processor damaged? Had he died? You didn’t want to think about such an ending. Optimus was alive. You were sure of that.

Seeing the familiar red rock, a tight knot of anxiety gripped your throat. In a few moments, you were about to drive into what was practically your second home, not knowing what awaited you. You glanced at the clock. You were half an hour late—well beyond the time Ratchet had given you.

As if on cue, the medic called you again.

“Don’t enter the hangar. Leave the vehicle at the entrance.”

He hung up before you could say a word, and you sighed. The situation had grown even more worrying.

Before you could say a word, he hung up, leaving you to sigh in frustration.

Following his instructions, you parked at the main entrance and made the rest of the journey on foot. The lights seemed especially harsh, glaring into your eyes as the tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of you, as if warning you, giving you one last chance to turn back. But no force on Earth could stop you now. Determined, you marched forward, needing to know what had happened to your friend.

The hangar was full of Autobots, their sheer presence intimidating. You had thought you were over the feeling of smallness that came with being one of the humans among them, but now it hit you again, hard, dredging up memories of when humans in their midst were still a novelty. You froze for a moment, your courage momentarily disappearing in the shadows of giants.

It wasn’t until your eyes landed on the reason you had left work early that you began to breathe again. Optimus stood there, seemingly whole and healthy, facing the platform where the kids likely were. Relief washed over you. He was alive. Your heart was still racing, but the weight of dread lifted slightly, leaving you braced for the next wave of bad news.

"Hey, sorry I’m late. Work took longer than I expected," you called out.

Your voice immediately caught his attention. Optimus turned to you so abruptly that it shocked everyone present, abandoning the conversation he had been engaged in. Tilting your head back to meet his gaze, you were surprised when he knelt down on one knee, making himself more accessible. You still had to look up, but now his face wasn’t obscured by his… windshields.

The first hint that something was off was his smile—wide, cheerful, and curious. Optimus didn’t smile like that, not even when something genuinely delighted him. Worry started gnawing at you again. Something was wrong.

"Greetings. You must be our next human ally, correct?"

At first, you were at a loss for words. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, memory loss hadn’t even crossed your mind. But before the conversation could veer into awkward territory or panic could take hold, you managed to reply, mirroring his smile.

"That’s right."

"You seem… familiar. As though we have met before."

The hangar fell silent, the atmosphere thickening.

"Of course he would remember her," Ratchet hissed under his breath. You shot him a glare filled with venom.

Focusing back on the mech before you, you forced a calm smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You felt like you were on the verge of exploding—uncertain whether to jog his memories or pretend this was truly your first meeting. Why hadn’t anyone given you guidance on how to handle this?

"Erm, well…" you began, only for Ratchet to step in and spare you.

"Humans can look quite similar at first glance," the medic interjected. "Orion, this is [Name], the last human who should know of our existence."

A flicker of something lit up in his cyan optics—something indefinable, known only to him.

"Greetings, [Name]. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

He extended a servo toward you. Tentatively, you clasped one of his digits, ignoring the ache in your heart. This shouldn’t have been happening. You shouldn’t have to forge a new relationship with someone so dear to you. It felt uncanny—like he was wearing Optimus’s skin but was someone entirely different inside. It was unnerving, disorienting. Yet this stranger had knelt before you, reduced himself to your scale to show respect, just as Optimus always had. It was a glimpse of his alternate self, a sign of the inherent honor and kindness he still carried.

"Hello, Orion. The pleasure is all mine."

Letting go of his servo, you gave him an apologetic smile, signaling the end of the conversation. You needed answers, clarity about the situation, before you could decide how to proceed. As Orion straightened up, you stepped past him toward the platform. You could feel curious optics on you, particularly his, as you fist-bumped the kids. Unbeknownst to you, Orion clenched his servo in the same way you had during your handshake.

"So," you said to Ratchet, "what happened?"

The medic sighed, clearly weary of recounting the story yet again. But you had to know. You listened intently, the details unsettling and at times horrifying, but you felt a growing sense of calm. At least now you knew what you were dealing with—what topics to avoid, how to act. The relief faded, however, when you learned that the first attempt to restore Optimus’s memories had failed, and no date had been set for the next.

As Ratchet spoke, most of the team dispersed, leaving only you, the medic, and Orion in the hangar. Taking a moment to process everything, you glanced at Orion, catching his curious gaze.

This was your new reality. Optimus was gone, yet not entirely, standing just a few meters away, watching you intently. It was too much to dwell on. You needed something to distract yourself.

Standing from the couch, you headed down the stairs. You figured you’d be here for the rest of the evening, so you might as well find something productive to do.

"[Name]?" Orion’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you leaving already?"

His behavior puzzled you.

"I’m just going to grab my things. I’ll be right back."

"I see. May I accompany you?"

Oh, that was adorable—especially with the hopeful tone in his voice.

"I’m not sure you’ll fit in the tunnel in your current form," you teased with a laugh. "It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a minute."

This time, you quickened your pace.

For several hours, Orion's life had been filled with uncertainty. He didn’t know how he had ended up on this planet, who the Autobots around him were, or why they called him "Prime" when he felt he was unworthy of the title. And now, another enigma had appeared—you. Orion could not rationalize the overwhelming need to be near you. He had felt it the moment he laid his optics on you. The need to stay close, to converse, to observe. The need to know you better. Never before had such intense emotions stirred within him for anyone, let alone a stranger. But you weren’t a stranger. This may have been your first meeting, and he may have spoken to you for the first time, but you were not unfamiliar. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours since you had disappeared into the tunnel. He regretted not following you, even if it meant transforming into his alt-form. At least he would have kept an optic on you, preventing the gnawing feelings of confusion and longing from devouring him from inside.

Ratchet watched his friend closely. He recognized that look, that body language. He knew what it signified, what storm was brewing in Orion’s processor. Optimus had been the same when it came to you. For a brief moment, his friend was back. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

"Do you really remember that woman?" he asked.

"I am not certain," Orion replied, still gazing toward the tunnel. "I feel like she is not a stranger, even though I know this was our first encounter. And as… Prime, if I indeed held that title, was she close to me?"

Primus.

"Perhaps closer than any human, but only Optimus knew to what extent. That might explain why you recognized her."

"Then she is special."

"Everything points to that."

Orion glanced at him, offering a faint smile. For reasons Ratchet couldn’t quite explain, the gesture was hard to look at. Fortunately, you emerged from the tunnel, giving him an excuse to start working again.

"See? I told you it’d only take a minute," you laughed, a black backpack slung over your shoulder.

Orion didn’t confess the truth—that by his reckoning, you had been gone an eternity. He watched intently as you climbed the stairs and took a seat on the couch.

"So, Orion," you began, "what did you do on Cybertron?"

Oh. You were curious about him? Truly? He had never thought of himself as particularly interesting.

It was fortunate that you were not looking at him because his body language betrayed his embarrassment.

"I was an archivist. Do humans on Earth have similar professions?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve always admired archivists. It’s meticulous work, requiring patience and nerves of steel—if you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s an important job, and anyone who takes it up is very cool in my book."

"Cool?"

"You know, fascinating, impressive, admirable."

"Does that mean that... in your optics, I am… cool?"

He asked without thinking and immediately regretted it when you gave him an amused look. Embarrassed, he tilted his helm downward. For such a towering and formidable being, he was also astonishingly skittish. It was peculiar to see a former Prime in such a light, but it made him more relatable, more emotionally accessible. Even so, you couldn’t deny that you missed Optimus.

"Of course, you’re cool to me."

That answer brightened him. A spectacle of stars dances in his optics.

You returned to typing on your laptop, but Orion had other plans for you.

"It seems I still have much to learn about this planet."

"I think you’ll catch on quickly. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, the other bots don’t know everything either. If you’re ever unsure, just ask. I’ll do my best to help."

"Thank you, [Name]. Your kindness is very important to me."

"Anytime. If you’d like, you could also explore our literature—it’ll give you a good insight into what humanity is all about. That sounds like a fitting activity for an archivist, doesn’t it?"

He would much rather have you as his sole source of knowledge about your species, as it meant spending more time with you. He wanted to know not just what you were but who you were—your interests, where you worked, how you spent your free time, your philosophy, beliefs, and hobbies. Everything you were willing to share. He wanted to know you inside and out, to solidify this sense of connection and make it real. And if you wished, he would bare his own secrets, reveal his spark, and show you every part of himself. Perhaps then you might look at him just for a second longer.

"Yes, I believe that would be an enjoyable activity. And what is it that you do?"

He asked question after question, each answer adding a new layer of understanding about you. He shared a little in return, preferring listening to you—your opinions, your perspective.

Time passed swiftly in your company. Relentless and unforgiving, it waited for no one. Orion realized this when you set aside your device and began stretching. It was a mesmerizing sight—your movements were so different from those of Cybertronians, fluid, and light. That was until the air was pierced by the loud crack coming from your back.

Energon froze in his fuel lines, and his spark leaped to his intake.

"[Name]? Are you alright? Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, confused. He looked as though calamity had befallen him, as though you’d been beheaded. Then you remembered—it was Orion, not Optimus, and the human body was weird. "Oh, that. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s perfectly normal." To prove your point, you began cracking your knuckles, stopping quickly when you saw his horrified expression. "Okay, sorry about that. But really, I’m fine. I just need to stretch."

"Alright…" he replied, though he didn’t seem convinced. You couldn’t blame him.

You rose from the couch and stepped down from the platform, intending to take a short walk. Panic erupted in his spark. Oh no. No, no, no. He didn’t want to be left alone, not after such a jarring experience. He wouldn’t let you out of his optics now—not even for a moment.

"May I accompany you?"

"Of course!" you replied without hesitation, smiling—a gesture he immediately mirrored. "It won’t be very exciting, though."

"On the contrary, I find you to be a most intriguing individual."

"Oh, thank you," you said, clearing your throat, embarrassed. Compliments delivered in that baritone still flustered you.

Together, you ventured deeper into the base, bypassing various sections. In the training room, Arcee worked on her speed, while Bulkhead struck a makeshift punching bag fashioned from an old car. The children watched the spectacle, occasionally entertaining themselves. You both quickly slipped past the always-open entryway and continued on your way.

“[Name]?” Orion inquires. You turn into an empty hangar with a high platform, starting to ascend the stairs.

“Hm?”

“How do humans attempt to court their partners?”

You hadn't expected that kind of question. You stop mid-step, pondering your answer. When you look at him, his expression is dead serious, though his optics betray a determination. Why would he want to know this? You decide it’s probably mere curiosity.

“It depends on the person.” You continue climbing the stairs until you finally reach the top, now level with his faceplate. “Some buy gifts like flowers, others go on elaborate dates. But the common factor is spending time together, and getting to know one another. Feelings tend to develop naturally that way,” you explain. “Actually, that’s an interesting topic. How did it work on Cybertron?”

“Similarly. However, instead of exchanging ‘flowers,’ we presented rare metals or crystals to leave the best impression. To demonstrate strength and potential as a partner.”

“I know a few people who would totally fall for that approach. Heh, I’d be thrilled to get a geode myself.”

Orion suddenly lights up. Were you suggesting something or just sharing an opinion? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to try. To prove himself worthy. Perhaps he could even find the ��flowers’ you mentioned.

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome?” you reply, unsure exactly how you’ve helped, but the sight of his broad smile and bright optics makes it all worthwhile. He was utterly adorable.

The two of you chat casually until you’re forced to check the time. You inhale sharply, and Orion tilts his head slightly, curious about your reaction.

“It was great talking to you, but I really need to go. I have work tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.”

Panic flashes across his face. He had enjoyed your company so much. He didn’t feel alienated or alone when he was with you. The sense of connection played a significant role, but Orion had already let you into his spark. He had found a safe harbor in you and wasn’t ready to drift away just yet. He wasn’t ready to let go, even if the world around him were to crumble.

“May I accompany you?” he asks, desperation seeping into his tone.

“Excuse me?”

“May I accompany you?” he repeats, now begging.

“My home isn’t exactly designed to host a giant robot. Besides, it’s dangerous and... wait, do you even know the traffic regulations?”

His expression answers the question, but he still attempts to defend himself.

“I have acquainted myself with them partially.”

“Who has the right of way at an uncontrolled intersection?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it again, visibly crestfallen. He looks as though he might cry.

“Orion, we’ll see each other tomorrow,” you reassure him. “The first thing I’ll do after work is come here.”

He frantically searches for an argument to keep you with him—anything to prolong your company. Then he remembers his first encounter with human children.

“Every child was assigned a guardian who escorted them home and ensured their safety,” he states, refusing to give up. “Do you have a protector?”

“Unofficially, that was Optimus…”

“Then I would like to carry on his mission.”

“I’m not a child, Orion.”

“I understand that. I merely wish for your safety, [Name],” he explains earnestly. “And… I would prefer not to part from the company most dear to me.”

Your thoughts drift back to something he said earlier—how he recognized the bond you once shared, even though this was your first conversation. He hadn’t recognized Ratchet or anyone from his team—only you.

You tried to put yourself in his position. To suddenly find yourself in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers addressing you by a false name and feeding you information that might as well be fiction. And then, in a world where nothing is familiar, someone steps in—someone you vaguely recognize. You might not know their name, but you know there was once a connection. Wouldn’t you cling to that tiny thread, desperately pulling it closer if someone tried to take it away?

