#but I promise they will kiss..maybe…eventually | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 6 hours ago

Text

all yours ; tyler owens

fandom: twisters

pairing: tyler x reader

summary: after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids

notes: i'm sorry? i want to say i have no words but apparently... i have nearly 15k of them right here!!! i don't know who this is for, i lowkey feel like it will flop because it's long and angsty, but please let me know what you think if you read this!!! i've been working on it on and off for a while, so i am very glad to finally get it posted!

warnings: swearing, angst (but happy ending), pregnancy, a lot of crying, very brief mention of abortion, very brief discussion about the possibility of losing the baby, talk about sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), a bit of horniness, and just a lot of emotions!!! (please let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: i am not pregnant and have never been pregnant. all this information comes from quick google searches, and things i've read in books. so i'm very if it's wrong or dumb. please don't come for me!

word count: 14818

You’ve known Tyler Owens since you were ten.

You’ve been chasing storms with him for nine years, and hopelessly in love with him for eight.

You’ve laughed as he lost seven cowboy hats to tornados, and helped him replace six shattered windshields.

You’ve loved him through five of his lousy girlfriends and four of your own doomed boyfriends.

You’ve tried—and failed—to tell him how you feel three times.

You’ve kissed him twice.

And you’ve slept with him once.

Once. Exactly three weeks ago.

You were both drunk—though you were probably pretending to be more gone than you really were—and lonely. Sure, you’d kissed before that night—once, years ago, on a dare. But that night, the second kiss happened as you stepped out of the bar. It was misting lightly, streetlights casting a glow, and Tyler looked so damn good as he—drunkenly—told you that you looked beautiful. How were you supposed to resist that?

Back at the motel, you tried to go your separate ways. You even made it to your room alone. You were just about to reach for your vibrator, hoping to ease the ache low in your belly, when there was a knock at the door.

You knew who it was before you even opened it.

Tyler.

You let him in—because of course you did—and he was on you in seconds. There was no way you were going to push him off. You’ve been in love with him for the better part of a decade.

It was hot and desperate. All teeth and tongue, and handprints seared into your skin—ones you know you’ll never forget the feeling of. You were both so fucking wrecked there was no stopping it.

Not even when the condom obviously broke while he was putting it on.

Not even when something deep in your chest told you this was a bad idea.

But now? Three weeks later—you wish you’d had more restraint.

Sure, it was awkward the next morning—after Tyler snuck out of your room at three a.m., thinking you hadn’t noticed. It stayed awkward for about a week, with neither of you daring to talk about it. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t bring it up. It was obviously just one night for him. Maybe he was just curious. You’ve been friends for so long. A lot of friends have slept together at least once… right?

But even in that painfully awkward week of trying to relearn how to be friends, you couldn’t quite regret it.

Because eventually, he cracked a joke. Then you said something sarcastic. And although there was still a hint of something more simmering under the surface, things almost felt normal again.

Almost.

It’s only now that you regret it—everything.

Right now, as you stare at the two pink lines on the stick beside the sink, your vision blurred with tears, and your stomach roiling with nausea.

The harsh crack of knuckles against the bathroom door startles you, sending your heart leaping into your throat.

“You alright in there?” Lily calls through the wood. “It’s been like ten minutes—I’m getting worried. Do I need to break down the door?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to come out steady. “Y-Yeah, I’m all good.”

There’s a beat of silence before Lily speaks again, her voice lower this time. “Are you sure? You don’t sound good.”

You shake your head and hastily wipe the wetness from your cheeks. Then you snap a photo of the pregnancy test before tossing it into the trash—this is just a gas station bathroom. No one’s tracing that stick back to you unless they run a DNA test, and that’s not likely.

It’s not like you plan on going missing. Just… away. For a while.

You splash your face with cool water and stare at your reflection in the mirror until you’re convinced you look close enough to normal. Then you square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door.

It’s only Lily waiting there—thank God—but she’s already watching you with sharp, perceptive eyes.

“You good?”

You nod once, forcing a smile. “Never better. Sorry. Lady stuff.”

Technically not a lie. Still, you cringe at the way it comes out. You’re not someone who shies away from saying things plainly—especially not something as basic as a damn period.

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push.

“Alright. Let’s get going. Tyler said we’re only twenty minutes out from a decent-sized town. Should be able to find good food and a motel where we don’t have to share rooms.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to laugh or offer a sarcastic remark. You just walk past her, the fake smile still fixed to your face, and head for the door.

Twenty minutes later, you’re climbing out of the RV in a motel parking lot. Tyler’s truck is parked beside the reception office, his hat on the dashboard and Boone waiting in the front seat. Dani and Dexter walk ahead of you, muttering about something they saw pop up on the radar earlier, and Lily is rummaging around in the back seat of Tyler’s truck—her butt sticking out the passenger door—looking for the headphones she lost yesterday.

Your heart aches at the thought of leaving, throbbing dully behind your sternum. You’re not sure if the nausea swirling in your gut is from the idea of walking away from your friends—your family—or because of your newly discovered… condition. Either way, you feel sick. And you need space. Time to think. To breathe.

Once everyone has a room, you lug your few belongings up to the second floor and collapse onto the bed. You text Lily, telling her you feel sick sick—period pains—and that you’re going to skip dinner. You ask her to tell the others for you, because you can’t stomach lying to their faces.

You spend the next few hours on your laptop, reading everything you can about pregnancy. You scroll through pages about what happens to your body, how your life is going to change. You read about complications, risks, even abortion.

It’s strange, really. You’ve always been practical, logical. And this doesn’t seem like the practical choice. But you knew the second you saw those two lines that you were going to keep it.

Call it maternal instinct. Or just plain insanity. Either way, your mind is made up.

Now you just need a plan.

Most people don’t announce their pregnancy until twelve weeks—you know that much—so you’re giving yourself twelve weeks to sort your shit out.

First, you need to leave. You’ll make up some excuse about a sick family member and tell the crew your mom needs you immediately. Tyler will try to come with you—call it a detour or a bonus road trip—so you’ll have to convince him your mom only wants to see you. No one else.

Then you’ll leave for... an indefinite stretch. You’re not going straight to your mom’s. You’ll hole up in a hotel halfway home, see a doctor, get the blood tests, the shots, the supplements—all the crap you’re supposed to do.

Once your head is on straighter and you’ve got a handle on things, you’ll start looking for an apartment. Something short-term, just in case… well, in case you lose the baby. At least then you’ll have somewhere to crash and recover before deciding what comes next. It feels morbid, sure, but you’re not a total daydreamer. Life can be brutal, and you know better than to think you’ll be spared.

But assuming things go well—assuming you hit that twelve-week mark after moving in—that’s when you’ll start telling people. You’ll tell your mom first, maybe find a therapist and tell them too. And then... Tyler.

The moment his name crosses your mind, your body reacts. You jump up from the motel bed and stumble into the tiny bathroom, hunching over the toilet and gagging like you’re going to throw up. But nothing comes up—your stomach is empty. You know this isn’t the pregnancy making you sick. It’s the thought of telling him.

It feels cruel, waiting three whole months before telling the father. But you can’t bring yourself to do it any sooner. You know this isn’t what Tyler wants. Especially not with you. What happened between you was a one-time thing—a fun night, a way to blow off steam. It wasn’t meant to change everything.

So you’ll wait. Make sure it’s real. Make sure it’s sticking. Plain and simple. Harsh? Maybe. But you need time to figure yourself out before dropping a bomb on him. And by the time you do, it’ll be six months to impact. Give or take.

You have no idea how he’ll react, but you know it won’t be like one of those social media videos where the dad cries and jumps for joy. No—this will be very different. Which is exactly why you’re not telling him for at least a month or two. You’ll figure out exactly how far along you are once you see a doctor.

You take a deep breath and snap your laptop shut. Time to get some sleep. You’ve got a full day of driving tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy.

“What?” Tyler drops his bacon back onto the plate, staring at you wide-eyed across the diner table. “If you’re going home, then we’re all-”

“No, Tyler,” you interrupt, sighing as you stare down at the table. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “She said just me. I know you want to help, but I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. I’ll call as soon as I get there and keep you updated. I just—she sounded really fragile, alright? I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

It doesn’t feel like that much of a lie. You’re not talking about your mom—you’re talking about yourself. At least, that’s how you justify it to your guilty conscience.

“You sure?” Lily asks, leaning forward beside Tyler. “We don’t have to go see her. We can just come to town, hang out nearby. We don’t mind staying a week or so.”

You take a deep breath, eyes locked on your untouched plate of plain toast and fried eggs. “It might not be a week,” you say, bracing yourself. “It could be a couple of months.”

“Months?” Dani echoes, her coffee cup clattering against the table.

Tyler looks stunned, frozen in place. His expression is unreadable—shock, maybe disbelief, etched into every line of his face. His lips are slightly parted—lips you haven’t stopped thinking about, hot on your skin—and his brows pinch together. His cheeks are flushed, but not with embarrassment. He looks... unsure. Concerned.

“What are we going to do without you for a couple months?” Lily asks, her eyes wide.

You wave a hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ll be fine. I’ll only be a phone call away. If I can come back earlier, I will. But right now, I really need to be there for... for my mom.”

God, you’re a terrible liar this morning.

“When do you need to leave?” Tyler asks, his voice low and flat.

You swallow hard, still staring at your toast. “Today.”

A wave of protests, questions, and complaints breaks out—everyone but Tyler. He stays silent, still watching you like he’s trying to piece something together. Like you’re a puzzle he didn’t realise needed solving.

He looks at you like he sees straight through the lie. His green eyes don’t blink, and it makes your stomach churn.

For the next half hour, you lie and deflect as best you can. You keep your head down, your answers short. No promises, no explanations. Breakfast turns into a full-blown protest, your friends more upset than you expected by your sudden departure. But no matter how hard they try, nothing could convince you to stay.

You can’t.

Back at the motel, you pack your things. You’d already asked Dexter to drive you to the nearest car rental place—he grumbled but agreed. Now comes the part you’re dreading.