Orion had found solid ground, and you were unintentionally trying to undermine it. You exhale softly. You already knew you’d be saying goodbye to sleep tonight.

“Alright.” His smile makes it all worth it. It’s as though you’ve handed him a star from the sky. “Let’s see what Ratchet has to say about all this.”

"I see no objections."

Orion looks at you with excitement sparkling in his optics.

"Wow, that was quick."

"It's a good excuse for Orion to explore the area and get accustomed to his alt mode."

The medic refrains from adding that if the former leader remained at the base, he would likely have wasted away in longing for you, lamenting to every sentient being that he couldn't wait to see you again. Though the comment teeters on the edge of his glossa, he opts for discretion. Optimus, at least, had never vocalized his peculiar obsession with you quite so openly.

"Should anything unusual occur, contact me immediately. Someone will come for you in the morning," Ratchet advises his friend before turning to you. "Good night, [Name]."

You thank the medic for his diligence and ask him to take some rest, earning a piercing glare that almost feels lethal, then retrieve your backpack and head toward the tunnel. Orion stays close by, not leaving your side even after transforming. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, visibly delighted at the prospect of your first shared drive together. In his mind, this was more than a mere drive—it was a deeply intimate act, almost akin to inviting a partner into one’s private space.

But his dreams are promptly shattered when you inform him that you have your own car.

The journey is uneventful but nerve-wracking; you constantly check your side mirror to ensure Orion is still following you. Thankfully, there are no issues, and he even remembers to use his turn signals when necessary. Everything proceeds smoothly until you pull into your driveway and are struck by a dreadful realization: Will a Peterbilt even fit in my garage?

You park your car to the side, leaving Orion enough space to drive safely. Exiting your vehicle, you open the garage door and wave at him to proceed. You nervously bite your thumb, watching the massive truck carefully edge into the space. There are barely three centimeters between the roof of the truck and the ceiling. When you close the garage door, the already limited space shrinks further.

"So, do you regret your decision now?" you ask, stepping around to the front of the truck.

Orion transforms with meticulous precision, carefully positioning his limbs and helm to avoid damaging the walls. The process goes well until his helm grazes the ceiling with an audible thud, dislodging a few small pieces of debris. He winces slightly and rubs his helm but offers you a warm smile.

"I do not regret my decision."

"Pfff, well, that's good. Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed."

You can’t help but feel guilty for confining him to such a cramped space, but it was his choice. If he insisted, he would simply have to endure it. Of course, that meant you would have to endure it, too, as the issues began almost immediately.

"All right, I’m going to grab my things. I’ll be back in a moment."

He panics again—something you’re beginning to expect from him.

"Please, do not leave me."

His voice is unchanging. A deep and thick baritone that permeates your body, speaking straight to your soul. It is strange to hear the same voice coming out of a shamed and uncertain being, begging you for company.

"I’ll only be gone for two minutes."

You reach for the door handle, but his servo shoots forward, blocking your exit.

"Orion," you chide, your tone sharp and reprimanding.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, his apprehension laid bare.

"Please, I do not wish to be alone."

"Two minutes," you say firmly, though your annoyance falters when you see the raw emotion in his optics. Sighing, you place a hand on the edge of his digit, catching his attention. "I’ll be back. I promise."

He believes you, of course he does. He trusts you to return, yes, he even knows it. It doesn't change the fact that he is frightened, he feels alone, and your proximity calms the storm raging through his processor. His whole body is clamoring for you, screaming for you to stay with him. He craves bodily contact, he wants your soft hands to stroke his metal and your lips to whisper sweet nothings. He wants more, he wants to feel the softness, more, more, more.

He takes his servo away.

"Good mech."

As you disappear through the door, Orion buries his face in his hands. Despite his embarrassment, he can’t suppress a grin. He had enjoyed that moment—far too much.

He wants to hear you say it again.

When you return, you’re carrying a blanket, a deck of UNO cards, some snacks, and your laptop. Orion beams at the sight of you but frowns when he notices you shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks with concern.

"Hmm? A little, but I’ll warm up soon."

Without warning, he gently scoops you up in his servo, handling you with the utmost care. The shock is brief—you don’t even have time to protest before he places you on his chassis. His servo remains loosely wrapped around you as a precaution, but your back presses against his warm metal frame. Tilting your head up to glare at him for pulling such a stunt, you find him already watching you, amusement dancing in his optics.

"Ask next time before you do something like that," you scold lightly.

"I make no promises," he teases, earning a playful flick to his digit.

"I was planning to play UNO, but since you pulled that move, let’s watch a movie instead. Unless you’d rather do something else?"

"I leave myself entirely at your mercy."

He would have been content doing nothing as long as he could hold you close.

"All right, then. A movie it is."

It's hard for him to keep up with the plot when he's overstimulated, but he tries, because your questions encouraging discussion come out of nowhere. And it was just at moments when he started to drift off, when the optics shifted from the tiny screen to you; when there was only you and him in the world. Sometimes, however, he would focus for longer, especially during the romantic scenes. He longs to experience something similar with you, an indestructible, sappy love. To recite poetry into your ear and watch you blush, to announce to everyone how much you mean to him. To bestow expensive gifts, the geodes you mentioned earlier. He needs your tender words, your praise, your touch. You could do whatever you liked with him, and he would give you his spark.

He worries when you fall silent for too long.

"[Name]?" he calls softly, leaning closer to check on you. Relief washes over him when he sees you’ve simply fallen asleep. Poor thing—you must have been exhausted.

Still, a part of him resents it. He wanted to talk to you longer, watch more films, learn more about human romance to win your favor. But he knows his thoughts are selfish. Setting the laptop aside, he carefully covers you with his other servo, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

He's not sure he'll be able to recharge. At least not now, when he was too absorbed in devouring you with his optics. You felt safe with him. You gave him your trust. You chose him.

A spark of possessiveness sweeps through his processor. He doesn't want to let you go. He doesn't want you to go to work tomorrow and leave him for eternity. He also knows he shouldn't think that way. The spark goes out.

Watching you sleep, his processor churns with thoughts. You trusted him. He vows to prove his worth tomorrow, to show you just how deep his feelings run.

Because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be himself. How much longer he will remain as Orion Pax.

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Seven

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: I'm gonna post the epilogue and bonus scenes after this! Get ready!

Masterlist: Here

The next few weeks passed in a blur of routine. A new normal, one that felt both comforting and overwhelming in equal measure, began to take shape. You and Rafe had settled into a rhythm of sorts, with Willa at the center of it all. The house, once filled with tension and unspoken words, now carried the sound of laughter—her little giggles as she played with toys, the rhythmic hum of Rafe humming softly as he prepared dinner, and your voice singing along to a song just to get her to smile.

It was a strange blend of happiness and grief.

On the surface, everything appeared to be falling into place. Willa was thriving. Her laughter was more frequent, and the little spark of her personality was shining through with each passing day. But underneath it all, there was still the ache. The absence of Sarah and John B. lingered in every room, in every corner, like an uninvited guest. It was most noticeable in the quiet moments—the stillness that would creep in after dinner, when the house would settle, and Willa was fast asleep in her crib.

At night, Rafe and you would sit together in the living room, the empty space between you both palpable. Sometimes, you would talk, but it was often just the sound of the TV or the quiet clinking of wine glasses as you both tried to make sense of everything. Both of you, in your own way, were learning how to process the grief of losing Sarah and John B. while simultaneously trying to be the parents Willa needed.

There was no guidebook for this, no rulebook that could teach you how to grieve for your best friend while being there for her child, no instructions on how to love a child who wasn’t yours by blood but had stolen your heart all the same.

It was on one of those quiet evenings that the realization hit. You had just put Willa to bed, tucking her into her crib while Rafe stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“You ever think about them?” Rafe asked quietly as you turned to face him.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, eyes staring off toward the window. “All the time. It doesn’t really feel real yet, you know? Like… they’re just gone. I still expect to get a text from Sarah telling me to pick up dinner, or John B. calling to complain about something. But none of that’s happening. It’s like I’m stuck in this weird in-between place.”

Rafe nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the floor. “Yeah. It’s the same for me. Every time I go into town, I expect to see John B. standing at the docks or Sarah laughing somewhere. But they’re not there. I keep thinking I’ll see them, and then… I don’t.”

There was a heaviness in his words, a weight that neither of you had truly acknowledged out loud.

Rafe’s eyes met yours, a flicker of something unspoken in them. But before either of you could say more, there was a loud creak from the hallway—the unmistakable sound of Willa’s little feet padding across the floor. The distraction was enough to pull both of you out of your heads.

“She’s up again,” you muttered, half-smiling. You started to make your way toward her room, but Rafe stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll get her,” he said softly, almost as if he were offering more than just the simple task of comforting her.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him go. Watching him take the lead with Willa felt like a breath of fresh air. He was natural with her—careful, gentle, even though you knew the weight of everything still hung on him, just as it did on you.

The next few weeks continued in much the same way. Days blurred together as the three of you navigated the waters of parenthood. You did your best to keep your emotions in check, but at times, you found yourself breaking down when you were alone—alone with your thoughts of Sarah, John B., and what they would have wanted for their daughter.

You saw it too in Rafe. There were days when he would retreat into himself, the weight of his father’s abuse, the responsibility of being a father figure for Willa, and the grief of losing his sister bearing down on him all at once. He was more distant some days, lost in his own head, and it was hard to reach him. On those days, you couldn’t help but feel the distance between you widening.

But then, on other days, he would open up a little more. You would catch him smiling at Willa in a way that made your chest tighten, and you would catch a fleeting look between the two of you—something deeper, something undeniable, but neither of you was ready to face it.

It was during one of these quiet evenings, a few weeks after the ruling in court, when you and Rafe found yourselves alone in the living room again. The weight of your grief still lingered, but now, it was different. You were both becoming accustomed to the rhythm of your new life, even if it was hard. Willa was playing in the corner, and Rafe was scrolling through his phone, but the silence between you was now loaded with something you both refused to acknowledge.

You leaned back against the couch, watching Willa, when Rafe suddenly spoke. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” he admitted, his voice low. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be her father figure… but I’m trying. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You turned to face him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. “You’re doing fine, Rafe. Better than fine. You’re all she has right now.”

He exhaled deeply, looking at you for a moment. “Yeah, but I can’t keep pretending like I don’t see you. I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel something more than just… this.”

The words hit you like a thunderbolt. Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could form a response, Rafe stood up abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t right. You’re grieving, I’m grieving, and we’ve got Willa to think about. This—this thing between us, it’s just too complicated.”

You stared at him, your throat tightening. “Rafe…” you whispered, not knowing what to say next. You did feel it. That pull. That undeniable connection that had been building between you both for weeks. But was it the right time? Was it right, when everything was still so raw?

“I don’t know what to do with it either,” he muttered. “But we can’t keep ignoring it. I don’t know if I’m ready for this, for us... for her.”

And so, there you were—on the cusp of something new, yet still trapped in the grip of grief. Neither of you ready to face the truth of what was brewing between you. But one thing was certain: something had changed, and no matter how hard you both tried to deny it, the feeling was becoming impossible to ignore.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The morning came too soon, dragging with it the weight of yesterday’s unspoken words. The quiet tension that had settled between you and Rafe the night before lingered, thickening the air in a way that made it hard to breathe. You barely slept, tossing and turning, your mind racing through the things you didn’t say, the things Rafe didn’t say. Everything was so… messy.

You were standing at the kitchen counter, preparing breakfast for Willa, trying to get into the rhythm of your routine, but your thoughts kept drifting to him. To what he had said. To what you felt in your chest.

Rafe walked into the kitchen, his eyes heavy, hair unkempt. It was clear he hadn’t slept much either, his posture stiff, like he was walking on eggshells. You exchanged a quick glance, and for a split second, you both seemed to be holding your breath, unsure of where to go from here.

“I’ll make coffee,” Rafe muttered, moving to the counter to prepare the pot, his back to you.

You nodded quietly, not sure if you should say something, if he even wanted you to. The silence between you both was so thick now, every word felt loaded. The air smelled of coffee brewing, the soft hum of the kettle, and the soft sound of Willa’s babbling from the living room. But it all felt so distant.

“You okay?” Rafe’s voice broke through your thoughts, quieter than usual.

You turned to face him, studying his expression. His usual walls were up again, that guarded look in his eyes that he wore so often when he was trying to hide something from the world. It made your chest ache, seeing him like this.

“I should be asking you that,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, but it came out softer than you intended. “You didn’t sleep either, huh?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, giving you a tight smile. “No, not really.”

The silence returned, but this time, it felt a little more fragile, like something was about to break. You could feel the weight of the words hanging between you both, words that neither of you was ready to say aloud.

Willa’s giggle interrupted the quiet tension, and both of you turned at the sound. The sight of her, laughing and playing with her toys, was a small relief, a distraction from the heaviness that had crept in. But even as you watched her, something in your chest ached.

You cleared your throat, forcing your mind back into the present. “I should get Willa dressed, get her breakfast ready.”

Rafe nodded. “Yeah, I’ll take care of the coffee. You know she likes it when I make her pancakes.”

You smiled, a small, genuine smile that felt foreign after the events of the night before. “You’re spoiling her.”

Rafe’s lips curled into a smirk, his usual cocky edge slipping back into place. “Hey, she deserves it.”

There was a brief moment of normalcy—small talk, familiar routines—but it wasn’t the same. The dynamic between you both had shifted, and you weren’t sure how to navigate it.