The goodbyes.

To them, this is temporary—a month or two, maybe. But you know better. This is something else. Something longer. More permanent.

Moisture stings your eyes as you zip your duffel shut. Your nose burns, and this time, you don’t stop the tears from falling.

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice startles you, and you realize in your rush to get into the room, you hadn’t fully shut the door.

You sniff and wipe your cheeks, keeping your back to him. “Hey.” You clear your throat. “What’s up?”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

You don’t respond. You just keep your head down and continue stuffing the last of your things into your backpack.

He sighs as the door clicks shut behind him. A few steps bring him closer, and you can almost feel his warmth hovering just a few feet behind you.

“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to press you about what’s really going on. But it’s obvious something’s got you rattled. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We all are. Whatever it is.”

You close your eyes, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I’m worried,” he continues. “This isn’t you. Cutting and running like this? I know you. I know your family. This is something else. And I’m really damn worried.”

“It’s fine, Ty,” you say, your voice catching in your throat, the words barely a whisper.

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, and now his warmth is unmistakable—his presence pressing in, impossible to ignore. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but I need you to promise me you’ll be okay. That you’ll come back.”

You drop the sweater you’ve been folding and refolding, letting it fall from your hands. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around your bicep, coaxing you to turn toward him. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, forcing you to meet his eyes.

You can barely make out his face through the tears—hot and heavy, falling faster than you can blink them away.

His voice cracks. “It’s not the same out there without you. You know that.”

A sob breaks from your chest, and you fall forward. He catches you easily, arms strong and sure around your trembling frame. Pressed against him, for a moment it all feels like it might be okay. Like maybe this whole life-altering thing won’t change everything after all. Tyler makes you feel like you can handle anything. Like you’re more than human. Invincible, even.

Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place.

But you can’t stay in his arms forever. You’re not even sure he’d be holding you if he knew the truth—if he knew you were the one holding the pin to the grenade that could blow his whole life to pieces.

“You’re scaring the shit out of me, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair.

You sniffle against his shirt, steadying your voice. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”

He slowly lets you go, giving you space to stand on your own again.

“I promise you’ll see me again,” you say, trying to sound certain. “I promise I’ll be back once everything’s... sorted.”

His brows draw together like he wants to believe you but can’t quite manage it. Still, he nods, swallowing whatever emotion is caught in his throat. Then he pulls you into one last hug, holding you tighter than before, like he’s afraid to let go.

You inhale deeply—maybe too deeply—committing his scent to memory, as if you hadn’t already. You memorise the way he holds you, the way your bodies fit together, and the quick, steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

You know you’ll see Tyler again. One way or another.

But it won’t be the same. Nothing is the same anymore.

“You’re both doing really well,” the doctor says, eyes scanning the computer screen. “Your baby is perfectly healthy, and everything about you is exactly where it should be for fourteen weeks.”

You nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, gripping the ultrasound picture like a lifeline.

“And the bump isn’t... too big?” you ask, trying not to sound completely clueless.

The doctor smiles warmly. “It’s perfect,” she assures you. “You’re showing a little more than some women might at this stage, but everyone’s different.”

You nod again. “Okay, good.”

“Any other concerns?” she asks after a moment.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.” She pushes up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

You smile and nod once more. “Thanks, doctor.”

“No worries. And—” she pauses, brows pulling together slightly. “You know you can bring the father to these appointments, right? Regardless of your relationship, he’s welcome. It might help ease some of the anxiety.”

You blink quickly at the sudden sting in your eyes—fucking hormones—and offer a watery smile. “Thanks. I’ll... talk to him.”

She gives you one last kind smile before shutting the door, leaving you alone in the pale-yellow hallway with nothing but spiralling thoughts.

Okay, so you haven’t told Tyler... yet. But you plan to. As soon as you stop crying at everything and start acting like a functional adult. These hormones have wrecked you—just like the internet said they would.

One minute, you’re sobbing over nothing. The next, you’re halfway to committing a felony. And then suddenly, you’re numb. Emotionally whiplashed. And the thought of telling Tyler—of seeing him again—drags every human emotion you have straight to the surface.

You’ve talked to him a few times. The rest of the crew, too. You’ve spun some lies and danced around their questions. You spoke to your mom and made her promise to keep your secret—because you know Tyler’s tried calling her since you left. But you haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell anyone else.

It’s been exactly eight weeks since you left. You're running on borrowed time. You know they’ll come looking soon, and you can’t let that happen. You need to go to them. To Tyler. You need to tell him the truth—your way—before it all blows up.

But first... you need a really big bowl of croutons. Just croutons. And if you don’t get them soon, you’re going to kill someone.

Pregnancy is wild.

A few hours later, you’re back in your studio apartment, curled up on the lounge you bought last week, your laptop propped on your belly and a second bowl of croutons at your side. Your résumé is open, and you’re tweaking it for a few job applications—hoping to land something at a desk for at least a few months. You could use the extra money.

On the small TV across the room—still sitting on the floor because you don’t have a table yet—YouTube is playing. More specifically, the live stream of a storm chaser you used to know. Someone who follows storms and interviews other chasers. Her name is Corey—you’ve met her a few times, but she’s never interviewed you. She’s always wanted Tyler, though. Everyone does. The man has... an effect on people.

Today’s the day, apparently. She finally convinced him to do an interview. And to say you’re jealous of how close she’s standing to him would be a laughable understatement.

Think pregnancy crying is bad? Try the horniness.

Ugh.

You can barely glance at a photo of Tyler without creaming your jeans. Just thinking about him twists your stomach into a knot—equal parts guilt and raw, desperate lust. You’ve thought about him way more than you should while touching yourself, and honestly? You don’t even care.

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s the father of the baby growing inside you or just because you’ve been in love with him for years. Either way, everything is louder now. Sharper. Half the reason you haven’t seen him again is because you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself from tearing him apart—devouring him the second he’s in front of you.

“Fuck,” you sigh out loud, feeling that familiar ache low in your belly.

You need to calm down.

You shift your focus back to the Word doc on your laptop, trying to let Corey’s high-pitched voice blur into the background as she asks Tyler about the storm they just chased. It’s hard though—because then he speaks. And the second he does, his voice draws your attention like a magnet, sending shivers racing down your spine.

You’d think after all these years of friendship, you’d be used to him by now.

“So, Tyler,” Corey says, her bright blue eyes sparkling above a megawatt smile, “now that we’ve completely and totally hashed out that EF2, I think it’s time to move on to some live questions. Mind answering a few from the fans?”

Tyler nods, the usual charming smirk tugging at his lips. “Bring it on.”

“Amazing.” Corey flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and holds up her phone. “First question: which tornado wrangler would be most likely to survive a horror movie?”

Tyler chuckles—low and rich, the kind of sound that somehow wraps around you even through the TV speakers. “Definitely Boone, but not because he’s outsmarted anyone. Just pure dumb luck.”

Corey giggles, and the sound literally makes you gag. Because pregnancy nausea? Not just limited to tastes and smells. Nope—it’s upgraded to all five senses.

“Okay, next up,” she says, eyes dropping to her phone screen. “What’s your go-to road trip snack?”

Tyler starts rubbing his hands together as he answers, but you don’t register the words. You already know his favourite snacks. You’ve been buying them for him for years. Instead, you find yourself watching his hands—his long fingers, the way he laces them together in front of his body. Those fingers you know can find magic inside you.

Your pulse thrums in your ears—and between your legs. Hot and heavy, making your breath catch in your throat.

Corey’s pitchy laugh pulls you back. “Noted. I’ll be sure to bring sour worms to our next interview,” she says with a wink.

Tyler laughs politely and pretends to adjust his belt—something you know he only does when he’s uncomfortable.

Sucked in, Corey. He doesn’t like you.

“Alright, I’ve got a slightly more serious one,” she says, tone shifting as she angles herself toward him. “This one’s come in from quite a few people, so I can’t not ask it.”

Tyler’s brows furrow and he nods once.

“Obviously, the Tornado Wranglers have welcomed two new members recently—Kate and Javi,” she says, referring to the two you met via video call a couple weeks ago. “But fans have also noticed the absence of one particular chaser. Your partner in crime…” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Will she be back?”

Your heart crawls into your throat. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes—so routine by now, you don’t even bother blinking them back.

Tyler shifts uncomfortably and glances at the ground. Then he mutters something the mic doesn’t quite catch. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggles to find an answer.

It makes your chest ache.

“Well—uh,” he clears his throat, “we don’t usually get into personal stuff. We try to keep things focused on the storms. But, um...” His eyes are everywhere but the camera. “We all have personal lives, and sometimes things come up. Unexpected things. But in short… yes. She’ll be back. We’re not sure when, but she will be.”

The confidence in his voice rips a sob from your chest. You push your laptop off your stomach and sit up, arms wrapping protectively around the little bump low in your belly. To say you feel guilty about this whole thing is a gross understatement. You feel wretched. Each day you wake up knowing you’ll find another excuse not to call Tyler, and each day you inch closer to hating yourself for it.

You need to stop being such a coward and just do it. He has every right to know what’s going on—not just because he’s the father, but because he’s your best friend. These last two months have been the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him since you joined the chasers nearly a decade ago. And the distance—physical and emotional—is chipping away at both of you.

You swipe the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your eyes and reach for your phone. Opening your chat with Tyler, you scroll through the brief exchange from a couple days ago about an EF3 they’d been chasing. You start typing a message—trying to ask when you can see him without sounding too obvious.

But then Corey’s voice cuts through the room, snagging your attention again. “So, the fans want to know,” she says, “what’s next? What comes after storm chasing? Do you see yourself going back to school to become a qualified meteorologist—or maybe settling down? Starting a family?”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your chest tightening until your lungs ache.

Tyler scoffs. “There’s an after chasing?” he says, the words stabbing into you like pins into a voodoo doll. “Chasing is it for me. I’ve worked too hard to get here, doing what I love. Nothing’s going to stop me—at least not until I’m too old to drive my truck. And even then,” he laughs, “I’ll find someone else to drive me into the eye of the storm.”