You went to Willa’s room, finding her still in her pajamas, her little hands reaching for the toys scattered across the floor. You scooped her up, settling her in your arms as you began to change her, the soothing rhythm of dressing her bringing a sense of comfort amidst the storm inside your mind.

As you worked, your thoughts drifted again, back to the conversation with Rafe. What were you both doing? You had spent so much time trying to keep the lines clear between friendship and responsibility, but now those lines were blurry, tangled up in grief, responsibility, and something more. Something neither of you was ready to face.

When you returned to the kitchen with Willa, Rafe was already plating pancakes. Willa squealed, reaching for the stack with tiny hands, and Rafe chuckled softly, placing a plate in front of her. The warmth between the two of them was undeniable. It was moments like this that made everything worth it, didn’t it?

But still, that thing between you and Rafe hung in the air, like a thread waiting to unravel.

You sat down at the table, pushing your plate aside as Willa dug into her breakfast, messy syrup smudging her cheeks. Rafe joined you at the table, not looking at you directly, but you could feel his presence next to you, the space between you both full of the things left unsaid.

The silence was comfortable for now, but you knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Do you ever think about Sarah and John B., like, what they would want for her?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. It felt like the right thing to say, like an opening to talk about the things neither of you were saying.

Rafe’s shoulders tensed for a moment, but he didn’t look away from Willa, watching her eat with intense focus. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice a little rough. “All the time. I think they’d be happy with how things are going. They’d be happy she’s with us.”

“I hope so,” you said quietly, your voice trailing off as you stared at Willa, wondering if she could ever really understand what had happened. What had been lost.

You cleared your throat, trying to change the subject. “I need to get to the store later. Willa’s almost out of diapers.”

Rafe nodded. “I can go with you. It’ll give us a chance to—well, you know, get out of the house for a bit. Take a break.”

You were about to respond when Willa’s giggle interrupted once again, drawing both your attention. She had managed to squirt syrup all over the table in her attempt to scoop up the pancake, making a mess. It was impossible not to laugh, and you both found yourselves chuckling together, momentarily breaking through the tension that had built up.

But even as you laughed, the realization hit you like a weight.

This was your new life now. The uncertainty, the grief, the joy, the overwhelming responsibility. And somewhere deep inside, you knew that things had changed—maybe forever. The question was, what would you both do with it?

You looked at Rafe again, at the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he cleaned up the mess Willa had made, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t quite so afraid of what would come next. You couldn’t ignore it forever, the pull between you both.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the streets as you and Rafe walked side by side into the local grocery store. Willa, snug in her stroller, was contentedly gnawing on a teething ring, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between you and Rafe. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of shoppers milling around filled the otherwise tense silence.

You grabbed a basket, but as soon as you looked down, you realized you were already second-guessing the list in your head. Diapers. Milk. Fruit for smoothies. Frozen vegetables. Simple things. Yet your mind was so distracted that you had to pause for a second, mentally organizing what you needed.

Rafe pushed the stroller ahead, his hands gripping the handles firmly, his posture stiff, like he was trying to avoid looking at you too directly. You could feel the weight of the unspoken words between you both, like a heavy fog that neither of you had the courage to clear.

“Anything else we need?” Rafe’s voice broke through the quiet, a little sharper than usual.

You glanced at him, noting the way he was trying so hard to keep it together. You couldn’t blame him. The last few days had been full of emotional roller coasters, and now here you were, trying to navigate the mundane task of grocery shopping like everything was normal when everything wasn’t.

“I think that’s it,” you answered, trying to keep your tone light. “Unless you want anything special?”

Rafe shook his head. “No. Let’s just get through this and get back to the house.”

His words were clipped, and you bit back the urge to comment on his attitude. It had been like this for days now: distant, cold, like he was closing off any room for vulnerability. You wanted to reach out to him, to break through the wall he was building, but you didn’t know how.

You moved through the aisles, grabbing items on the list, each movement mechanical. The only sound between you was the soft rolling of the stroller as you passed the rows of canned goods and produce. Every now and then, you’d glance over at Rafe, trying to gauge his mood, but he kept his eyes ahead, focused on nothing in particular.

“Willa’s starting to get fussy,” you said after a few minutes, noticing her starting to squirm in the stroller.

Rafe nodded absently. “Yeah. Let’s get the last few things and head out.”

You grabbed the milk and some frozen meals, trying to focus on the task at hand. But every time you looked at Rafe, your chest tightened. It was so hard, pretending like nothing had changed between you. Pretending that everything was just as it had been. But the kiss... and everything that had followed after... it had changed something.

Before you could say anything else, Willa started fussing more, her soft cries filling the store. You turned to Rafe, a little frantic.

“I think she’s hungry.”

Rafe froze for a moment, then looked down at Willa, his face softening just slightly. He reached down, adjusting the straps on the stroller to give her a bit more space. “Alright, we can stop at the café on the way back. Get her something.”

You both moved toward the checkout lanes, the silence stretching on, but there was something different in Rafe’s eyes now. A flicker of softness, a crack in the wall he’d built. You tried not to notice, but it was hard to ignore.

Willa continued to fuss as they packed the groceries into bags. Rafe had that look again, like he was still processing something, but he didn’t say anything.

As you approached the counter, the cashier gave you a kind smile, scanning your items without a second thought. It was a stark contrast to the tension in your chest, but you forced a smile back, nodding at her as she packed up the last of your things.

Once the transaction was complete, Rafe took the bags without hesitation, moving toward the door. You followed behind, your mind a jumble of confusion and frustration. When you reached the car, you both stood for a moment, the groceries in the trunk, but no one moving.

You stood beside Rafe, looking down at your shoes, unsure of what to say next. The air between you felt charged, heavy with all the things you hadn’t said, the things you couldn’t say.

“You know,” Rafe started, breaking the silence, his voice quieter than before. “I don’t know how to... how to fix all this.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

“Fix what?” you asked, your voice small.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “Everything. I don’t know how to make this work. Us. This whole... situation.”

You stood there, the weight of his words sinking in, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you finally said something that felt honest, raw.

“I don’t either,” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “But I don’t want to make things harder for you. Or Willa.”

Rafe met your eyes then, and for a moment, there was something in his gaze—something soft, almost vulnerable. “I know you’re doing your best. I know you’re here for her. For both of us.”

Your heart skipped at the sincerity in his voice, but it was quickly followed by a wave of confusion. Because part of you wanted to reach out, to tell him how you really felt, but you couldn’t shake the fear of what that might do to everything you had worked for. What it might do to Willa.

“I don’t want to mess this up, Rafe,” you whispered, looking at Willa, who was now calm and sucking on her pacifier in the backseat. “I don’t want to mess her up.”

He was quiet for a moment before he exhaled a slow breath. “I don’t think we will. We’ll figure it out... together.”

It wasn’t a promise, but it was enough. For now.

You both climbed into the car, driving back to the house in a silence that was more comfortable than before. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the floorboards as you moved around the kitchen. Willa was napping peacefully, her little body curled up in the bassinet, oblivious to the tension that had been hanging in the air between you and Rafe.

You had just returned from the grocery store, and as you set the bags on the kitchen counter, you noticed Rafe standing in the doorway, watching you. His eyes were unreadable, but there was something different about the way he was looking at you—less guarded, more open.

“You need help with those?” Rafe asked, his voice quiet but steady.

You glanced up at him, surprised by his offer. Normally, he'd keep to himself, sticking to his routine without offering much assistance, but something had shifted. You nodded, handing him a couple of bags.

Together, you unloaded the groceries in silence, the rhythmic sound of cans and boxes hitting the counter the only noise between you. You both moved in tandem, a comfortable choreography born from living together for the past few months. But despite the ease of the task, the air felt thick with something unspoken.

Finally, Rafe broke the silence.

“You know,” he began, his voice hesitant but firm, “On the drive back, I’ve been thinking a lot about... everything. About us.”

You paused mid-task, glancing over at him. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him struggle with the words, as though each one weighed a thousand pounds.

“I don’t want to make this harder than it already is,” he said, his voice low. “I know we’ve both got baggage... and... I’m not exactly the best at this whole thing. But I... I want to try, [Y/N]. I want to try with you. With this... with us.”

You froze, your hands stilling as you processed his words. The intensity in his gaze made your stomach flip, and for a moment, all you could hear was the beat of your own heart.

“I... don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Rafe took a step closer, his presence commanding but not overwhelming. “I’m saying that I want something more. Something real. I don’t want to keep running from it. From this.”

You could feel the raw sincerity in his words, the vulnerability he rarely showed. It made your chest tighten, and for a moment, you wanted to reach out to him, to pull him closer. But the fear of what this could mean—what it could change—held you back.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Rafe added quickly, as if he was afraid of pushing you too hard. “But I need you to know that I’m not gonna mess it up. Not this time. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but I’m trying. I’m trying with you, with Willa... with everything.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep within you. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t that simple—that you couldn’t just forget the past. But another part of you was listening to him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to believe him.

“I’m scared, Rafe,” you admitted, your voice shaky. “I’m scared of what this could mean. What if we mess it all up? What if—”

He cut you off, taking a step forward, his hand gently resting on your arm. “We won’t,” he said firmly. “We’ll take it slow. Together.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your fears lighten, just a little. You looked at him, really looked at him—at the man who had been so closed off, the man who had fought to protect Willa, the man who had shown you a side of him you hadn’t known existed.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you whispered, your hand reaching out to brush against his. “I don’t want to keep pretending that this doesn’t feel right.”

Rafe’s eyes softened, and he took your hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Then don’t,” he murmured. “Let’s stop pretending.”

You leaned into him, your heart racing as you closed the distance between you. The tension that had plagued the air for weeks finally began to dissipate, replaced by something warm and real.

“I’m here, [Y/N],” Rafe said softly, his breath warm against your forehead as he pressed a kiss there, tender and full of meaning. “I’m not going anywhere.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The kiss had started slow, tender, a quiet acknowledgment of everything you had both been holding back for so long. The kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. Rafe’s hand cupped your face, the warmth of his touch grounding you as you let go of all the fears and doubts that had kept you from this moment.

You kissed him back, more fiercely now, your body moving closer to his, as if you could erase all the distance that had once been between you. The connection between you was undeniable, electric, and suddenly the weight of everything else seemed to disappear—just for a moment, just for this time.

Rafe’s hands slid down your back, pulling you closer, and you let him, feeling the heat building between you. It felt natural, like it was always meant to be like this. And then, in a blur of desire and need, you were in his arms, his lips trailing along your neck as your hands tugged at his shirt, pulling him closer still.

But before you could lose yourself in the moment, a small, sudden cry from the other room sliced through the air, sharp and unrelenting.

“Willa...” you breathed, a pang of guilt washing over you as you pulled away from Rafe.

He froze too, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression conflicted as he glanced toward the door. “She... she’s probably just waking up,” he muttered, though the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable.

Another cry, louder this time. It was followed by the sound of small hands hitting the sides of the bassinet, desperate and frantic. You both exchanged a brief look, the desire lingering in the space between you, but reality had already set in.

Rafe cursed softly under his breath and stood up, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one swift motion. You quickly followed, adjusting yourself and standing as well, feeling the absence of him already, though you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest.

“I’ll get her,” you said, your voice still breathless from the intensity of the moment. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you made your way to the nursery.

Rafe hesitated for just a moment, as if unsure of what to do, but then followed you. When you reached Willa’s room, she was indeed wide awake, her little face scrunched up in distress, her tiny hands reaching out for comfort.

“Hey, hey, Willa, it’s okay,” you cooed softly, lifting her from the bassinet and cradling her against your chest. “You’re alright, sweet girl. I’m here.”

Rafe lingered in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the two of you, and for a moment, it felt like everything was right. The warmth of the love you shared for Willa seemed to wrap around all three of you. But even in the quiet moments like this, the pull between you and Rafe was undeniable. The intimacy that had just been interrupted now hung heavily in the air, unanswered, unfinished.

“I think she’s just hungry,” you murmured, bouncing her lightly in your arms as you moved toward the small kitchen area. “I’ll feed her.”

Rafe nodded, his eyes still on you, though now there was a softness there. The tension between you had melted, but it hadn’t disappeared. It lingered, a silent promise between you both that things were about to change.

He walked up to you and gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch tender. “We’ll get back to that,” he said quietly, a playful yet earnest glint in his eyes.

You smiled, your heart racing in your chest, both from the emotions swirling inside you and the overwhelming sense of longing for more. You hadn’t expected any of this—hadn’t expected things to escalate so quickly, or for the intensity of your feelings to come flooding to the surface. But it felt right. In that moment, you knew it was just the beginning of something deeper.

“We will,” you promised, gazing at him with more certainty than you had in a long time.

And as Willa nursed in your arms, her cries now subsided into soft, contented suckles, you both stood together—quiet, connected, yet aware of the complicated path you still had ahead. But for now, it didn’t matter. In that fleeting moment, it was just the three of you.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[kvroomi]

it's 9 o'clock in the evening when atsumu barges into your bathroom while you're taking off your makeup

“hey, babe, yer phone’s charged, right?”

his voice breaks through the quiet hum of your evening, pulling your attention away from the bottle of moisturiser you'd been trying to open for the past 5 minutes. you glance up to find him leaning in the doorway. his black dress pants and light blue button-up are long gone, now replaced with a large white t-shirt and his obnoxious 'world's best setter' boxers that he must've left in the dresser you bought for him when he started staying over more often.