Corey giggles and tips her head, teasing. “So no dreams of settling down? No wife and kids someday?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat and nausea roll over you in waves.

“No,” Tyler says. “I just don’t see that for myself. Nothing feels as important to me as this—the storms, the research. Especially now, with Kate—she’s incredible—and Javi on the team, we’re doing real work in the name of science. I never want to stop. A family just doesn’t fit into that. It’s not what I want.”

The words hit like a gut punch, knocking the breath clean out of you.

“That’s not to say I won’t have a wife one day,” he adds. “If I find someone who loves this as much as I do, then maybe. But kids? No. I know myself too well—I’d resent anyone who took me away from what I really love. Which is chasing.”

You bolt from the couch and rush into the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet just in time to hurl up an unsettling amount of croutons. Tears blur your vision, and all you can hear is the pounding of your own pulse in your ears—and Tyler’s voice echoing in your head.

It’s not what I want.

Your hands shake as you slide the mouse across the screen, clicking the answer button on the Skype call request. When Lily’s grinning face pops up—just Lily—you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh my goodness, hi,” she says, leaning toward the camera. “You look... different. Like, good, but different. How do you look different from last week?”

You let out a soft laugh and roll your eyes, one arm resting on the kitchen counter where the laptop is propped, the other hung protectively across your stomach below the counter. You’re perched on the single barstool you picked up from a second-hand store last weekend, specifically for your weekly video calls with Lily. The couch wasn’t cutting it anymore, and you can’t exactly lie on your belly on the bed these days.

“Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and what you’re seeing now is just a bad clone,” you tease, deflecting.

She snorts. “Well, that would make sense, since that’s the only thing I can think of that would keep the girl I know away from chasing. Like, seriously. It’s been three months. Please tell me you’re coming back soon.”

You sigh, eyes darting to the notepad where you’ve scribbled your pre-planned excuses—not trusting yourself to think clearly on the fly.

“I’m sorry, Lils. I thought I’d be back by now too, but with everything going on with the family—it’s just been so stressful. And... I went to the doctor the other day. They think I could have a stress-induced stomach ulcer. I’m on meds, and I feel okay, but it needs to be monitored.”

Until you give birth to it…

Lily’s brow creases. “What? Seriously?”

You nod slowly, avoiding her big brown eyes on the screen. “Yeah, but it’s okay. It’s not too serious—it’s manageable. I just need to, uh... stay here and keep things steady for a while.”

“Can we visit, then?” she asks. “Everyone misses you so much.”

“And I miss you guys too,” you say quickly. “But don’t come all this way for me. Keep chasing—it’s the season. Besides, it’s kind of boring over here. I’m just resting and helping out with family stuff. If you could actually help, I’d say get over here, but there’s really nothing to do except mope around.”

She nods slowly, still looking a little unconvinced, but mostly reassured.

“Besides, I need you to keep sending me updates so I can live vicariously,” you add, trying to lift the mood. “How was yesterday’s chase?”

Her face lights up, and she launches into a detailed rundown of what they got up to. You try to stay focused, to really listen, but she keeps mentioning Kate’s name beside Tyler’s, and your thoughts start spiralling.

You’ve met Kate and Javi—the new wranglers—a couple of times now via video call. They seem lovely and super smart. You hadn’t thought much of it. Until last night.

You’d stupidly decided to watch one of Boone’s Instagram live videos—one where he and Tyler recapped the day over beers in a motel parking lot. You thought it might help ease the ache in your chest from missing them, but instead it twisted something sharp and jealous low in your gut.

Kate had been there too, sitting beside Tyler, who wore a dopey grin and kept glancing at her like she was magnetic. They were clearly comfortable with each other—she even rested her hand on his knee once or twice as she answered some of Boone’s questions about the science side of things. Tyler didn’t adjust his belt. He didn’t shift awkwardly or look away.

He looked at her like she belonged there.

The jealousy that coursed through you had been instant and overwhelming. You’ve dealt with your fair share of Tyler’s girlfriends and hookups, but you’ve never seen him look at someone like that. Never once worried that maybe he’d find someone who didn’t just make him forget you—but replace you entirely.

It’s your biggest insecurity, one you hate even admitting to yourself... Tyler doesn’t need you as much as you need him.

“But anyway,” Lily says, her voice dragging you back to reality, “we were thinking of taking a break for a week or so. Maybe head somewhere quiet, less full of chasers. I think Tyler needs it—he’s been super stressed lately.”

“At least he has Kate,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I—I mean, she sounds really great and helpful. Just what Tyler needs.”

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Yeah... she’s cool, but...” She tips her head and sighs. “You know he misses you like crazy? I’m pretty sure he’s not sleeping, and he’s always talking about coming to find you. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep him at bay.”

You roll your eyes, trying to sound casual while swallowing down another wave of emotion. “I’m sure Tyler’s doing just fine. He always said I was a liability, so technically he should be way less stressed without me around.”

She gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “You better be joking, because I’ve never seen Tyler this wound up before.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest—small and fragile, but impossible to ignore. Maybe... just maybe... this whole fucked-up situation is still salvageable.

“Speak of the devil,” Lily says before you can respond.

You watch as she shuffles off the motel bed she’d been lying on and disappears out of frame. Your pulse quickens at the sound of a deep, muffled voice and approaching footsteps. For a split second, you consider ending the call—blaming it on bad reception or something—but it’s already too late.

The video shakes as Lily picks up her laptop and spins it toward Tyler. “Look who it is!” she announces.

He looks pale, the lines in his face more defined than you remember, but his eyes still sparkle the same. “Hey,” he says, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “You look... different.”

You blink quickly to stop the moisture welling in your eyes—internally cursing the hormones, even though you know they’re not the only ones to blame.

You haven’t actually spoken to Tyler in almost two weeks. You mostly text, dodge his calls with excuses, and only agree to video chats with Lily or Dani. Tyler knows you too well—and you’re starting to look different. He’ll know something is off.

“She’s sick,” Lily says before you can answer.

“Sick?” Tyler repeats, his smile fading. “Sick how?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in your throat. “I’m fine, really. Might be a stomach ulcer, but it’s mild and I’m already on meds. I just need a bit of rest.”

“We can come visit,” Tyler offers quickly, his green eyes full of concern that makes your stomach turn. “We were planning to take some time off soon, and we could-”

“No,” you cut in, your voice cracking. “Seriously, don’t. I’m okay. And there’s still stuff going on with the family. I just told Lily—if there were anything you could do, I’d say come help. But there’s not.”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, then hesitates. His eyes flick across the screen, studying your face, your posture, the way you’re nervously chewing your lip. He’s probably already clocked that the background behind you isn’t your mom’s house.

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” Lily says with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be back soon. She can’t stay away much longer—the chase is calling.” She looks at you with a playful grin. “Or we’ll come kidnap you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I know you will.”

“How’s your mom?” Tyler asks suddenly, leaning closer to the camera.

Yeah. He’s definitely trying to figure out where you are. He’s been in every room of your mom’s place—he knows this background doesn’t match.

“She’s alright,” you say, shifting closer to the laptop to fill more of the frame. “Still a little fragile, so it’s good I’m here. But she’s doing well.”

He opens his mouth again, eyes narrowing slightly—keen and searching.

“Anyway,” you cut in quickly, “I should go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Lily nods, oblivious to Tyler’s suspicion. “Love you,” she says.

“Love you too, Lils,” you reply, before your gaze flicks toward Tyler’s frowning face. “You too, Ty. Stay safe out there.”

Then you move the mouse and hit the red button, sighing out a breath of relief as the call drops.

The next four weeks are brutal—worse than the twelve before them combined. You’re creeping up on the six-month mark, which means the third trimester isn’t far off. Your belly has officially popped—there’s no hiding it now unless you borrow your mom’s retro maternity parka—and you’re out of breath more often than not. All you want to do is sleep, eat, and cry over the fact that your closest grocery store just stopped stocking your favourite juice flavour.

But that’s not the hardest part.

The hardest part is Tyler—he’s relentless, and you’re pretty sure he’s rallying the rest of the crew too. The messages haven’t let up, and now he’s started calling at random times during the day. He asks about your mom, your family, your ‘stomach ulcer’. And everyone else is pestering you to come back to chasing, even just for a week, because they miss you like hell.

You feel like a total piece of shit.

You’re running out of excuses, and you’ve deflected for as long as you can. You’ve tried over and over to come up with a version of the truth that doesn’t make you sound like the villain. But no matter how you spin it, you’re still the asshole who kept a massive secret from the people who are practically your family. They’re going to find out soon—you’re already on borrowed time—and you know you have to tell them before Tyler shows up pounding on your mom’s front door.

The only thing you’re still absolutely certain about is this: you’re not telling Tyler he’s the father.

On the surface, it makes you look like a terrible person, but every time you imagine telling him... you hear his words again. And you know you just can’t.

It’s not what he wants. It would ruin everything. He’d resent you.

You can’t do that to him. You don’t expect anything from him, and you’re more than ready to do this on your own. In fact, at this point, you’d prefer it. You made the decision to keep the baby—this is on you. All Tyler did was break a condom and fuck you more thoroughly than anyone else ever has. He didn’t sign up for consequences. And for him... there doesn’t have to be any.

So you’ll tell them it was a one-night stand—technically true. That the father travels for work, and you gave him an out—also true.

Now you just have to hope the baby doesn’t come out looking like a carbon copy of Tyler Owens.

Not that you’re even sure the crew will be around to see much of the baby. You’re doing this solo for a reason—you don’t want to weigh anyone down. No matter how they react when you tell them, you’re not letting them give up chasing. That’s their life, and this choice? This was yours.

So, yeah, you’re going to tell them. But after that... you have no clue. You might never see them again, now that you’re settling down. Or maybe they’ll pop in once or twice a year. You don’t know.

The only thing you’re sure of right now is that you’re having this baby—and surprisingly, that’s more than enough.