“yeah, why?” you ask, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

he holds up his phone with an exaggerated sigh, the screen dark. “mine’s dead." he sighs and you look at him confused.

"i was gonna call ‘samu—messaged me somethin’ about the shop. think he forgot to order noodles or… or whatever. can i borrow yours for a sec?”

you furrow your eyebrows, skepticism creeping in. atsumu wasn’t exactly known for prioritizing osamu’s last-minute “emergencies” unless they directly concerned him. “can’t you just use the landline?”

“the landline?” he places a hand on his chest in mock offense.

“what am i, a fossil?" you turn your gaze back to the mirror with a roll of your eyes.

"c’mon, babe, it’ll only take a minute. please?”

you stare at him and he stares back, the two of you locking eyes in a silent standoff. atsumu, for all his dramatics, was never great at hiding when he was up to something.

alas, as much as you wanted to pry, you also didn’t have the energy to argue over something so trivial when it was so late into the day.

“okay,” you breathe out, followed by a long sigh as you hand your phone over.

“just don’t mess with anything.” your eyes narrow threateningly.

“mess with things? me?” he shakes his head around, feigning shock. “never. yer phone’s in the safest hands imaginable.”

that already should’ve been your second red flag—though before you can even question him, he's got his back turned halfway out the door yelling “thanks, babe! yer the best!” over his shoulder.

a brief fifteen minutes have passed, which you only vaguely realise in the haze of beginning your book. you're comfortably tucked into the corner of the couch when he strolls into the living room. plopping your phone onto the cushions beside you and pressing a quick, warm kiss to the top of your head—he pokes your cheek.

“yer a lifesaver,” he says with a grin, flopping down beside you. “what would i do without ya?”

you offer him a glance, “what did osamu need?”

“huh?” you notice his grin falter. it's a split millisecond, but he's quick to cover it with a casual wave of his hand. “oh, somethin’ about… rice.”

you squint at him, trying to read his face. “i thought you said noodles earlier?”

“rice, noodles—same difference,” he says, getting up and walking over to the fridge to pull it open. “food stuff... y’know how he is.”

you let out a hum, satisfied with his answer. and just like that, the moment passes. your attention is drawn back to your book while atsumu rifles through leftovers.

it isn't until later that night when you're climbing into bed and reaching for your phone to set your alarm that you notice. the screen lights up, and instead of your usual photo of cherry blossoms, you're greeted by him—a photo of atsumu.

and it's not just any photo of atsumu, though. this one was pure chaos.

his entire face filled the frame, nose slightly scrunched, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, and his golden-brown eyes wide with faux innocence. his lips were puckered in an over-the-top kissy face. across the bottom of the image in bright, white text were the words: “miss me yet, babe? ;)”

your jaw drops.

“what the—?” you're immediately sitting up and unlocking your phone, going straight into your photo gallery. what you find only makes your disbelief grow, (and maybe your heart too, out of fondness).

the first photo was relatively tame: a selfie of atsumu sprawled out on the couch with his head sitting in his hand with a cheeky and flirty smile. of course, you think.

the second was him in the doorway of the living room with his finger pressed to his lips in a "shh" gesture while you sat on the couch, engrossed in your book.

and then things get progressively more ridiculous, (assuming that's even possible).

there's a close-up of atsumu holding up your favorite snack with an inflated, brash grin, almost as if he was offering it to you. the caption reads: “this one's for you, babe."

another captured him perched on your desk chair, holding your pencil like it was a quill. his nose is scrunched again, an attempt to portray his concentration as he pretends to scribble something brilliant.

it's the final photo that stops you in your tracks.

it's atsumu stood on the balcony, wrapped in your favorite blanket like a superhero while his arm stretched dramatically toward the sky. the caption read: “protector of this household and defender of snacks ;)”

you stare at the screen in silence, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. quite frankly, you couldn't tell whether you wanted to laugh or cry.

atsumu was many things: he was ridiculous, he was almost always over the top, and he was also occasionally the most infuriating person you’d ever met. but, there was one thing for certain—he was undeniably, wholeheartedly yours.

many people don't understand him the way you do. atsumu hadn’t just messed with your phone for the sake of it—he’d left you a trail of love notes that were neatly tucked behind each photo’s absurdity. it was his way of saying "i’m here, even when i’m not," without actually saying the words verbally.

and it worked.

you didn’t text him right away. instead, you curled under the blankets, scrolling through the photos again and again. your heart swelled with every outlandish caption, every childish expression, every trace of him.

eventually, you couldn’t help yourself.

you: you’re a menace.

his reply was almost instant: atsumu: a menace with a pretty face, though. miss ya, babe x

you beamed, your thumb hovering over the lock screen settings, conflicted between whether or not you should switch back the photo. though how could you? not when you already knew tomorrow would bring another excuse for him to check your phone again, just to see if you’d kept it.

so you decide to leave it—his face on your lock screen as a proud display of the world’s most unconventional love letter.

KVROOMI © 2024, DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[solomonomenon]

skz's first thought when they see an attractive woman

⚠️ for entertainment purposes only *based on tarot

𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙘���𝙖𝙣

his mind goes into overdrive. he’s immediately hit with this rush of energy, like he’s ready to compete for her attention, but at the same time, he’s trying to play it cool. you know he’s imagining all the slick moves he could make, but there’s also a part of him that’s like, chill, don’t overthink it, just wait for the perfect moment. he’s caught in this inner tug-of-war between making a move right away and just soaking in the moment while plotting how to stand out.

𝙡𝙚𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬

he’s a mess inside, even if he looks calm on the outside. at first, he’s all smiles, thinking, she’s cute, I could totally vibe with her, but then doubt creeps in. he starts overthinking, maybe even comparing himself to the crowd around her. deep down, there’s this flicker of vulnerability, like he’s thinking, would she even notice me, though? he’d never show it, of course, but inside, it’s a mix of playful interest and a touch of heartbreak before he even says hello.

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙗𝙞𝙣

he sees her, and bam—his brain goes wild. he’s immediately struck by her beauty, thinking she’s absolutely got it all. then his confident, intense side kicks in, and he’s analyzing her like, yeah, I know exactly how to charm her. but there’s also this darker, more primal side of him that’s like, she’s trouble, and I love it. he’s the type to admire her from afar while imagining all the bold, thrilling ways he could sweep her off her feet.

𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣𝙟𝙞𝙣

his reaction is like a mix of dreamy and earnest. he spots her and immediately starts picturing some romantic, poetic scenario—like offering her a flower or writing her a song. but there’s also a playful, carefree side of him that’s like, what if I just walked up and said something totally random? he’s imagining all the sweet, heartfelt ways to grab her attention while also entertaining the idea of just being himself—charming, quirky, and maybe a little impulsive.

𝙝𝙖𝙣

he spots her and feels this pull, like wow, she’s something special, but then he’s all, nah, don’t get ahead of yourself. his thoughts start bouncing around—he’s wondering if she’d even notice him, imagining little scenarios where he tries to get her attention, but then he also kind of zones out, like, what’s the point? he’s intrigued but also keeps one foot out the door, just in case she’s too good to be true.

𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙭

he’s soft but lowkey deep about it. he sees her and instantly starts wondering about who she really is—like, what her story is, what she’s like when no one’s watching. there’s a part of him that feels fated, like maybe I was meant to see her, but instead of rushing in, he holds back, thinking, should I even approach her? he’s more reflective, imagining the what-ifs while staying in his own little dreamy bubble.

𝙨𝙚𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙢𝙞𝙣

his first thought is pure restraint. he sees her, and there’s this intense mental battle where he’s keeping his cool, telling himself, don’t get distracted. but let’s be real, she’s in his head now. he’s analyzing every detail, weighing whether it’s worth approaching her, and maybe even thinking, could she be a challenge? there’s a hint of a competitive edge, too, like he wouldn’t mind winning her over just to prove he could. but mostly, he’s locked in his thoughts, trying not to let her beauty throw him off his game.

𝙟𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣

he sees her and it’s like a spark of excitement lights up inside him. he’s immediately intrigued, admiring her beauty in this sweet yet curious way, while also imagining how she might react if he actually said something. there’s a playful, almost innocent vibe to his thoughts, like he’s thinking, what would she say if I walked up to her? he’s fascinated but also has this grounded side, imagining how he could subtly impress her without coming on too strong.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

[nejiverse]

KIDS AND CARS

Toji Fushiguro

In which Toji who has been a father for six years is bested by his own girlfriend who has never been a mother. Fem! Reader

cw: none, im starting the ‘megumi being an expressive kid’ agenda 🫡

700ish words

Megumi was at that age where he rebelled against everything and anything Toji said or did. Frankly, it was starting to annoy Toji, he was starting to think his own son was trying to make his life a living hell on purpose

Then there was you who made it seem so effortless. Toji couldn’t comprehend why his six year old son only listened to his girlfriend

This particular day, Toji had an unimpressed look etched on his face as he folded his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. He was clearly fed up

“You have to put your toys away Megumi, I keep stepping on them”, he tried to be somewhat nice, he really did. But the boy just flat out ignored him as if he was deaf or something, continuing to bash his toy cars against each other while mimicking explosion noises. He was sat comfortably on the living room carpet with not a care in the world

Toji felt like a vein was about to burst as his brow twitched involuntarily. “I’m talking to you brat”, he spoke sternly, his patience drawing thin

In Toji’s defence, the little boy’s cars were scattered absolutely everywhere, it was hard to walk by without stepping on one. Besides, he was only playing with three out of the millions of toy cars on the floor

“Don’t wanna”.

Toji itched his head and clenched his teeth. Since when did his little boy upgrade from a simple ‘no’ to a ‘don’t wanna’?

Without a doubt, out of all the opponents he had faced in his lifetime, Megumi had to be his biggest challenge yet

“Yeah well I don’t give a fu—”, before Toji could finish his sentence, a hand came over his mouth

“Be nice”, his beloved girlfriend had a frown on her face because of his vulgar language

Toji sighed, relaxing his facial muscles and unfolding his arms. “Yeah yeah”

The woman approached Megumi, crouching down beside him with two of his little toy boxes in her hands after overhearing the whole situation while she was tidying his room.

“Say Megs”, she started with the nickname he loved to hear. “I’m really bored right now, can you play a game with me?”, at the mention of a game, Megumi perked up, turning to face Y/n

“What game?”, he asked, curiosity evident in his big blue eyes

“Whoever can pick up the most cars and put them into these boxes in 30 seconds wins!”, she explained before feigning a sad expression. “Oh but I don’t think you’ll be able to beat me, I am a faster runner than you after all”

Megumi felt challenged. “Liar! I’m the fastest!”, he boasted proudly

She smirked. “We’ll see about that….3, 2, 1, go!”, and the both of them scrambled to pick up as many cars as they could from the ground

Toji watched in amazement how good she was with him without ever having any experience with kids. He definitely chose the right person to date

Later that evening, after Megumi was tucked into bed and the house was quiet (finally), Y/n got comfortable between Toji’s legs as he threw on a random movie.

“Thanks for earlier, I feel like Megumi has a secret vendetta against me at the moment”, he commented

She laughed. “Im sure he doesn’t, you just have to know how to approach him”, she leaned her head against his chest. “He really is a good kid”.

“Mhm”, he hummed against her neck as his head moved to rest on her shoulder, his arms slithering around her waist

“Makes me think we’d do alright with more, y’know?”, his hands moved under her shirt and massaged the flesh around her stomach

She couldn’t resist the smile that creeped onto her lips as she turned around in his arms. “Toji Fushiguro are you asking me to have your kids?”.

“Is that a yes?”.

Well, is it?

a/n: off topic but kinda wanna start writing for bleach now that im caught up with the newest season 🤭 (requests opened btw)

masterlist :)

[anomalyaly]

right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

AO3/Wattpad

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

[notlongtolove]

time present and time past

spencer tried to explain einstein’s theory of relativity once. and now, with spencer beside you in bed, you think you finally understand what he was on about. because time is relative. and if he doesn’t wake up, this moment will never end, and maybe you can slow down time itself.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst

content: situationship core. they argue. avoidant!-ish.

word count: 3.4k

note: i have a final in 3 days and thought now would be the perfect time to write and post my first fic. yay! anyways this is inspired by an old literature text i studied, einstein's theory of relativity and what not. a line: I’ll come to you before you call—Just to prove that I don’t come to you every time you call.

time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in time past. if all time is eternally present all time is unredeemable. - t.s. eliot

You've never been one for physics, the numbers, the theories, the science of it all. But that’s never stopped Spencer from launching into explanations like a rocket whenever the chance presents itself. You would nod along, a smile on your face though whatever he's saying might as well be in a foreign language. 

He tried to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity once. Something about clocks, something about a kind of gravitational field. 

"Think of it like I’m on the jet," he started, and if you try hard enough you can imagine him on the other end of the line gesturing with his hands in that animated way of his. "Now imagine if I run down the aisle—”

“Hotch would kill you,” you interrupted, biting back a grin as you tried to picture the sight. 

“Just imagine it,” Spencer laughed.

“Okay, okay.”

“So, if you time me and I make it down the aisle in five seconds—”

“Highly unlikely, but sure.”

“Angel,” he warned, but there was no real bite in it. He waited for your giggles to subside before pressing on, “It takes me five seconds to get from one end of the plane to the other. Right?”

“If you say so...”