“She’s perfect,” the doctor says, handing you the sonogram. “What made you want to find out the sex?”

You stare down at the little black and white image. Twenty-two weeks exactly. You’re more than halfway there.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Thought maybe I should get to know my new roommate a little better.”

The doctor laughs softly but doesn’t press further. She types something into the computer, then jots a note on a scrap piece of paper—her recommendation for the heartburn you mentioned earlier. After a few more routine questions, she offers a kind smile and a dismissive nod. You thank her and step out.

Her office is just around the block from your apartment, so you chose to walk today. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and—for the first time in a while—you’re feeling a little less weighed down.

You’ve also decided that today’s the day you’ll message Tyler to ask where they are and see if you can meet up soon. You’ve practiced your story in the mirror more times than you can count, and you’ve run it past both your mom and your therapist—the latter was less thrilled about the lying, but you’re ignoring that part. All that’s left now is to show up and break the news gently. Although, your belly will probably do that for you the moment they see you.

Strangely, you feel at peace today—despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks. You woke up clear-headed, even a little hopeful. Like if you can grow an entire human, you can handle anything.

You try not to overanalyse the sudden shift—your moods have been a rollercoaster lately—and you’re especially trying not to compare it to the weather before a storm. But that’s exactly what it feels like.

Everything is calm. Still. The sun is out, and there’s no wind. But you know better than to trust this kind of stillness.

It’s the calm before the storm.

You shake your head and take a deep breath, refocusing on your route from the doctor’s office to the grocery store. It’s still early—barely nine a.m.—and you’ve got a craving for the sugary cereal you ran out of days ago.

The sun is warm enough that you have to shrug off your sweater the moment you step inside the store. It’s blissfully quiet—no crowded aisles, no screaming kids, and no one crashing their cart like it’s a demolition derby.

You sling your sweater over one shoulder and head toward the breakfast aisle, one hand resting on your belly as the baby wriggles—still too small for proper kicks, but very much there. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you scan the shelves, eyes flitting across the bright, colourful cereal boxes.

You really should start thinking of names. You haven’t even made a list.

You grab the box you came for and continue toward the end of the aisle, already thinking about swinging past the bakery section. But just as you round the corner, a voice stops you in your tracks.

“Holy shit.”

You know that voice. You know it too well.

You almost don’t want to look—but your head turns before you can stop it. And sure enough, there’s Tyler, looking downright sinful in a tight white T-shirt and faded Wrangler jeans. He’s wearing a cap, backwards, and it’s making your hormones riot. You could devour him right here in the middle of the store. But not only would that be wildly inappropriate... you’re pretty sure he’s gone into shock.

He looks pale—too pale. Frozen. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. He looks like a fish out of water. And judging by the expression on his face, he probably feels like one too.

“Oh my God,” you say, instinctively shifting the cereal box in front of your belly. “Tyler.”

You want to launch yourself at him, to throw your arms around his neck. You want to hug him, kiss him, get lost in him the way you’ve been craving for months. But the way he’s staring... you’re not even sure he recognises you.

“W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice shaky and weirdly high-pitched. “Are the others here too?”

Panic overtakes you now, shoving the longing and hormones down into your gut and replacing them with a fresh wave of anxiety.

“I—uh,” he clears his throat, blinking hard. “We were just... just passing through.”

You can feel your heartbeat thumping in your throat.

Tyler shifts on his feet and clears his throat again. “We got in late last night. I was going to—uh, call you. See where you were, but...” His eyes drop to the cereal box in your hands, like he can see right through it.

“Wow,” you say, because it’s the only word your brain can summon. “That’s... great. I’d love to see them. Are they-”

“They’re back at the motel,” he cuts in.

Slowly, his expression twists—shock giving way to confusion, then something sharper. Anger, maybe.

There’s a long pause, thick and heavy, before you clear your throat. “Well, maybe we could all catch up? I’m not doing anything this after-”

“No,” he says, cutting you off again. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I mean, yes. They want to see you. But I think I’d like to catch up now.” His tone is harder now, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to grab a coffee—” he hesitates, “or... tea?”

You rock back on your heels like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Tea still has caffeine in it,” you mumble.

He doesn’t even flinch—just pins you with a look. There’s no room to argue.

“But I could definitely go for a smoothie!” you say too brightly. “There’s a café around the corner, and my apartment’s just the next block over. If you don’t mind... can we go back there? I’ve got ultrasound jelly in my underwear and I really need to pee.”

His brows draw together. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—hurt. “You have an apartment?”

You didn’t expect that to hit hardest, but you see why. As far as Tyler was concerned, you were coming back. You’d only ever been on a break. But hearing you have an apartment here... it tells him something else entirely.

That you’re not coming back.

You nod, tears starting to sting at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah... I do.”

The walk out of the store and around the corner is one of the most painful things you’ve ever endured. You’re already planning to compare it to childbirth when the time comes—but honestly, you’re pretty sure this will still win.

Tyler’s movements are stiff and deliberate. He keeps a cautious distance, like you’re contagious, and it takes everything in you not to cry right there on the sidewalk.

Neither of you speaks. You just lead the way, and he follows. At the café, you order a smoothie—nothing else. You feel so nauseous, you're worried you might throw up your baby. Tyler orders a coffee, then steps back to type something on his phone. For a moment, panic grips you—is he telling the others? But no. Tyler’s not like that. He’s probably just letting them know that he got caught up.

Once your drinks are ready, you head down the street toward your apartment. You don’t bother making conversation, you don’t even point out the ridiculous-looking dog in the window across the street. You just let yourself into the lobby and ride up to the fourth floor.

Down the hall, you unlock your door and step inside, holding it open for him.

The look on his face as he enters your space is what finally breaks you. The tears spill over before you can stop them. He looks wrong here—too big for the tiny apartment you’ve made your own. And he looks like you’ve just ripped his heart out and stomped on it.

You make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping your untouched smoothie on the counter and diving for the tissue box. A sniffle escapes as you swipe at your eyes and nose, followed by a soft, rattling sob.

“Hey,” Tyler says gently, suddenly at your side, a hand landing on your back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

Of course he’s not. He’s too good. Too decent to treat you the way you probably should be treated—without kindness.

You clear your throat and look up at him, close enough now that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “You should be,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks. “It’d be easier if you were mad at me.”

He lets out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, I’m not exactly happy. But why would I be mad?”

You feel small. Pathetic. Like if the floor cracked open right now, you’d gladly let it swallow you whole. But it doesn’t.

You force down another sob, blinking hard as you reach for your smoothie and carry it into the living room. You flop down into your favourite corner of the couch and nod for him to follow.

Then you clear your throat, summoning every ounce of confidence you have left.

“Okay,” you say. “Here’s the story.”

You don’t say the truth or what really happened. Because that’s not what you’re about to give him.

You’ve got a story. And that’s what you’re sticking to.

“A few weeks after I got back, I went out with some old friends,” you begin, technically not lying. “It was supposed to be a way to blow off some steam after everything with my family... and I missed you guys so much, I thought it would take my mind off things. But I got a little too drunk, and I ended up going home with some guy my friend knew.” There's the lie. “It was stupid and reckless, but... that’s what happened.”

He winces at your words, his expression unreadable. It looks like hurt, but why would he be hurt by that? Maybe it’s just disappointment.

You clear your throat and continue, slipping into the rhythm of the story you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. “About three weeks later, I found out. I contacted the guy, but he travels for work, so... I gave him an out. I made the decision to keep it, told him I didn’t expect anything from him. So... here we are.”

The silence hangs thick and heavy between you, suffocating you as you try to breathe through the storm of emotions clawing at your chest.

“I was going to tell you,” you add, your voice steadier than you feel. “I just couldn’t find the right time. It all felt so messy and rushed, and time kept slipping by. You guys were so busy, and with Kate and Javi... I didn’t want to ruin the high you were on.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just stares at you—his eyes flicking between your face and your belly.

Then it hits him. A thousand emotions all at once. Confusion. Hurt. A flicker of anger. Sadness. And finally, he lands back on hurt.

“You’re going to do it alone?” he asks, tension threading through his words.

You nod once, steady. “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t doubt that. You’ll be amazing. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Your heart squeezes. Would he still be saying that if he knew who the guy really was?

“I won’t be alone,” you say, resting a hand on your stomach.

His eyes fall to your hand and linger there. You think his bottom lip might wobble, just for a second. But then he looks back up, brow creased.

“You know we’re all here for you,” he says, voice strained. “We’re not going to let you do this on your own. I know you’re strong, but-”

“It’s not your problem, Ty,” you cut in quickly, desperate to stop him before the tears start again. “It’s not anyone’s burden but mine—not that it’s a burden. But I was scared to tell you for a reason. I didn’t want you to freak out. I made this choice knowing it would change my life, and mine alone. I know I have support if I need it, but wait for me to ask. Not that I could ask any of you to stop your lives—stop doing what you love. I’d never do that. I’d never ask for more than you’re willing to give. So please believe me when I say... I’m happy about the choice I made. I’m excited to do this by myself. You need to live your life, Ty. Chase those storms. Chase your dreams. I’m good. I’ll be fine.”

His expression is unreadable—somewhere between pain and disbelief. He just stares at you, silent, like he doesn’t recognize what he’s looking at. Not scared. Just... bewildered.

The silence stretches, the only sound your uneven, too-loud breathing.

Then, finally, he whispers, “But it’s not the same without you.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep it light. “Don’t be silly, Tyler. You’ve got Kate and Javi now. You probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” You pause. “And Kate seems great. I’m happy for you.”

No, you’re not. But you’re getting better at lying.

His gaze snaps from your belly back to your face, eyebrows drawn tight. “Happy for me?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Anyway, I really need a shower. That ultrasound goo gets everywhere. Want to catch up later? With the crew?”

You need him gone. Now. Before you fall apart.

“I—uh...” He glances around the room, like he’s trying to find an excuse to stay. “Yeah. They’ll want to see you.”

You nod and head to the kitchen for your bag. “Could you do me a favour?” The guilt is immediate and sharp. How dare you ask anything of him right now?