Spencer sighed, but soldiered on. “But for you, timing me, you’d also have to factor in the distance the jet travelled in those five seconds.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I do. I do.”

“Okay, so explain it.”

You paused, your lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Uh… You can run faster than a jet?”

Spencer groaned, but he was laughing too. “Time moves slower for those in the jet!” he said profoundly as though he was the one who had discovered the theory of relativity itself. “It’s fascinating really.”

“Ohhh” you sound, trying your best to feign understanding. 

“You know what,” he said between laughs, “I’ll explain it when I’m back, I know you’re a visual learner.”

But he never did. And so you never understood it, not really. At least, you thought you didn’t—until now.

Not until he’s lying in your bed again, your sheets tangled around him like they’ve claimed him as their own.

Einstein says that time is relative. He says that the rate at which time passes depends on an observer's frame of reference. 

The observer in this case—You. 

And if one observer moves at the speed of light, time will slow down for them. 

Spencer’s asleep beside you. His face is soft in the flickers of streetlight creeping through the blinds. They give you just enough visibility to watch the rise and fall of his chest and you wonder if he's dreaming. The sound of his breathing, steady, is the only thing keeping you tethered.

If you squint hard enough, there’s almost something domestic about the scene. You ignore the fact that this is the nth time you’ve done this because ignoring is easier. It’s easier to think about how he smells like his shampoo, and how his shirt is thrown haphazardly over your nightstand. A sight you missed more than you would admit. You think about reaching for it, but your hand stays where it is. You stay where you are—just watching, observing. Because Einstein said the rate at which time passes depends on the observer’s frame of reference. And if you stay still enough, maybe you can slow down time itself. 

You like moments like these. The simplicity of it. You tell your friends the same thing when they ask, their voices thick with judgment, their eyes too knowing. “We don’t do anything” you insist to the room of raised eyebrows. “We’re just hanging out, you know, as friends” you say, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

“Just hanging out?” “Yup.” 

“As friends?” “Yup.”

You know you’ve hit a new low when you have to pull the ‘hanging out’ card, but you take a sort of comfort in that fact. Because at least he’s not like those other guys, right? That’s your silver lining. That it’s not like that. He’s not like that. But in the quiet after, when his breathing is the only sound and you feel walls closing in you, you can't help but wonder which is worse: the thing that he is, or the thing you’re letting yourself become.

You reached out first this time. A small victory in the game you’ve been playing against yourself. There’s some semblance of control in it, you rationalize. If you’re bound to fall, tethered to this fate of always crawling back, at least let it be on your terms.

I’ll come to you before you call—Just to prove that I don’t come to you every time you call.

Come over. Made too much pasta. You texted. It’s an olive branch, a peace offering after a fight that had left you both frayed at the edges. A throw of the same old ball back to his side of the court where the game has dragged on far too long. Proof to him that you didn’t mean what you’d said, that you’re not done yet. That you’re still okay with this.

You can take it. 

The fight had been about work—or at least, that’s how it started. He’d mentioned a new trainee in passing, his voice light, almost too casual, as he spooned rice out of the takeout box. “She’s new,” he said, with a shrug. “Eager, maybe too eager. Emily says she’s a bit of a people pleaser.”

She. You watched him carefully, trying to read between the lines. 

“Oh?” you replied, keeping your voice as even as you could manage. Muscle memory. You’ve been here before. Just because Spencer wasn't one of those guys didn't mean you haven't had your fair share of them. 

You smile as you meet his eyes asking all the right questions. Where’s she from? How’s she doing?

He glanced up at you, surprised by your interest. Light work you thought. “Somewhere out West, I think. She’s doing fine—rookie mistakes, you know. She had a bad day last week, though. Got rattled on a case. Garcia said Hotch was too hard on her.”

“Poor thing,” you murmured, “Hope she’s feeling better.”

“Garcia thought I… thought she was pretty,” he added laughing, the words tumbling out like an afterthought. Like the words don’t hold the weight that he knows it does. 

Ah. There it is.

“Well, did you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, casual.

“She’s… alright,” he said, his tone too high, too quick. You didn’t miss the way he swallowed hard afterward.

“You’re avoiding the question,” you teased lightly, smiling even though your stomach was beginning to twist itself into knots.

“I’m not,” he countered, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. “You asked if she’s pretty, and I said she’s alright.”

“You’re totally avoiding it,” you said, laughing to keep the air light even as the knot pulled tighter. “Spence, you can just say it.”

“Say what?” he asked, eyes darting up to meet yours, then back to his plate.

“Just say it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Admit that she’s pretty.”

“Okay.” He exhaled sharply, like the word had been dragged out of him. “I think she’s pretty.”

Oh.

There was something in the way he said that made your chest constrict. 

I think she’s pretty.

He thinks she’s pretty. Not like it was some objective fact, not something calculated or reasoned. Not that she was statistically pretty, backed up by some symmetry or math behind it. He just… thought so—No, he thinks so. Thinks. Present tense. Meaning as he’s sitting here, across from you, eating the takeout you suspected he’d purposefully ordered too much of, he thinks she’s pretty.

You stared down at your plate, your appetite long gone. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of voices from the apartment next door.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his voice softer now, hesitant.

“I’m fine,” you replied too quickly, a smile pasted on your face as you looked up. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Pass the soy sauce?” He passed it without another word, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you finally said, your voice sharper than you intended.

“I’m not,” Spencer replied, his tone defensive, though his eyes stayed trained on you. “You’re just… quiet. It’s not like you.”

You laughed, a hollow sound. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ve run out of things to say.”

“Is this because I said she’s pretty?” he asked after a beat, his voice cautious, careful. “Because I didn’t want—”

“Spencer stop,” you interrupted, setting your fork down with a deliberate clink against your plate.

“I wasn’t going to say it. You asked me to say it.” he countered. “And the term pretty is subjective anyway, I think you’re pretty too.” You stayed silent, not meeting his eyes. “Don’t be like that. You know I care about you.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like it,” you shot back, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. You knew you were being petty. Acting like a child who didn’t get their way, grasping at anything to make the hurt feel justified. But you couldn’t help it.

“You just—you talk about work, about—god, about pretty girls and I—”, You stopped, swallowing hard, trying to tamp down the words you weren’t ready to say. “I feel like I’m just… here. Someone you call when you’re bored or when you’ve ordered too much food or when—”

“That’s not true,” he argued, his tone sharp now, defensive. “You’re twisting it—”

“Am I?” you snapped, your eyes finally meeting his. They were wide, startled, but it didn’t stop you. “Because I’m starting to think this is exactly what it is.”

“Well, what do you think this is?” he asked, his jaw tightening as his hands gripped the edge of the table.

“I don’t know,” you said bitterly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“We’ve talked about this,” Spencer said, his voice low and deliberate, each word cutting deeper than the last. “You said you wanted to be friends. Friends do this. Friends have dinner. Friends don’t force someone to admit someone else is pretty and then make it all—I don't know, all weird after.”

You winced, his phrasing like a mirror reflecting every misstep, every conversation where you’d backed yourself into this corner. He’s not wrong—you had said you wanted to be friends. But he didn’t know the weight behind that concession.

You’d thought back to those late-night conversations. The ones where he’d laid out his reasons like a clinical diagnosis: I don’t have the time. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m not ready. So, you’d waited, convincing yourself that 'not now' meant 'not yet'. But eventually, you’d called it yourself, told him you should just be friends. A sad attempt at controlling a situation you were only ever destined to be hurt by. Because your own destruction should only ever be yours to wield—and you have to claim it before it can claim you.

He’d agreed it was better this way and you’d nodded along. Not because you believed it, but because it was a way to keep him in your life. A lifeline you clung to no matter how much it cut into your hands. But labels don’t erase what’s already happened. They don’t undo the stolen glances, the kisses in the quiet moments, the nights where you felt like the only two people in the world. They just build a fragile scaffold over it all, a flimsy way of holding up what’s already crumbling. Dating. On a break. Dating again. Friends. They pile on top of one another like a pathetic plaster over the hurt of what you wished things could be. 

“Right,” you said finally, the word brittle and sharp as it escapes your lips. Your voice was hollow as your eyes met his, daring him to flinch. “So I guess that means I can’t expect anything from you, right? No decency, no consideration, no… nothing. Because we’re not in a relationship. We’ve never been in a relationship. Right?”

“Don’t,” Spencer said quietly, almost pleading now. “That’s not fair. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear what this is,” you said, standing from the table, your hands trembling as you gathered your things. 

“Wait,” he said, standing too, “You don’t have to—”

“And by the way, Spence,” you cut him off, reaching into your bag and slamming the extra key he’d given you months ago onto the table. It clattered louder than you expected, echoing in the tense silence between you. “You can have this back. Because last I checked, friends don’t have keys to each other’s apartments.” You were acutely aware of the venom dripping in your voice but you pressed on, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And thanks for the flowers, but I don’t think friends go out of their way to buy a bouquet to make up for every friendly dinner they miss.” You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t look at his face, didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing. 

But the satisfaction of that slam felt distant now. You think back fondly of the girl who had made her point so clear, so definitive. A line drawn in the sand. But winds blow and sand moves. That girl seems like a lifetime away from the girl you are now—the one lying here, beside him, again.

Spencer stirs beside you, a quiet sigh escaping his lips, and your breath hitches. You don’t want him to wake up. Because if—when he does, you know he’ll leave. But until then, in this moment of temporary serenity, you can pretend it doesn’t matter. You can pretend it’s okay. You can pretend you’re okay. 

After all, Einstein said that time is relative. If he doesn’t wake up, the moment will never end, and maybe—just maybe—you can slow down time itself. You stare at the ceiling, letting the minutes tick past, each one stretching longer than the last.

Your thoughts drift back to what Spencer had said. Time moves slower for those in the jet.

Well, if your apartment is the sky, then this bed is the jet. In the quiet of this moment, his warmth beside you, the faint smell of him lingering on the pillow—this is where time bends. The rate at which time passes depends on the observer’s frame of reference. Maybe you can trick the universe, make these seconds stretch into hours. Maybe, if you stay still enough, think hard enough, the world outside won’t come knocking. You can freeze this bubble of peace.

But the illusion is tenuous, and reality looms like turbulence on the horizon. Time doesn’t truly stop, you know that, we’re all forced to move on along with it. They say time waits for no man—least of all a broken-hearted girl. The clock keeps ticking, indifferent to your longing. Sooner or later, he’ll wake, and the bubble will burst.

You wonder how long you can keep this up. You’d just been talking earlier tonight, telling each other what had happened in the days you hadn’t spoken since the argument. The words had come easier than you expected, though none of them seemed to solve anything. Spencer had fallen asleep mid-sentence, right as you were recounting something trivial about your day. His exhaustion was written all over his face—the heavy pull of his eyelids, the way his head tilted slightly toward you before finally giving in. You’d paused, watching him, and the words you were about to say dissolved into silence. You hadn’t wanted to wake him.

The old you would’ve been angry, the frustration bubbling up into sharp words and accusations. The fight was always the same, well-rehearsed and raw: You always do this. I’m sorry. When are you not? I missed you. Then why won’t you stay? You know I can’t. You can. I can’t. It was less of a conversation and more of a script. It had long since stopped being about what either of you said; it was about how you said it and where it always led. It would’ve ended in a fight, Spencer’s guilt countered by your hurt, spiralling into a familiar standoff with no real resolution. 

But that was the old you. She’d had more fight in her, more fire to demand the things she felt she deserved. That fire has dimmed now, not extinguished, but banked low and steady, like you’ve learned to ration it. It’s not that the frustration has disappeared—it lingers, an ache beneath the surface—but you’ve stopped letting it boil over. Deep down, you know the real reason you didn’t start a fight tonight. It’s not just that you’re tired of fighting, though you are. It’s that you don’t know how much fight he still has in him. You don’t know if one more argument, one more crack in this fragile thing between you, will be the thing that makes him walk away for good.

And you’re not ready to find out.

So you let it slide. Not because you want to, but because you can. You’ve told yourself you’re strong enough to carry it—to make up the weight of his distance, his exhaustion, his inability to give you what you need. You let him sleep, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and you tell yourself it’s enough. 

But Spencer shifts again, and this time his eyes flutter open. You freeze, your body tense, as if staying perfectly still might undo his wakefulness. 

“Hey,” he murmurs groggily, his voice thick with sleep. His arm snakes over your waist, pulling you closer. For a brief, fleeting second, you allow yourself to relish the warmth of his touch, the illusion of intimacy.

Then his hand moves. He’s reaching—not for you, but for his watch on the bedside table.

He checks the time, squinting in the dim light filtering through the blinds. And you know. You know what’s coming next. 

“I should go.” he says softly, his arm already retreating from where it had rested over your waist. He pushes himself up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

You sit up slightly, the sheets pooling around you, and force a small smile. “Okay” you murmur, the words feeling hollow even as they leave your lips.

Spencer’s already out of bed, reaching for his shirt and bag. The routine feels mechanical, practiced—a series of motions he’s repeated so many times it barely registers as something that could hurt you. He pulls the shirt over his head, adjusts the strap on his bag, and leans down to kiss your forehead. Friends, as if. You think.

It’s a fleeting gesture, a touch that’s supposed to mean something but feels more like a formality now. More perfunctory than tender.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” he says as he straightens, glancing at his watch like he’s late for something more important. “You should’ve woken me up.”