He nods.

“Could you... tell them? Warn them?” You can’t meet his eyes, so you focus on the tear in the knee of his jeans as he approaches.

“You want me to tell them?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s just... been a lot. And the way you reacted—I don’t think I can take five more of those. If you could just warn them before we meet up... it would help.”

Straight to hell. That’s where you’re headed. You’ve spent months trying not to burden him—and now this?

He swallows hard and nods, eyes drifting to something on the counter. “Yeah... okay. I can do that.”

You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath. “Thanks, Ty.”

He picks up the sonogram. “Is this the one from today?”

“Oh.” As if she knows her dad is seeing her for the first time, your little girl wriggles. “Y-Yeah. That’s today.”

His mouth twitches into a watery smile. “Can I take a photo? Then I can show the crew.”

You nod, speechless, watching the way he looks at the picture. If he doesn’t leave soon, you’re going to cry and throw up all over him.

He snaps the photo and tucks his phone away, gently placing the sonogram back on the counter.

“You said you weren’t busy this afternoon?” he asks.

You nod, throat tight.

“Good. I’m sure they’ll want to see you soon. Maybe dinner? I’ll text you after I talk to them. I bet you know all the good places around here.”

He’s speaking too fast, his eyes everywhere but your face. He wants out just as badly as you want him out.

You walk him to the door, trying to smile. It’s pitiful. It feels like everything around you has stopped moving. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of something unfamiliar. But then again, do you even know him anymore? Four months is a long time.

Before you can say goodbye, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. Holds you like he means it. Like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

Tears stream down your face, your shoulders shaking. The baby kicks—harder than ever—and you want to blame the pressure of Tyler’s hug. But then you wonder... does she know it’s him?

The thoughts keep coming, hot and heavy, as your tears soak into the shoulder of his white shirt.

After what feels like both forever and not long enough, he pulls away. His eyes rimmed with red.

“I’ll text you,” he says hoarsely, then turns and walks down the hall.

You shut the door—and collapse to the floor. You stay there for almost an hour. Crying. Thinking. And for the first time, wishing you’d just told him the truth from the start. Back at the gas station. Would it really have been that bad?

You’re not so sure anymore. Because this? This doesn’t feel like the right thing.

- Tyler -

Tyler doesn’t remember how he got back to his truck in the grocery store parking lot. All he knows is that he’s in it now—but he doesn’t have the courage to drive. He doesn’t trust himself. His hands won’t stop shaking, his eyes are burning with tears, and his throat aches. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you: your soft smile, your wide, tearful eyes, and that intrinsic glow—granted by your pregnancy, despite how clearly distressed you’d been.

He can’t believe you’re pregnant.

He tried so hard to be understanding, to not blow through you with every emotion that crashed down the moment he saw you. But it was so hard. He wanted to be angry that you didn’t tell him—but he knew he had no right. He didn’t have the right to be upset at all. You were clearly stressed about him finding out—about the crew finding out.

But why?

That’s what he can’t figure out.

Sure, it might not have been planned. It’s going to turn your life upside down. But why wouldn’t you want your friends to know? He knows you’ve rationalised it—told yourself you didn’t want to burden them. But he also knows that you know better than that. Your friends wouldn’t feel burdened. They’d just want to be there for you.

He just wants to be there for you.

And as complicated as this whole thing is, it’s confusion that lingers the loudest. He’s confused about how he should feel, and confused about what he does feel. He thought he knew you—but right now, he’s not so sure. You’re still familiar... but different.

The sharp chime of Tyler’s phone cuts through the silence of the truck cabin. He glances at where he tossed it on the passenger seat, just able to make out the text from Boone: ‘You good?’

No.

He exhales slowly and turns the key, the truck rumbling to life around him. Then he grabs the phone and fires off a quick reply: ‘Be back in 10. Get everyone together for breakfast.’

Then he pulls out of the grocery store parking lot and starts rehearsing how he’s going to break the news to the crew.

An hour later, in a quiet café on the other side of town with two small tables pulled together, Dani leans toward Tyler and blurts, “She’s what?!”

Dexter chokes on his coffee, spluttering into his napkin, while Lily’s jaw drops mid-chew, revealing a messy mouthful of pancake.

“She’s pregnant?” Boone asks, his voice calmer than Dani’s, though his eyes are still wide as saucers.

Kate and Javi exchange a quick, uncertain glance, both clearly unsure how to react to the news that’s left half the crew reeling over their breakfast.

“I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” Dani says, her voice tight with offense.

Lily finally swallows. “So that’s why she’s been avoiding us?”

Dexter tips his head, eyes narrowing on Tyler. “How far along is she?”

Tyler shrugs, his stomach twisting with nausea—though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like this is his big news. “She said she met the guy a few weeks after getting home. So... she’s probably around four months.”

“Four months,” Dani echoes. “And she didn’t tell any of us?”

Kate’s quiet laugh draws every eye to her. She quickly slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbles, wide-eyed. “I just—” She glances at Tyler, then looks around the table. “I mean, can you blame her? Look at how you’re all reacting.”

Tyler frowns. “What do you mean?”

Kate sighs and leans back in her chair. “No offense, but you’re all acting like this is about you. If this wasn’t planned—and it doesn’t sound like it was—then she’s probably just scared. Of course she was nervous to tell you guys. She probably knew how you’d react.”

The group goes quiet then, effectively chastised. And Kate isn’t wrong—Tyler knows that. As someone less emotionally entangled in your situation than the rest of the crew, she can probably see it more clearly. Understand why you did what you did.

But that doesn’t make Tyler feel any less conflicted. He still feels off. His palms are damp and his stomach won't stop twisting itself into nauseating knots. His heart is beating too fast, sitting high in his throat. And he can’t stop seeing your face—those tearful eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips the moment you saw him again.

For a fleeting moment, he’d been taken back to that night. The night where everything else blurred except for you. Your flushed face, kiss-bruised mouth, lips parted for him, breathless beneath him. The way you’d whispered his name like a secret, the sounds he drew from you with his hands and mouth, the feel of your skin against his.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about that night… a lot. At first, he tried not to. He couldn’t believe the lines he’d crossed, waking up with you in his arms at three a.m., your bare body pressed to his. He wasn’t even that drunk—just drunk on you. And God, he wanted nothing more than to pull you closer and fall back asleep. But panic had crept in. He had to get out. Had to breathe.

The next day was awkward—mostly because he couldn’t stop seeing you the way he’d seen you the night before. He wanted to talk, to say something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk burning down years of friendship for one selfish desire. So after about a week, he cracked a joke. You shot back with something sarcastic, and things felt… almost normal again.

Until you left.

And when you did, you took a piece of him with you. A big piece. One he doesn’t know how to get back—or if he even wants it back.

“Hey.” Kate nudges her knee against Tyler’s. “You good?”

The rest of the group has slipped into quiet conversation, murmuring among themselves about you and the baby.

Tyler nods once, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he fishes his phone from his back pocket. He opens it, pulls up the sonogram picture, and slides it across the table.

“She had an ultrasound today,” he says, the words tasting like lead on his tongue.

Lily’s eyes light up as she snatches the phone, gazing at the black-and-white photo. Dani leans over one shoulder, Dexter over the other, and it’s not hard to catch the soft smiles spreading across their faces.

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be upset,” Kate says, her voice lowered just for him. “I just think... maybe consider how she’s feeling before you take too much of that out on her.”

Tyler sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I tried to be calm. But it was so fucking hard. She kept crying.”

Kate exhales a half-laugh. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Whatever you think you’re feeling, multiply it by a thousand. That’s probably where she’s at.”

The memory of your tear-streaked face hits him square in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d felt so useless, even as he held you close. All he wants is to make things better. To go back, find you sooner, and give you everything you’ve needed but never asked for.

“I just want to help,” Tyler mutters, his voice rough. “She said she’s happy to do it on her own, but... I want to be there.”

“Then be there,” Kate says, brows furrowed like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “You don’t have to overstep or force your way back in. Just be her friend. Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Just because she thinks things have to change doesn’t mean they do. Show her that.”

Tyler’s eyes flick to Dani, who now has his phone and is zooming in on the sonogram with an awed expression.

“But things have changed,” he says, turning back to Kate.

On her other side, Javi has his phone in front of his nose, but Tyler can tell from his posture that he’s still listening.

“For her, yeah,” Kate replies. “Her whole world’s flipped. But for you? Not really. So be something that hasn’t changed. Something stable. Something she can still count on.”

Tyler’s brows draw together, eyes starting to burn again from the now-familiar sting of tears. He knows Kate’s smart—but wise too? Suddenly, he feels like a kid who threw a tantrum he didn’t fully understand.

“I mean,” Javi chimes in, the straw of his milkshake still at the corner of his mouth, “it’s not like you’re the father.”

The words hit Tyler harder than they should. They sink into his skin and burn as they draw blood, the pain spreading through his chest. His skin prickles, heat rushes to his face, and his head goes a little light—like the floor’s been yanked out from under him.

He’s not just angry that you didn’t tell him. Not just upset that you left, that you ran away from the crew with a half-assed excuse. He’s confused, yes—but underneath it all, he’s heartbroken.

Because it’s not just about you being pregnant. It’s not about the distance, or how much everything suddenly feels so different. It’s the fact that you’re pregnant with someone else’s baby.

Not his.

And for the first time, the weight of it truly hits him—

He wants it to be his.

“Ouch!” Javi hisses as Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “What was that for?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not reading the room.”

“Shit,” Javi mutters, leaning forward past Kate to see Tyler—a very shocked-looking Tyler. “Sorry, man.”

Tyler tries to shake his head, but it’s slow, almost robotic. “It’s fine,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper.

Kate rests a hand on his knee and leans toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. He was going to say yes—but that would be a lie. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since you left.

Kate’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “You’re not, like... just realizing you’re totally in love with her, are you?”

Tyler’s green gaze snaps to her face, a jolt of electricity running down his spine at hearing those words said out loud.

“Oh, Tyler...” she sighs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Wake up.”

He’s always known he loves you—of course he does. But in love with you? Maybe it should’ve been obvious. He hasn’t felt fully human without you by his side. There’s been a gaping hole in his chest since the day you left—because you took his heart with you.

It always has been yours. He just never really thought about it that hard. He’s just always known, deep down, from the very beginning, that he belongs to you.

And he’s always thought of you as his. Never questioned it, even through your crappy boyfriends and his meaningless hookups. Some part of him was sure you’d always come back. That at the end of the day—after the storm—you’d be his again.

But now? Now some other guy has a claim on you. And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s primal. But God, he fucking hates it.

After breakfast, the crew heads back to the motel. They try to work—and try even harder to pull Tyler out of whatever existential wormhole he’s fallen into—but it’s not easy. He spends most of the day staring into space, half-listening (at best) to anyone who speaks. Eventually, they give up and leave him to it.

Lily ends up messaging you about dinner, since Tyler’s too dazed to even type a text. You agree to meet at a restaurant downtown, halfway between your place and the crew’s motel.

“Okay, pal,” Kate sighs as she drops into the lawn chair beside Tyler’s. “You’re starting to worry us.”

Lily drops into the chair on his other side, braced like she might have to chase him if he bolts.

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Kate asks gently.

Tyler nods—slow, uncertain. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve been a damn zombie all day,” Lily snaps. “You think acting like this is going to make her feel loved and supported?”

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, her tone sharp. “The answer is no. So get your shit together.”

Tyler turns to Kate, frowning. “Why is she being mean to me?”

Kate rolls her eyes for what feels like the thousandth time today. “Because you’re being a child. So what, you’re in love with your best friend who’s now pregnant with some random guy’s baby? Suck it up. Start acting normal—or you’ll just make her feel worse.”

Tyler lets out a long, dramatic sigh and tips his head back. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Lily says. “Come on—practice talking about baby stuff with us.”

Kate perks up. “Good idea. Ask us about being pregnant.”

Tyler slowly lowers his head and gives Kate a flat stare. “This is dumb. I’m not going to make things awkward. I’ll be fine.”

“Then why have you walked away from every conversation about babies today?” Lily fires back.

“Just try,” Kate pleads. “Let’s just talk about her, okay? And no deflecting.”

Tyler groans but doesn’t argue, silently accepting the assignment.

Kate folds her hands in her lap and leans in like an interviewer. “So, you said she’s got an apartment here—did you see the nursery?”

“No,” Tyler replies, nausea twisting in his gut. Just thinking about that visit makes him uneasy. “Wasn’t exactly a show-and-tell kind of vibe.”

Kate sighs. “I get that. But just work with us.”

“I’ve got one,” Lily chimes in. “Did she say she’s having any weird cravings?”

Tyler shakes his head. “No.” Then, at her expectant look, he adds, “But she was buying some sugary cereal when I ran into her. I think she told the cashier it was the baby’s favourite breakfast.”

Lily nods, satisfied.

Kate clears her throat. “Did she say how far along she is?”

“Not exactly,” Tyler says. “But from what she did say, I’m guessing around eighteen weeks.” He did the math—counting from the day you left the crew, assuming you met ‘the guy’ maybe three or four weeks later.

“Nuh-uh,” Lily says, brows pinched as she shakes her head. “She’s twenty-two weeks.”

Tyler’s heart skips. “What? How do you know?”

“It’s on the sonogram, stupid.”

His pulse kicks up, head spinning, hands suddenly numb as he fumbles for his phone. He yanks it from his back pocket and pulls up the image, squinting at the screen.

Lily sighs and takes it from him, zooming in on the small print in the corner. “See? Twenty-two weeks.”

Kate says something, but Tyler doesn’t hear her. All he hears is the blood pounding in his ears. Loud. Fast. Deafening.

Twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months. You’ve only been gone four months and three weeks.

That leaves three weeks.

Three weeks you were still with the crew. Still with him.

Somewhere in those three weeks… you got pregnant.

The world tilts. He blinks, once—twice—but everything stays blurry. The thought barrels through him like a freight train. It doesn’t make sense—shouldn’t make sense—but it does. The timeline. The things you said. The look on your face when you saw him. His stomach drops as the pieces slam into place, sharp and undeniable.

Holy shit.

“Tyler,” Kate says, her hand closing over his shoulder.

Lily frowns again. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, dude. You can’t keep freezing like that.”

“I have to go,” he mutters, shooting to his feet.

Kate blinks. “Where?”

“I’ll meet you guys at the restaurant.” He’s gone before they can respond, feet already pounding the pavement.

He throws himself into the truck and jams the key in the ignition, peeling out of the motel lot fast enough to make the tires squeal.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel as the truck barrels down the street, heart pounding like a war drum. The shock is still there, curling cold and sharp in his chest, but the panic has started to harden. Settle. Sharpen. He’s not going to lose it. Not now. If this really adds up—if the impossible is true—then he needs answers. Not anger. He sucks in a breath through his nose, jaw locked tight.

He’s not going there to yell. He’s going there to hear it. To look you in the eye and make you say it—

The truth.

- You -

You stand in front of your closet with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out what still fits and also looks decent enough for a nice restaurant. You picked a nice place on purpose—you haven’t been out in months. Literally. Most of your friends have been too busy chasing tornadoes while you’ve been stuck in this town, growing a baby. And while you’re not angry about the choices you’ve made, you’re more than a little excited to be getting out for the first time in what feels like forever.

You’re feeling a lot better than you did a few hours ago. After a solid hour of crying on the floor, you dragged yourself into the shower and stayed there until your fingers pruned. Then you wrapped yourself in two towels, curled up on your bed, and passed out. When you woke up, your phone was full of messages—hearts, check-ins, a few sweet “can’t wait to see you” texts—and you decided that maybe you’d been overreacting.

Sure, seeing Tyler had been the emotional peak of the last five and a half months, but that’s over now. And yeah, things might still be awkward. A little tense. But the secret’s out, and your story had him convinced—hook, line, and sinker. He was just emotional because he missed you. Because you’re best friends, and this is the longest you’ve ever gone without each other.

You’d thought about telling him the truth earlier, while curled up on the floor. But once the initial wreckage settled, you remembered why you hadn’t. Just to be sure, you went back and rewatched Corey’s YouTube interview. It still stung—maybe even more than the first time—but it did what it was supposed to: reminded you to stay strong. Because when it comes to Tyler Owens, strength is not your strong suit.

A knock echoes through the apartment and jolts you into motion. You yank a pair of thick black leggings from the drawer and wrestle into them while shuffling toward your bedroom door, grabbing an oversized knit sweater on the way.

“Coming!” you call, your voice muffled as you pull the sweater over your head.

Random visitors aren’t exactly uncommon. Your neighbour Marge likes to accuse you of stealing her newspapers, and you’ve definitely forgotten about more than a few online orders until the delivery driver comes knocking

You reach the door and tug the sweater down over your bump before pulling it open.

“Tyler,” you breathe, startled, taking an automatic step back. “You’re—uh—you’re like an hour early.”

Lily had mentioned he’d be picking you up—something about saving you the cab fare. You hadn’t objected, for obvious reasons, but you’d hoped for at least enough time to do your hair and makeup.

Still, he looks infuriatingly good. He’s swapped his white tee for a red plaid flannel, the top few buttons undone down to his sternum. His hair’s a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and he’s holding his cowboy hat in one hand.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “Figured we could catch up some more.”

Did he drive here? Or run?

“Um, okay. Sure,” you say, stepping back further.

He nods as he walks in, kicking off his boots by the door before heading toward the lounge. But he doesn’t sit—he just stands there, stiff and distant, eyes scanning the room like he’s searching for something specific.

“I was just getting ready,” you say, slipping into the kitchen. “Mind if I do the quick version before we... catch up?”

He shakes his head and sets his hat on the coffee table, still glancing around like he’s casing the place.

“Want a drink?” you ask, watching him carefully.

“I’m good,” he says.

“Okay,” you mutter, and retreat toward your room. So much for taking your time and enjoying getting ready.

Maybe he’s just trying to be nice after this morning. Or maybe the others sent him here to smooth things over before they all see you for the first time in over four months—baby bump and all.

“How far along did you say you were?” Tyler calls, poking his head into your room.

You jump, dropping the sock you were trying to pull on. “Oh... um, about four-ish months.”

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press, just leans in the doorway, quietly taking in the space.

This can’t be good.

“When are you due?” he asks.

“Five-ish months,” you shoot back with a smirk.

His lip twitches, almost smiling—and it still gets you. That little flicker of him is enough to stir your heart.

Then he asks, “What did you say the dad’s name was again?”

You freeze mid-step toward the ensuite. “I didn’t.”

“Oh...” His nod is slow, satisfied, like he was waiting for that.

“It’s Todd,” you blurt, turning quickly and disappearing into the bathroom.

Behind you, he scoffs. “Todd.”

Yeah, this isn’t good. Tyler’s onto something. What, you don’t know. But you can feel it—he’s circling like a shark, toying with you before he bites.

“So, when exactly did you find out you were pregnant?” he asks, stepping into view in the mirror behind you.

The hairs on your neck rise. “About three weeks after I slept with him.”

His eyes lock on yours in the mirror, steady and sharp as you try to run a comb through your damp hair.

“What did he say when you told him?”

You shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “Not much. He was shocked. Asked if I was keeping it, and I said yes. Told him it was fine if he wanted out. He took it.”

Tyler shifts, raising one arm to lean against the doorframe. He’s filling the small bathroom doorway with his body—and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad his shoulders are, how strong his arms are, remembering the way he’d thrown you around that night...

The memory slams into you, heat creeping between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together.

He notices. That tiny smirk returning as he leans in a little more, boxing you in.

“Bit strange, don’t you think?” he says, voice low. “Knowing you’re having a kid and not wanting anything to do with it. Sounds like a dirtbag move.”

Anger slices through your chest. “Yeah, well. Some people just don’t see themselves settling down.”