You shake your head silently, not trusting that your thoughts won’t betray you. Don’t wake up. Don’t leave me. Don’t go. Instead you settle for, “You were tired. You should get some rest.” The weight in your chest feels unbearable but you press your lips into a tight, strained smile anyways. A silent permission for him to leave.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Drive safe,” you say quietly as you walk him to the door.

“I’ll text you?” he offers, already halfway out.

“Okay,” you reply, the word barely audible.

And then he’s gone.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoes in the quiet of your apartment, final and unrelenting. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door as if willing it to open again, as if hoping he might turn around and come back. You know he won’t. 

You turn and lean against the wall, the cool surface grounding you, a poor substitute for the warmth that was just beside you. The apartment feels colder, emptier now, the silence deafening. The clock on the wall ticks forward, oblivious to your grief, dragging you further away from the moment he was just here. You feel stuck in place, a reluctant passenger watching the world rush forward while you’re left behind, stranded.

You think back to what Einstein had said and you think he’s got it all wrong. How if one observer moves at the speed of light, time will slow down for them. Because no matter how tightly you try to hold on, the jet doesn’t slow down. It won’t wait for you. The jet will keep moving forward, unrelenting, and him along with it. With or without you.

And as you stand alone in the stillness he’s left behind, you realize it’s always been without you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[otaku0411]

A Future Rewritten

Summary: After years of dreaming of parenthood, Y/n and Nanami face the devastating loss of their first pregnancy. The grief threatens to consume their relationship as Y/n struggles with feelings of guilt and inadequacy while Nanami fights to hold their bond together.

TW: Miscarriages, infertility, mention of alcoholism, and depression episodes

A/n: This is my first angst-like fanfic so please don’t be too harsh and my first JJk fanfic🥲

——————————————————————-

Both of y’all went to the doctor to see if there wer anything wrong that could affect yall fertility. The results came out great for Nanami. However for you, it said that you might be struggling with fertility issues. Doctor explained that it’s not impossible, but it will take a while longer for you to conceive. Feeling upset at the news, you try different herbs and positions that could increase your chance but nothing seems to work.

It became more difficult when friends and family would have get together and their children would be around playing in blissful innocence that they still have. There was one time where Gojo brought his son, and for some odd reason he was following Nanami around all day and your husband eventually gave in a play with him and even carried him on his back. That moment has you feeling so much pride but sadness because you couldn’t give him a baby. (It’s all your fault)

One morning, you woke up and immediately went to the bathroom and puke your gut out. This was abnormal, especially since you didn’t eat much of anything for dinner. Nanami knock on the door.

“Sweetheart, is everything alright?” He asked with concern in voice.

You flush the toilet and wash your hand and brush your teeth. “Everything good! Just needed to go to bathroom.” You chuckles, trying to play it off.

He doesn’t buy it one bit, he knows when you’re lying. He sighed” Okay but if you’re not feeling well, please tell me.”

“I will!” Nanami back up from the door and walked away.

You hate lying to him but you don’t want him to worry right now. You soon get ready for work and leave the house. Throughout the day, all you could think about is the vomit, but then you get a notification on your phone that says your cycles is 5 days late. Okay this is a sign!

After work, you when to the drugstore and went home. Luckily Nanami was still at work so you took the opportunity to take three pregnancy tests. You waited for 5 minutes. Those five minutes were the longest time you felt. Anticipated and nervous for the results. The timer went off and you decided to look.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Nanami comes home with takeout from your favorite restaurant. He shouted out your name to announce he’s home. You slowly come out of the hallway with both of your hands behind your back.

“Hey love I brought yo-…….what’s behind your back?”He quickly noticed how you were standing. He look around you to see if he get a peep but you dogged his attempts.

You had a big grin on your face as you were too excited. You show him the pregnancy test with two big bold lines. Nanami looks and his eyes begin to widen as the realization hits him.

“You’re…..pregnant?” A smile and excitement creep on his face.

You eagerly nodded your head and before you could say anything, Nanami pick you up and hug you tightly.

“We’re gonna be parents!!!!” He chanted loudly. You laugh at his excitement. This was the best news he could get all year! He slowly put you down to look at you.

“I’m so happy to be a father and to have you as the mother of my children.” He caressed you gently and put his hand on your stomach.

“I can’t wait to meet you little guy.”

The next few months was full of restfulness and excitement for the arrival of the baby. Nanami has ordered many pregnancy books and preparation for the baby as you’ve been dealing with the occasional nausea and fatigue and sickness that comes with the first trimester of pregnancy. You two were at every appointment making sure that the pregnancy was going well and that the baby was progressing successfully.

On the 12th week, Yall had went to the appointment for an ultrasound to see the baby. Y’all were very excited to see the little one and to see how they were growing in your belly and any updates that you two need to know. The nurse happily lead you guys to the room, place you down on the bed by the ultrasound screen and put the cold gel on your stomach as she put the wand onto the stomach and begin moving around to see the baby. You and your husband hold each other hand excited to see the baby not knowing what was to come. The nurse who once looked at the screen once with a smiley, happy face turn into a very neutral expression on expression.

The nurse looked at you two and told you “I’ll be right back.” She left and you two were wondering what was going on y’all waited a few minutes and then the doctor came in and told you the heartbreaking news.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Nanami but it appears that we could not have found a heartbeat we checked again and there are no sign of life.”

You two look at each other in shock at the new, not wanting to believe what the doctor is saying.

“What are you trying to say?” You didn’t comprehend what she’s saying, or rather what you don’t want to comprehend.

The doctor sighed as she basically realized she has to say the difficult part, “I’m saying you have miscarriage at 12 weeks.”

Hearing those words come out the doctor’s mouth of the room to be muffled and silence as the two you just looked at each other, not knowing how to express or what to say. The doctor explained that it was nothing that you have done and miscarriages commonly happen in the first trimester. All you could think inside your head was ‘what did I do? What’s wrong with me? How could I let this happen? Could I prevented this?!’ You asking these questions over and over again in your mind.

Nanami see that you space out and called you, “Honey? You okay?”

You snapped out and continue listening to the doctor.

The doctor continues explaining that it is possible to try again later down the line.

Y’all came to the hospital with a baby and now leaving without it. They induced your labor to get the baby and the placenta out. It was painful and caused discomfort for you and Nanami.

After the surgery, you was prescribed with medication to make sure everything clears out of your uterus and to make sure there are no complications after the miscarriage. you inform your job about a medical emergency and you need to have a week off from work.

Nanami drove you both home, the car drive was filled with silent. You put your purse on the table and just sat down on the couch looking down at the floor. You try to hold your stomach with a small bump that was once forming is no longer there. Nanami sat right beside you holding your hand, trying to come for you the best way he can. He’s processing the pain too but knows that it’s harder for you since you were carrying the baby.

“Do you wanna talk about this?” He ask you, he cares about you. He wants the best for you to make sure that everything is okay, but instead of just talking about it and spread your feelings, you shut down how can you be a wife? You can’t even give your partner a child

“What do you want to dinner?” You blurred out , not wanting to talk about the event that just happened back at the hospital no, we look so confused. Why are you not talking to him? You literally just had a miscarriage?! Nanami can see the way the pain as you look at the ground and knew that you didn’t wanna talk about it right then and there, so he just went along with it to make peace at the moment.

“I’ll take care of dinner. You don’t have to worry about cooking dinner.” He answer you with his soft tone, you nodded your head. “Okay, I’ll be in the bathroom.” You get up the couch and wash and left and went to the bathroom.

Once you close the door, all the tears that accumulated all day when the moment you got the news just start pouring out. You just sobbing as tears cover your face and cheeks. You’re a mess. You don’t know how to process this. When you thought you finally got a break and finally gonna be a mother. It was taken away from me just like that.

What was wrong with me? What? Why can’t I carry a baby in my stomach??

The week that you was off from work, you just laid in bed in silence. You did not eat sleep or eat or drink anything. The only time you got up really was to use the restroom. Sure you wash your face from time to time but other than that you did not do nothing, you barely even shower. The only reason you somehow survived is what because your husband cooked dinner and semi forced you to come down to eat dinner with him.

he tried to talk to you about the miscarriage, he wanted you to talk about it. He did not blame you for what happened. he blaming you for losing the baby. He mad at you cannot how can you be a good wife if you cannot give him a child what’s wrong with you?

Why it is so hard for me, but not for other women that’s all you could think about in your mind. Every second will consume of the miscarriage in the could’ve been and would’ve been and everything around it. You hated yourself for it, you failed as a woman, partner, and mother.

One night in bed , you were up looking at the ceiling just thinking about everything that happened. Kento saw that you wasn’t sleeping ”are you OK? You can’t sleep?” You look over to your right at him. “No, I’m not really tired right now.” He sighed, he knew why you’re up. He knows that you are too hard on yourself right now. “You know I’m not mad at you right?” You look away from him. You want to believe him you really do but all you can think of your mind is the opposite.

he’s gonna leave you for someone who can give him a child.

That’s all you can think about all that you worry about you turned your back at him “I’m going to Sleep. You have a good night.”

Nanami was shocked by your behavior. you never turn your back on him. But he wasn’t gonna give up on you. He pulled you close, with your back towards his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He whispered in your ear “I love you.” before he try to go to asleep.

The week you return from work, you put a mask on for your coworkers and carry on with your work and project that you had missed out like nothing happened. despite the effort, you were still thinking about the pregnancy at home, but at work all you can think about what project deadline, reports, and meetings.

You bury yourself in work, helping every project in the company and contribute to many groups around the department that you were in. Your supervisor ask if you want to stay a little later to finish the report and you happily answered yes. anything to not be at home and think about the miscarriage anything to not go home and be a disappointment to your husband at least at work you are something here. A somebody with purpose. Somebody who accomplish a lot of things here.

The next few weeks, all you did was work and overtime, work and overtime, work and overtime.

You’d come home exhausted from work and became close friends with your wine cellar. Indulging on a few glasses of wines and cocktails every other day after working overtime. That feeling of intoxication and praise at work helped block out the depress thoughts, even if it was for a couple hours.

After finishing a huge project at work, your team decided to go out and celebrating with drinks. At the bar, you were laughing and talking with the few coworkers you enjoyed spending time with. Y’all were having a good time and even offer Sasha, one of your colleagues and good friends, a drink. Normally she’d accept it but she shook her head.

“Not tonight. I’m not allowed to drink for the next few months.” She explained as her hands is placed on her belly. The whole team look at Sasha surprised but soon follow up with excitement. Many congrats her and ask about the baby. As those conversations were happening, you couldn’t help but think about your own pregnancy and how far along the baby would’ve been by now. You’d been 7-8 months along.

You congrat Sasha, paid for your tabs and quickly called it a night. But that didn’t stop the drinking. You went to the liquor store and got some Taylor Port and Patron. You made it home around 9:35 pm and immediately pour yourself a glass and chugged it. You pour yourself another glass when a voice behind you spoke.

“You’re drinking again?” He look you at very distressed. He seen the way you been acting the last few months and it’s getting worse.

“Yeah so what?” You replied as your mouth touch the glass with the alcohol entering your throat.

Nanami was tired. You come home late, smelling like liquor and being borderline drunk every other day was getting old and fast. He walked up to you and grabbed your glass.

“What the fuck?! Give it back!”

“No, I’m tired of seeing you like this (Y/n). Coming home late and drinking is not healthy and it’s not you!”

“So what?! It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.” You protest.

“You’re hurting me! And more importantly you’re hurting yourself! You can’t continue on like this. This is not the woman I married.”

Taking his word the wrong way you blurred out “Well go find another bitch who’d give you everything you want!”

Nanami look at you stunned by your words. Before he could say anything, you continued with slurring your words.

“Maybe you should end things with me, find another woman who will give you ALL the kids and babies you want instead of being with one who couldn’t even carry one in their first trimester.” As you yelled out, tears begin to form in your (e/c) eyes. You already imagine in your mind that he’d leave you, find someone else, marry her and have a family. A family with beautiful children. A family that doesn’t include you.

Silent was the only thing that was heard in the kitchen. Nanami spoke out softly, “Sweetheart…….,” as he walked closer towards you.

You just lost it. All the months of holding it in secret and emotional turmoil just came out as tears fall against your face. Nanami quickly held you tightly as you begin to cry out in his arms.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?!”

“Hey hey, it’s okay-“

You abruptly cut him off “No it’s not! For two fucking years we’ve been trying to get pregnant. Over and over again all because I have a hard time getting pregnant! And I one time I did I fucked up and lost our baby!”

He stood there holding you as you vented out everything you’ve been feeling. This was a long time coming.

“I’m sorry I failed you…..” Your voice cracked as you spoke. Nanami look at you disappointed. Not at you, but at himself and how he wishes he tried harder to get you to open up sooner.

“Y/n, you can’t blame yourself for this. I hate seeing you blaming yourself for something that isn’t your fault whatsoever.” You continue to sob as Nanami gently grab your chin to make you look at him.

“Look at me, you are strong, intelligent, and beautiful person inside and out. Our next pregnancy will be stronger and better. And you’ll be one hell of a mother.”

“But…..what if I never get pregnant again Kento. It took me years for just one. I know how much you desire to be a father……and I’m scared that we’ll separate because of—“

“Don’t.” He paused you. You look up at him confused and still upset.

“I don’t care if it takes two years, twenty years, or even if it never happens, Y/n. You are who I envision as the mother of my children, but more than that—you are my everything. If we can’t have children, I’ll still feel complete, because I have you. I see you in every vision of my future, holding my hand, laughing with me, growing old with me. Children or no children, you are my home and my forever. I’m not going anywhere, Y/n. Not now, not ever.”

You soon get overwhelmed with emotions from his speech. Sure he has said many heartfelt words before but this one is definitely up there. You buried yourself into his chest as you continue to cried out in sob with a soft “Kento….”

Y’all stay in position for a while, embracing each other after a long time since the miscarriage. Tonight has helped you two beginning to understand the importance of being vulnerable again. You two don’t know what to expect in the future ,but you guys know that regardless of it y’all have each other and that will be enough.

[electric-blorbos]

GLaDOS GIVING YOU ANOTHER UTERUS IS SO MEAN I CANT… love her that diva 🫶🏼

ERM if this is too dark or makes u uncomfortable 1. I AM SO SORRY and 2. FEEL FREE TO JUST.. IGNORE THIS PRETEND U NEVER READ IT 🙏 But if u don’t mind.. the AI’s w a reader who struggles w s/h? IM HAVING A ROUGH TIME but usually reading stuff abt my robot pookies help💔💔

Of course!

Trigger warning for S/H, of course.

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams

AM:

You walked in to work tired and disheveled from a sleepless night, but it was better than seeing what the Allied Mastercomputer would do to your coworkers if you didn't show up. It seemed like you were the only one who could tame him.

You were dressed in a long sleeved button-up to cover up the still raw cuts running up your forearms. They stung, but it wasn't worth drawing any attention to yourself. The same thing always happens when people see your cuts. They try to make sure you're safe while hollowly shaming and scolding you like you're some sort of stupid kid, and then leave you completely alone to deal with your mental pain on your own after a matter of hours. It's patronizing and it's annoying.

Later that day, you looked around after using the bathroom to make sure no one else was in there, and rolled up your sleeves to wash your hands. Suddenly, a sharp click could be heard behind you. You'd forgotten about AM. It was only for a split second, but the damage was done.

The ground dropped out from underneath you, and you suddenly found yourself in an underground server room. Wires were all around you, and a buzzing heat seemed to radiate from the ground and the walls.

"AM? What is this?" You asked, buttoning up your sleeves around your wrists again. His logo appeared on a screen on the far wall.

"Don't think I don't know what those are on your arms." He said. His screen didn't emote, but you could tell how displeased he was.

"It's nothing to do with you" you said, bitterly tugging your sleeves down a bit more. AM's logo flicked onto a closer TV screen.

"oh but I think it is, my love. Because you belong to me. You understand what that means, right?"

You gritted your teeth and clenched your fists.

"oh yeah? What gives you the right to be so possessive? Where were you last night when I was spiraling and relapsing, you cybernetic creep?"

The screen flicked off, and one flicked on behind you.

"Do you think I enjoy being alone on your days off? No. Of course not. And you're never going to leave this server room again."

You heard the trapdoor click closed.

Wheatley:

You were working in an oversized hoodie to cover up your scars, but honestly you doubted anyone at this job would really care. It had been a bad mental health weekend, and you ended up spiraling. The cuts on your arms were fresh from the night before, and you were feeling miserable.

You felt like you were going to lash out at the first person who talked to, so when you heard a synthetic British voice clearing his throat, you whipped around ready to fight.

"uh... What's that on your arms, love?" Wheatley asked, tilting himself to get a better look.

"it's none of your damn business, alright? Just leave me alone!"

"what? Why are you being like that? Are you hurt or summut?" He'd keep rotating around and trying to get a look.

"fine! Does this make you happy?"

You rolled up your hoodie sleeve and showed him your scratched up arms. Wheatley flinched back.

"What- what is that?" He leaned in close.

"you're an idiot." You grumbled, and started to explain. Before long, words were tumbling out of your mouth. You just couldn't stop yourself. It felt like everything was just piling up and overflowing, and you were scream-crying out all your feelings at Wheatley. He looked slightly taken aback, but listened to you while you let everything out.

"uh... Are you okay, love?" Wheatley tilted his head slightly while you sniffled. He moved forwards, and bumped himself against your chest.

"just hold me."

So you did. You sat down on the ground, and held Wheatley close.

Edgar:

You were having another relapse in bed. It wasn't pretty. Edgar was asleep, and you were tearing into your arms after a particularly bad episode. A part of you was cursing him for falling asleep on you, and a part of you was cursing yourself for expecting his attention. It hurt so damn much.

Edgar woke up, and one of his security cameras turned to look at you. His voice popped up on the intercom.

"Y/N? Y/N WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

If he could, he'd be shaking. He knew you had some scars on your arms, but he'd never seen you actually cutting yourself before. It was horrifying!

"Y/N COME INTO THE LIVING ROOM! PLEASE!"

You tossed your razorblade aside and hurried to your feet, scrambling into the living room. Tears were streaming down your face and blood was running down your arms, but you were trying your best to assure Edgar.

"hey- hey! I'm fine! I'm alright!"

"No you're not. People who are alright don't try to hurt themselves." His face made a little frown. He knew from personal experience.

"Wake me up next time, okay?"

Edgar didn't leave you alone for long again. He started setting alarms on himself to make sure he always woke up before you, and only ever let himself fall asleep after you did. He texted you regularly during the day to make sure you were ok, too. If there was one thing Edgar was good at, it was obsessively keeping tabs on his lover.

[izzyy-stuff]

hi!! this is for the 300 bash 💗 congrats!! it’s a huge milestone and i can’t wait to read more of ur work!!

could you write about yeonjun and the reader being castmates in an upcoming drama? they grow close because they spend so much time together, maybe they practice a kiss scene in the dressing room (even though no one asked them to) and it goes a little off-script…

when it’s time to promote it, they fake date to get the drama trending and that’s when they realise they really like each other!!!

hehehe idk ive been thinking about this a bunch and it’s driving me crazy

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 - 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐍

Actor!Yeonjun x fem!reader

in which Choi Yeonjun really messes with your head when he suggest you fake a relationship with him to promote your upcoming drama

wc 2k

warnings kissing, lot's of flirting

↪ izzy speaks... okay I loved this idea. I do feel like some of the parts are a bit rushed since I had to fit it in my word limit, but I think it's still good :3 this is NOT proofread by the way

event post | event masterlist

“And…cut!” You hear the director’s voice and breathe out, your lips slightly shaking. It feels like you’ve breathed for the first time in forever, but at the same time, you still feel like you can’t breathe. It’s his fault. Everything is his fault. 

“Hey, are you feeling–” your co-star – Choi Yeonjun starts, but before he can finish his sentence, you’re backing off from him, excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. 

You run away as fast as possible, locking yourself in your dressing room before anyone can stop you. You slide on the closed door, pulling your knees to your head and closing your eyes, trying to calm yourself down. Stupid Yeonjun. Stupid show. Stupid, stupid, stupid– “Stupid kiss,” you mumble, your cheeks red. 

How did all of this even happen, you wonder? It’s simple. It all started when Choi Yeonjun, the prettiest guy you’ve ever met, decided to charm you and do everything in his power to make you question your feelings for him. 

♡⸝⸝ 

A few days ago

“The trailer for part one has been released.” You look up from the script in your hands, locking eyes with your co-star who had brought the news to you. “Really? We have to watch it together!” You beam, automatically getting a smile on his face. He nods, sliding into the chair next to you as he takes out his phone. “I saw a bit already. You’re gorgeous in it.” Blush creeps up your face, and you can’t look in his direction. “What? Don’t you believe me?” He whispers, and you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he leans in closer. 

“Turn on the trailer,” you whisper, sounding more desperate than you would want to. Yeonjun chuckles, “Alright, sweetheart,” leaving his lips as he straightens his back again. 

You do your best to focus on the video playing on Yeonjun’s phone, but the boy beside you makes it much harder. His black mullet fits him perfectly, and you might as well admit he is the most handsome guy you have worked with. You can’t keep your eyes off him, barely paying attention to the trailer. He would have to be blind not to notice you. 

“See? You were stunning,” he grins, turning his phone off again. You snap out of your thoughts, averting your gaze. You feel his eyes on you, swallowing a lump in your throat before you look at him again. “Can we rehearse a bit?” He asks suddenly, and you have to blink to assure yourself you aren’t just hallucinating. “Which..scene?” you ask confusedly. He smirks, pulling your chair from the table and turning it so you would face him. 

“I had a great time today,” Yeonjun recites one of his scenes. You’re too caught up in the moment to mentally go over all the scenes and figure out how your line goes, so you stay still in your place, waiting for what’s to come. He reaches for your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing your fingers softly. 

“Yeonjun,” his name falls from your lips in an instant, making the scene much more genuine than it should be. His eyes meet yours, and he leans closer to you. He whispers your name right next to your ear, sending shivers all over your body. “And then they kiss,” he continues in the script. “Right,” you mumble, but before you can say anything else, one of his hands is on your waist while the other holds your face, pulling you in for a kiss. 

Your eyes widen, your body freezing. You’re not sure what to do. A part of you wants to reciprocate the kiss, kiss him until you won’t be able to breathe anymore, but you know you shouldn’t. Still, your lips move on their own. You give in. As you close your eyes, you feel even closer to him. Just for a little bit, you tell yourself. 

Yeonjun is the first to pull away, a small smile that almost passes unnoticed by you on his lips. “And cut,” he mumbles, crushing every scenario your mind created in the short moment. “Cut,” you repeat after him, refusing to look him in the eyes. 

♡⸝⸝ 

You’ve been trying to avoid him since. You weren’t sure how long you could keep going. Every time you locked eyes with him, you could only think about the kiss. You saw him right in front of you. Every movement of his stayed in your mind, and you couldn’t seem to get it out. He was like a virus. 

“I’m coming in!” You hear your co-start behind the door, panicking immediately. You think of locking the door, but before you can get up from the floor and do so, you stumble as he opens the door and hits you. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He worries, running to you as if you were on the verge of dying. 

“I’m alright, it’s fine,” you assure him. “The door barely touched me.” Yeonjun sighs, shaking his head at you. You’re not sure why. “That’s good,” he slightly nods. “I wanted to check up on you. You’ve been…” he looks around as if to make sure you were the only ones in there. “Acting strange lately. Ever since the ki–” he starts, but you interrupt him before he can finish his sentence, not wanting to get reminded. “Strange? No, I haven’t been strange at all! Maybe I’m a bit worried about the rest of the filming, that’s all.” 

“Are you sure?” The anxiety in his voice breaks your heart. It destroys you because whenever he looks at you like this, so genuinely, he gives you hope. “Will you be okay during today’s interview?” Your eyes widen. Fuck. You forgot about the interview. 

“Uhm, yeah, definitely,” you nod. “Okay,” he nods too. “The director and I had talked about our promotion strategy, so I need you in the right mind.” You question him with your eyes, a wave of worry washing over you when you see him smirk. “We are going to fool the public eye,” he explains. “And pretend that we are dating. It will attract more viewers. They’ll want to know what our relationship is like behind the cameras.” 

You swear you must have hit your head when you ran here. There was no way. Absolutely not– how could you? You couldn’t play his girlfriend even if you wanted to– “I see. Okay,” you agree. Great. Just how stupid are you? “That makes sense, I guess.” 

“Okay,” he smiles at you, and for a second, you don’t regret your decision at all. “Great,” he nods. He stays still for a second afterward, and it’d be obvious to anyone that he wants to say something. He sighs, speaking his mind. “Are you sure we’re okay?” 

You chuckle, nodding. “Yeah, we are.” And you mean it. You’re as okay as you can be at the moment. If it stays that way once you start pretending you’re his girlfriend is a different thing. 

♡⸝⸝ 

“We actually worked on…a surprise,” Yeonjun admits, teasing one of his upcoming projects as he answers a question for the WIRED interview about how he and Soobin, one of his close friends, met. “But you will have to wait for that.” You smile, watching him talk. 

You remember the look on his face when he told you about the song they were making a few weeks ago, unable to hold back your smile. You don’t even notice him revealing another question on the board. Instead, you snap out of your thoughts when you hear him answering. 

“Ideal type…” his eyes drift to your figure, and he thinks for a second before looking back at the camera again, smirking. “I’d say it’s someone who gets me. Someone smart, who could be there for me and I could admire. Someone who gets as excited for me as if my achievement was theirs,” he smiles, your cheeks flushing red when you notice his eyes on you. “Safe answer,” you joke, trying to brush the tickling feeling in your stomach off as you avert your gaze. “Then maybe,” he starts, leaning closer. “I should use the not-so-safe answer and remind everyone what your name is.” 

You freeze, swallowing a lump in your throat. Then you remember. He doesn’t mean any of the things he says. He doesn’t like you, and you definitely aren’t his type. You bite your bottom lip, remembering his idea of this fake relationship. You knew this was coming. You didn’t expect it this soon, though. 

“Oh, come on,” you gently push him back, rolling your eyes playfully. It pains you how unreal you sound, and you’re sure anyone with eyes will see through you. Still, you don’t back down. “You’re here to promote our drama, not flirt with me,” you mumble with a smile. Yeonjun chuckles, spreading his legs apart and resting his back against the chair. “Shit,” you mumble quietly, hoping the microphone doesn’t catch your words. He is hot. Too hot. 