The words are out before you realise—they're his words, from the interview.

His eyes narrow. “Who said anything about settling down? Kids don’t ruin lives.”

You scoff, avoiding his gaze. “No, they just stop you from pursuing your dreams.”

Another quote. Damn that interview. Damn you for watching it again. But the way he’s interrogating you is pissing you off. What right does he have? He’s the one who told the world he’d resent anyone who gave him a kid.

And here he is, acting like he cares.

A heavy breath hangs in the air as you trade your hairbrush for a makeup brush, leaning closer to the mirror. Tyler’s eyes stay locked on you—intense, unwavering, a little too focused.

Then his voice slices clean through the silence.

“Why didn’t you use birth control?”

White-hot fury flares up your spine, lighting your cheeks on fire as you spin to face him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t recoil. He just stands there with that same infuriating glint in his eye—smug, steady, unreadable. His posture is so relaxed it makes your skin crawl, like he didn’t just drop a live grenade into the middle of your lie.

“You know I’m not on birth control,” you snap, your voice low and trembling with rage. “And the condom. Fucking. Broke.”

The second it’s out of your mouth, you want to drag it back in. You could’ve said anything else—something careless, something wild, something stupid. But instead, you gave him truth wrapped in a lie—and now the whole thing is starting to crack.

“That so?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Crazy how that happened... twice in a row.”

Your jaw clenches. “Clearly I need to buy a new box of condoms.”

He lets out a dry, humourless laugh and leans in closer, eyes glittering. “That was my condom that broke.”

Your breath comes faster now, chest tight, nerves sparking under your skin like live wires. You can’t even remember the lie you rehearsed. Your heart’s thundering, the baby is moving restlessly in your belly—like she feels your panic. Like she knows.

“Maybe you and Todd use the same damn brand,” you mutter, spinning back toward the vanity and gripping the edge like it might hold you steady.

“You just said you need to buy a new box,” he presses, relentless. “Does Todd leave his condoms here?”

You grit your teeth, drop your chin, and breathe in through your nose. “Jesus, Tyler. I’m sorry I don’t remember every single detail.”

You hear him shift. Feel the heat of him behind you. Too close.

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

You turn, slowly, heart in your throat. He’s so close now your belly nearly brushes his belt and you have to press against the vanity for space.

You meet his eyes. “What do you think, Tyler?”

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I think you remember the night you got pregnant like it just happened. I think it’s carved into your brain. And I think you’re tripping over your story right now because you can’t forget what it felt like. Because it was so damn good, you don’t want to forget it.”

Panic coils in your chest like a gathering storm—rising fast, twisting tight, pushing a tangled mess of guilt and frustration up your throat. Your breath catches on it, your lungs stuck somewhere between inhale and breakdown. And then it spills over. Tears blur your vision before you can even try to blink them back, heavy and hot as they streak down your cheeks—weighted with remorse and something close to desperation.

Tyler is frozen in place, wide-eyed and still, his lips parted like he’s trying to speak but the words won’t come. You can see the regret flicker there—he hadn’t meant to be cruel, not like that. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever version of the truth he’s starting to piece together... he’s probably right.

And still, you can’t say it. Not yet.

Instead, you swipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater and slip past him, your shoulder brushing his arm as you squeeze out of the bathroom. You cross the room on shaky legs and drop onto the bed, curling in on yourself as a raw sob breaks free and rattles from your chest. You bury your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

Tyler doesn’t move at first. The silence stretches and settles around you, thick and stifling. But then comes the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough, like he’s choking on his own emotion. “That was too harsh.”

You don’t look up. Not yet. You can’t.

“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he continues, voice gentler now. “I got caught up—and I guess I’ve been walking around with all this shit in my chest. Then I saw you again, and it just... it all hit me. I’ve been pretending I’m fine, like it didn’t gut me when you left. But it did. You took more of me with you than I ever realised.”

Your fingers shift, just enough to peek through them—and there he is, kneeling beside the bed, one hand resting near your thigh but not quite touching. His eyes search yours, glassy with emotion he’s clearly trying to hold back.

“I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I did before all of this—before you left, before... the baby. I’ve always loved you. That night wasn’t a mistake. And honestly? I wasn’t even that drunk. I just—needed you. I still do. I need you more than anything.”

You swallow hard.

“But not more than you need the chase,” you mutter, tears spilling again. “Right? Because that’s it for you. That’s the dream, and you’ve worked too damn hard to give it up.”

He blinks. Confused. Then his brows furrow as recognition dawns. You can see it hit him—he remembers.

You let out a shaky breath and slide your hand over his. “I don’t want you to resent me, Ty. I don’t want you to give up what you love. You’ve got an out.”

His eyes widen, locking onto yours like he’s just now realising what you’re trying to say.

“You can still walk away,” you whisper.

He stares at you, frozen—like your words knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. His brows knit tighter, his hand shifting beneath yours.

Then, after a beat, he whispers, “Are you serious?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just look at him, eyes brimming, heart thundering in your chest like it’s trying to burst out and reach for him itself.

His throat works around a swallow. Then he says it—low and broken and burning.

“Didn’t you hear me?” His voice cracks. “I fucking love you. More than anything. More than storms and chasing and everything I’ve ever been stupid enough to think mattered more. That interview... it was bullshit. I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about you. Because with you, I want all of it.”

Then he moves.

There’s no breath between the words and the moment he surges forward—like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and searing, all teeth and desperation and need. One hand tangles in your hair, the other pulls you toward him with a grip that says he’s never letting go again.

It steals your breath. Steals your thoughts. Your hands fist in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely, matching the fire with one that’s been simmering in your chest since the day you left.

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s raw and reckless and messy, and it tastes like every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every broken piece finally slamming back into place.

It feels like the truth.

Between frantic kisses, you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

You feel his mouth curve into a smile before he murmurs, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

The kisses slow, soften—his tongue sweeping against yours with aching intention, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, every breath. The hand tangled in your hair slides down to cradle your neck, while the other one drifts to your waist, settling gently against the curve of your swollen belly.

Then the baby kicks—hard. Harder than she ever has. You both jolt.

“Shit,” you whisper, hands flying to your stomach. “Sorry.”

Tyler stares, completely still. He looks unfairly beautiful like this—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, wide, glassy eyes locked on your belly. He looks like he’s just witnessed something holy. Something impossible.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.

You shrug, brushing your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. “She doesn’t usually kick that hard. I guess she’s getting stronger.”

His eyes shimmer. “She?”

You nod, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “Yeah. We’re having a baby girl.”

His bottom lip trembles, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We?”

A shaky laugh bubbles up as fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “Yes, Tyler. She’s yours.”

His tears fall freely now, trailing down his flushed cheeks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at you like you’ve hung the moon—just for him.

“I’m yours too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We’re all yours.”

Then he’s kissing you again—wet and messy and full of everything you’ve both been carrying for months. You’re crying, he’s crying, but neither of you care. You just hold on—breathing hard, laughing softly—lips meeting again and again as you both sink into the familiar shape of each other… into home.

END.

#tyler owens #twisters #glen powell #tyler owens x reader #glen powell x reader #one shot #fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #oneshot #glen x reader #twisters 2024

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papayainsectorone · 13 hours ago

Text

Teach Me

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summary: A chance reunion with Oscar at a party leads to a night of exploration, vulnerability, and intimacy—where he learns to ask for what he wants, and you’re more than willing to teach him.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink

word count: 4,7k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this turned out to be great potential to add some parts, so maybe stay tuned if it does well

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You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since both your lives split off into entirely different rhythms—his dominated by circuits and airports, yours by everything else.

And yet, when you bumped into him again at a mutual friend’s party, he still had the same shy smile. Still held eye contact like it meant something. Still remembered the dumb in-jokes that made you laugh harder than the alcohol.

You ended up talking for hours. About nothing and everything. And somehow, that turned into walking back to your hotel together. And somehow, that turned into sitting too close on your bed, the TV playing something neither of you are watching, knees touching like it’s a game of dare.

You can feel how tense he is. Not nervous like scared—but nervous like hesitant. Like he’s not sure what’s okay to want.

“You’ve always been so good at this,” he murmurs eventually, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again. “People. Talking. Flirting. I don’t think I ever got the hang of it.”

You tilt your head. “When would you have? You went straight from karts to cars. The rest of us were fumbling through school dances—you were chasing podiums.”

He huffs a laugh. Quiet. Embarrassed. “Yeah, but even then... the other guys, they still talked about it. About girls. Hookups. I never really—” He breaks off. “I was just thinking about racing.”

“That’s not a crime,” you say softly.

His voice drops a little, barely more than a whisper. “Feels like I missed something.”

You glance at him sideways, curious “Are you a virgin?”

His head snaps toward you—wide eyes, startled. Then he lets out a small, awkward chuckle. “Yeah... I mean—no.” He exhales sharply. “I’m not totally new to this. I’ve had sex.” A shrug. “We were young. It was fast. Awkward. Over before I could really think about it. And then... I don’t know. Life just kept happening.”

“Do you want to learn now?” you ask.

His breath catches. Then: “Yeah.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek. His skin’s warm, a little flushed. You lean in just enough for him to meet you halfway if he wants to.

He does.

The kiss is gentle. Curious. He doesn’t rush it, and you don’t push him. Your hand cups the side of his neck, feeling the soft thrum of nerves and anticipation under his skin.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is almost a whisper.

“You don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing.”

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your thigh. “Good,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Because I really, really don’t.”

You kiss him again, slower this time, letting it linger. His hand drifts to your waist, unsure, but you press into his palm to tell him it’s okay.

When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed, his lashes low.

“Okay,” you say softly. “New rule.”

He blinks. “Rule?”

You nod. “You have to talk to me. No hiding it. If you like something, you say it. If you want me to stop, you say it. If you want more…” You trail your fingers lightly down his chest. “You say that too.”

He swallows. “Even if I sound stupid?”

“You won’t. I promise.” You smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “There’s no wrong answers. Just tell me what feels good.”