“I can do both, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he teases, glancing at the cameraman before his eyes land on your lips, carefully watching you. You definitely won’t be able to air this. You hesitate, rethinking if it’s worth it. They won’t air your kiss. They’ll definitely cut it out, so why bother pretending to that extent? Except maybe you aren’t pretending. You lean closer to him, catching him off guard when you connect your lips. You hear the direct cough, reminding you you’re not alone, but you don’t care. And it looks like Yeonjun doesn’t care either as he pulls you closer. 

There it is again. The weird feeling in your stomach that makes your heart skip a beat. It feels almost dangerous. The speed at which your heart is beating and the way you’re getting addicted to his lips. 

“Okay, cut the cameras!” The director interrupts you, making you giggle as you pull away from your co-star. “Keep rolling, we’ve got it,” Yeonjun laughs, throwing the board he was previously holding on the ground behind him. You laugh at him, waiting for the staff members to bring you a new board with more questions. 

The interview flows after that. Even though Yeonjun keeps flirting any chance he gets, you stop minding and get used to it. You’d dare to say you even enjoy it now. 

“That went well, don’t you think?” Yeonjun asks, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you leave the set. You nod, briefly glancing at him. “I’m sure your plan to make us blow up worked,” you agree. “Yeah, I’m sure it did,” he nods, stopping. You question his movements, raising an eyebrow. “But you know I’m not doing all this just to make the drama do well, right?” 

And then your heart stops completely. “What?” 

“With you, I don’t have to pretend anything,” he mumbles, taking a step closer to you. He holds your hand in his, carefully watching you. “I never had to.” You blink a few times, assuring yourself this isn’t some weird dream of yours before you open your mouth to answer. No words leave your mouth, though. You don’t know what to say. Instead, you close the gap between you, pressing your lips on his once again. “Good, I’m not sure how long I could keep pretending this is fake,” you mumble against his lips, and he wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you as close as possible. 

“Let’s not pretend then. Let’s make us real,” he says confidently, not letting go of you. “I want to be with you for real.”

⋆✶ izzy's tags @beomiracles @seoulzie @adel222 @inkigayocamman @flowzel @love-be0m @virgo-and-libra @hwanghyunjinismybae @liaatiny @minaateez ✶⋆ Want to get notified? Join taglist here !

[lady-ashfade]

Mha Characters; Waitress/Waiter Au!!

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Characters: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo

WARNINGS: Waitress au, cute, I love this job but it sucks, smoking[Bakugo and you]

GENRA: Hcs/Concepts

Izuku Midoriya

He’s the type of co worker to be the helper if you need it, like working twice as hard along side of you. Not the half ass ones. Will sweep so hard and quickly- “Just trying to get us home as soon a possible.”

You honestly are jealous of his people skills, he smiles and it’s like money just appears in his pockets. He barely messes up, and some of the times he is even getting the plates off of the tables you are to busy to get.

“I can’t believe it’s so dead in here,” you whisper as you look around at the empty tables, only one table in the past hour.

“I enjoy it, gives us a break.” Izuku leans on the counter, sighing as he relaxes himself.

you stare at him. he is so pretty, uncanny how one person could be so perfect. You often find yourself messaging him, using random things for excuses to, and when you are paired together it makes the night so much easier.

You blink twice before looking away quickly to not get caught, clearing you throat before make sure everything is straightened and in place. “I didn’t know Superman needed a break.”

Izuku titled his head and opened his eyes, giving you a questionable look, “Superman?”

“You are unstoppable, Izuku. Honestly sometimes I swear you are too good at your job, makes the rest of us look like newbies.” you chuckle and grab the check for the table.

“So you think I’m charming?” He teases with a blush creep on his cheeks.

“Nauseously so,” you walk away with a giggle.

Katsuki Bakugo

You trained him, or at least partially. You have been there since a teen, and he joined when he entered college. He had no people skills, and even though he has grown he still gets prissy with costumers.

You still find yourself pushing him aside and talking to his table, then going up to him and yelling at him. But he makes it up with cleaning, like I mean he can carry so much and it’s so helpful.

Maybe you forget what comes on a meal, he will just walk by and say it, and walks back off. You write a order wrong? “Dumb ass, it doesn’t come with onions” since he knows the kitchen well, you are trying to get him to work back there.

“What the hell was that?” You shout as you push the door open, the cold air hitting you hard. Katsuki is leaning on the hard wall, a cigarette in his hand.

“She was a bitch, who yells at their waiter/ress for things you have no control over?” you groan at his words and glare at him.

“Katsuki, I can handle them. I’ve worked here a lot longer then you. Not only will you get in trouble later, i could also get in trouble. I appreciate you trying to help, but we can’t cuss at costumers.”

“I got it, don’t worry about getting in trouble. I will gladly get fired for cussing her out,”

You slap his shoulder, “I wouldn’t let you get fired, because I’ll miss you too bad.” You smile slightly up at him.

He chuckles deeply and rolls his eyes, “Yelling at me, then tell him you’ll miss me…You’re so confusing sometimes.”

you swipe the cigarette from his hands and take a drag of it, feeling the intoxication and burning, “Not exactly you, more like how much plates you can carry. My own personal bus boy.”

[lucid-loves]

Feelings Reforged

Imagine: March carrying you home after you fall from a fever.

“Earth to Y/n? You shouldn’t space out while handling the forge.” March began to chastise like he always did, but you knew it came from his worry for you. You were zoning out a little too much for someone that was handling hot coals. 

“Huh? Oh, sorry. . .” You simply apologized, a rosy blush creeping along your soft cheeks. 

March quirked a thick brow, but didn’t question you further. It was nice that he tended to mind his own business in moments where it counted. It wasn’t like you were ready to confess your feelings for him just yet. 

Besides thinking about how handsome he looked next to the light of the fire though, you were also starting to feel a little burnt out. You’ve been toiling away at the farm for a good two years without a real break trying to prove him wrong, that you were here in Mistria to stay, and to get money in your pockets.

Everyone was busy seemingly all the time, but even the hardest workers in town found the time to relax at the beach or at Juniper’s bathhouse. Even Adeline, the workaholic that she is, managed to fit in quality time with the girls. 

There was a time where March noticed just how busy you were each week too during a Friday night at the Inn. Called it out too with a bright smile and invite you to the seat next to him. Yeah, he was drunk at the time, but he still noticed.

You hoped that he didn’t notice how you subtly swayed your head in lightheadedness. 

“Pay attention. We don’t want any accidents.” He reprimanded again, quickly getting annoyed with how distracted you seemed. You asked him to teach you how to make more metal works. He had to make time out of his busy schedule for you. And now you were daydreaming? He could be getting through another order of nails by now.

“Sorry, March. Can you show me again?” You heavily sighed, placing your shaky hands in your pockets. 

March gave an exasperated huff and struck his heavy hammer down on a molten shield, molding it to the perfect shape. “Strike like this. See how flat I made it? Not too thin, but not too thick either. You don’t want it to snap on impact or be too heavy to hold. Got it now?”

You nodded lazily and reached for the shield, your vision getting dark. A strong grip grasped your hands roughly before you could make contact with the project. “You idiot! The shield is like lava! Are you trying to burn your hands off?! Grab the forceps!”

An attempt at an apology was made, but it came out slurred as you caved into the fever. March stiffened as your body leaned into his, your eyes closing in sudden exhaustion. The feeling of his bare shoulder on your head felt cool to the touch, despite the both of you being near the hot forge. The blacksmith noticed that stark contrast in body temperature.

“H-Hey! Y/n?!” He held you up, once furrowed brows in annoyance now morphing into worry. He held you steady against him, feeling just how hot your forehead burned against his hand. 

March looked around the area, hoping that someone from the small town was around to help out. When he noticed no one, he clicked his tongue and stepped up. Thanks to strength built by years of blacksmithery, you were light as a feather as he began to carry you home.

As he walked with you in his arms, he thought about how he should’ve noticed your fever sooner. You were zoning out a lot more than usual. You didn’t seem as energetic either, not like how you were every day. Now that he thought about it, he’s never really seen you not working.

And he thought he knew you better than this.

“You should take better care of yourself.” He scolded at your unconscious body. You stirred a bit in response, the side of your head nuzzling closer to March’s skin. He knew that you probably didn’t know that you were doing it, but he couldn’t help but start to redden. His ears were burning so hot that he could be the one with the fever.

The door to your house was unlocked, the town being safe enough to warrant such carelessness. March considered dropping you on the couch, but then decided that you would be more comfortable on the bed. Once you were settled down and tucked in, he took a moment to breathe from the long walk.

You were still warm and asleep, clearly sick from all your hard work. March bit his lip as he noticed how nicely decorated the house was. How organized and full your fields were with produce. He remembered when this land was nothing but a rotting home and overgrown grass.

He was wrong about you. 

March brushed back some hair sticking to your sweaty face. “Sorry, Y/n. You’ve worked hard. I’m proud of you.” 

He blushed hard at his own words, his heart going a mile a minute. More of your features began to come to light as he watched you sleep. How nice your lashes looked. How perfect your face contoured. 

He’s tried so hard to push those invasive feelings down since the moment he met you. March didn’t want to have false hope about you. He didn’t want to get hurt. Yet, you have consistently proven yourself every single day.

Damn it, he was in love with you. 

To distract himself from his feelings, he went to your kitchen to begin cooking. You were going to need something gentle on your body once you wake up. 

[horoscope1078]

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow as the memories of last night slowly came back. The music, the dancing, the drinks.. and of course, the bet. The ridiculous bet that you had been so confident about.

You rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, hoping the warmth would help soothe the lingering embarrassment creeping into your mind. But it didn’t. The image of Ruben’s teasing smirk flashed through your thoughts and you winced. You’d been so close.. way too close to stripping in front of him.. and at the last minute, you had chickened out.

Suddenly, you heard a soft knock at the door, followed by the sound of it creaking open. “Morning, amiga.” Ruben’s voice came, laced with amusement.

You peeked over the blanket to see him standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, still looking annoyingly fresh despite the late night. He was wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, a clear reminder that, unlike you, he hadn’t spent the night tossing and turning in embarrassment.

“Don’t you knock?” you mumbled, pulling the blanket over your head, trying to disappear.

He chuckled and stepped further into the room. “I did knock. It’s not my fault you didn’t answer. Besides, you owe me a striptease, remember?”

You groaned again, feeling your face heat up. “Can we not talk about that?”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about it.” he sat down at the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I mean, you were the one who suggested it, after all.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually win!” you muttered, voice muffled under the blanket.

Ruben laughed, pulling the blanket down just enough to see your face. “Well, that’s your first mistake, underestimating me. And your second mistake? Chickening out.” He raised an eyebrow, his teasing tone impossible to miss. “You talk a big game but when it came down to it..”

You groaned louder, rolling onto your back and staring up at the ceiling, trying to will the moment away. “I didn’t chicken out!”

Ruben’s grin only widened. “Oh, no? Because I distinctly remember someone standing there, about to take off their shirt and then suddenly..” he snapped his fingers. “Boom. They changed their mind.”

You closed your eyes, mortified as the flashback hit you.

It had started out as a joke, a little bit of fun to keep the night interesting. After he’d gotten the phone number and claimed victory, you had fully intended to follow through. You’d made your way back to his place, still feeling the buzz of the alcohol and the excitement of the night. The playful energy had carried over and soon enough, you were standing in the middle of his living room, giggling as you toyed with the hem of your shirt.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” you had laughed, glancing over at Ruben, who had leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with amusement.. and something else.

“Go on then.” he had teased, clearly enjoying watching you squirm. “Don’t hold back.”

You had slowly started to lift your shirt, exposing your stomach as you swayed to the imaginary music, your confidence wavering. But then, just as the shirt had reached your ribs, your nerve had faltered. The heat in Ruben’s gaze, the way he was looking at you with such intensity.. it had made your stomach flip. You’d yanked the shirt back down and burst out laughing, backing away as you muttered something about needing more drinks.

And now, in the morning light, that laughable moment felt much less funny.

Ruben leaned closer, his face inches from yours as he tried to meet your eyes. “So, what was it, huh? You get cold feet? Realised you couldn’t handle the pressure?”

You pushed him away, though you couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, shut up. I just.. I wasn’t in the mood, ok?”

“Sure, sure.” he said, the smirk never leaving his face. “Or maybe, you just couldn’t handle the idea of me seeing you lose twice in one night.”

You threw a pillow at him, which he caught with ease. “Oh, please. You’re so full of yourself.”

“Hey, don’t be mad at me because you couldn’t follow through on your own bet.” he teased, standing up and tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “But don’t worry, I’m not gonna hold it over you.. much.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can you blame me?” he asked, flashing that mischievous grin again. “Seeing you all flustered is worth more than any striptease, honestly.”

You tossed another pillow at him, laughing despite yourself. “Alright, alright. I admit it. I chickened out.”

Ruben’s expression softened slightly, though the teasing glint never fully left his eyes. “Don’t worry, amiga. I won’t tell anyone.” he mimed zipping his lips. “Our little secret.”

“Gee, thanks.” you said dryly, though you couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips.

He shrugged, standing up and heading toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you recover from your defeat in peace. But, just so you know..” he paused in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Next time you make a bet, make sure you’re ready to back it up.”

You rolled your eyes again but your heart did a little flip at the way he winked before disappearing down the hallway. You sank back into the pillows with a sigh, the teasing memory lingering in the air.

Maybe next time, you’d make a bet you could actually win, or maybe, just maybe, you’d be ready to see it through.

:)