He hesitates only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

You lean in again, mouths meeting, and this time you ease him gently back against the pillows. Your knee slots between his thighs, your hand sliding under his shirt, just brushing warm skin.

His breath stutters.

“That okay?” you murmur.

“Y-Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s… good. Warm.”

You laugh under your breath. “Good start.”

You guide him through every little step—how to touch, where to focus, how to relax into the way your lips find his neck and your hand curls low on his stomach.

Every time he gasps or moans, you stop and make him tell you why.

“It—when you do that thing with your thumb,” he pants, eyes fluttering. “It… it makes everything feel tighter. Better.”

You press your mouth to his jaw. “That’s what I want. For you to feel everything.”

And he does. Slowly, sweetly, in breathy little confessions and nervous laughs, in the way his hands start to get bolder, braver.

He listens. He learns. And he lets you teach him with lips and tongue and open praise.

It’s messy, a little clumsy, but none of that matters—not when he’s watching you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. His hands are on your back now, sliding under your shirt like he’s memorizing you.

You roll your hips just enough to make him shiver.

“Still good?” you ask, voice low.

He nods quickly, too quickly, then corrects himself. “Yes. I like… when you move like that.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

He fumbles for a second, eyes flicking away. Then, quieter: “More. I want more of you.”

That’s all it takes.

You ease his shirt up and over his head, kiss your way down his chest, slow and soft. His skin is warm, marked with a few nervous trembles, but he’s breathing steady through it now. Trusting you.

When your hand slips lower, he gasps, hips lifting into your touch before he remembers to speak.

“Yes,” he says, breathless. “That—please, don’t stop.”

You smile against his skin. “Good boy.”

He whines. Actually whines. And it goes straight through you.

His hips twitch again like the words themselves tug at something deep inside him. His fingers curl tight into the sheets, his jaw slack with need.

“God,” he pants, like the sound of praise is almost as intoxicating as your touch. “Say it again. Please.”

A soft, almost shy laugh escapes you as you pull back just slightly, looking down at him. You tilt your head, fingers brushing along his jaw.

"Did you like that, Oscar?" you ask, your voice low, teasing in a way that makes his breath catch. "Me telling you how good you're doing?"

His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide. His face flushes a deeper shade of red, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything—just stares at you, caught in a mixture of surprise and a shy kind of awe. Then, his hips buck involuntarily against you, as if the praise itself set something off inside him.

His chest heaves, and he stammers, his voice tight. "I… I… yeah, I liked it. It—it felt… good."

You lean in closer, your lips brushing just above his ear. "I could tell." You press a little firmer against him, watching his face twist with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. "You’re doing so well, Oscar. You like hearing me say it, don’t you? When I tell you how good you’re being for me?"

He bites his lip, the flush on his face spreading all the way down his neck. “Yeah… I… I want to hear it.”

You let the words sink in, savoring how they make him squirm beneath you, how much he craves that affirmation. And you know, in that moment, you could keep going—make him beg for it, make him crave your praise until he’s dizzy with it.

You give him what he wants.

“You’re doing amazing. Such a good boy, Oscar.”

That breaks him.

"Fuck, please," he says, voice trembling.

His grip tightens on the sheets, and you can feel him shift beneath you, eager, almost frantic. His body is a perfect contrast to the hesitant boy he once was. Now, he’s confident in his need, in his craving for your approval.

"Please," he gasps, his voice rough and shaky. "I need to hear more…"

Your fingers hover just above his waistband, your breath hot against the sensitive skin of his abs. Oscar’s body trembles beneath you, the anticipation almost too much to bear, and youcan feel his nerves radiating through the tension in his muscles.

You look up at him, voice soft but coaxing. “You’re doing so well, Oscar,” you murmurs, lips grazing his skin lightly. “But I need you to tell me what you want. What feels good? You just have to say it, baby. I’m here to listen.”

His eyes meet yours, uncertainty flickering in them, but there’s something else too—a hunger, a desperate need to feel good, to know that you want to hear what he’s craving. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still not sure how to ask for it.

You kiss his thigh gently, lips lingering for just a moment before you pull away, letting the tension build. “It’s okay. You can tell me, Oscar. I won’t bite. Just tell me what you need.”

Oscar swallows hard, his voice trembling when he finally speaks. “I… I don’t know what to say…”

You smiles softly, hand brushing his side soothingly, the touch gentle, patient. “It’s alright. Just start slow. Tell me if it feels good when I touch you like this.” You move your fingers again, grazing the waistband of his pants, letting him feel the heat of your proximity. “Does that feel good?”

He nods, his body reacting with a soft moan that escapes before he can stop it. “Yeah… yeah, it feels good… But I… I want more…”

Your heart races at his admission, the vulnerability in his voice making her pulse quicken. “More?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, yet full of warmth and encouragement. “Tell me what more feels like. I want to know what makes you feel good, Oscar.”

Oscar’s breath catches, his face flushed, but he nods again, this time with more confidence. “I… I like when you’re close. When you touch me, but… maybe with your mouth…”

Your eyes soften at his words, and you leans in closer, your lips brushing against his skin. “I can do that,” you murmur. “Just tell me if it’s too much or if you want more, okay?”

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and as you gently slide the last of the fabric down, his body exposed now, not prepared for the sight that greets you. You pause for a moment, eyes widening slightly, unable to hide the surprised expression that cross your face.

"Fuck, Oscar," you breathe, voice low and full of disbelief, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "How did you hide that?" Your gaze linger on him for a beat longer than you mean to, taking in how he stands there, vulnerable yet undeniably… impressive.

Oscar’s face flushes a deep shade of crimson at her reaction, his body stiffening with embarrassment.

But you’re not going to let him feel self-conscious for long. You lean in closer, your breath warm against his skin, your gaze flickering up to meet his once more.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, your voice soft, reassuring. “You’re exactly what I wanted.”

With that, you lower yourself further, your hands resting on his thighs for a moment as you look up at him, silently asking if he’s ready. He nods, barely a whisper of a sound escaping him, but you hear it—his consent.

You move slowly, deliberately, pressing your lips to his skin just below his navel, tasting the heat of him before continuing your descent. His body flinches slightly, a soft gasp escaping his lips as your mouth moves lower, your lips brushing over him with a delicate pressure. You feel his hips twitch beneath you, and you pause, your eyes flickering to his, seeking confirmation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur, your voice soft, but with the authority of someone who knows exactly how to guide him. “Just say the word, Oscar.”

He shakes his head, his hands fisting in the sheets, and his voice trembles with need. “It feels good,” he breathes, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. “Please, just… don’t stop.”

You smile, knowing you’ve unlocked the vulnerability in him, the one that lets him speak his desires. And you’re more than willing to give him what he needs. With that, you finally take him in your mouth, slow at first, the heat and taste of him overwhelming your senses as you move in rhythm with his quiet gasps.

As you continue, the sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel him struggle to keep his composure. The way his hips buck unexpectedly sends a jolt of shock through you, and you stumble for a moment, a slight gag catching in your throat. Tears well up in your eyes from the sudden movement, but you quickly recover, a trail of spit still connecting you both, glistening in the dim light.

For a moment, you just breathe, letting the surprise and intensity of the moment settle, your hand gently resting on his thigh as you look up at him. “Did you like that?” you ask, your voice a little breathless, your eyes soft with the mix of surprise and affection.

Oscar’s chest heaves, his breaths coming quick and uneven as he watches you. His eyes are wide with a mix of shock and excitement. “Oh my God… yes,” he pants, his voice hoarse with need, a little desperate now. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I—”

You smile, wiping your lips gently, savoring the way he’s unraveling in front of you. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you say, your voice soothing, though there’s an underlying teasing tone.

You take his hand, guiding it to your hair, your fingers lightly curling around his wrist, urging him to take a little control. “You can take some control,” you murmur, your voice low and full of trust. “Just guide me if you need to.”

Oscar’s eyes widen in surprise, his hand trembling in your hair as you lower yourself again, your lips brushing against him, waiting for his guidance. His breath catches as you look up at him again, your expression soft, yet encouraging.

As you pause, waiting for him to take the lead, his mind is spinning, and a sudden surge of confidence rushes through him. He’s starting to get it—how it feels to guide you, how much you’re willing to trust him with this. Slowly, he exhales, his hand tightening in your hair, not pulling, but gently guiding your head down as his hips buck up again, this time with purpose.

Your eyes meet his, and for a brief moment, he freezes, unsure if he’s doing it right. But your smile, the way you relax under his touch, reassures him. “That’s it, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice low and soft, as you sink further into him, your mouth finding its rhythm again. “You’re doing perfect.”

The control he feels is intoxicating. He guides you just a little more, feeling his own body grow tighter with the sensations. The rush of pleasure builds, and it’s almost too much to handle. He squirms beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at you, his breath hitching with the overwhelming feeling.

"I think I’m gonna…" he starts, his voice faltering, a mixture of panic and desire in his tone.

You pull off for a moment, your lips still glistening, a soft smile playing at the corner of your mouth as you look up at him. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you breathe, your voice soothing and encouraging. “Just let it happen. Let me know where you want it to be.”

Your words are the reassurance he needs. He exhales a shaky breath, his grip on your hair tightening again as he gently moves you down, his hips bucking once more in need, desperate for the release he’s been holding back.

“Please… can you…” He doesn’t know how to ask for it, but the words tumble out, raw with need. “Can you… finish it? I… I want you to.”

You smile softly at his request, your eyes locking with his.

You lower yourself once more, moving with deliberate slowness, each motion intentional as you take him in.

Your tongue glides over the tip, circling gently, your pace steady. His hand remains tangled in your hair, fingers brushing the softness as you move. Each subtle bop of your head brings him closer to the edge, the sensation growing more intense with every second. The pressure builds inside him, and though he tries to hold back, it becomes overwhelming. With a deep, almost primal grunt, he loses control, his hips jerk upward, hitting the back of your throat — the final spark that ignites everything.

The pressure inside him snaps all at once, and his body shudders violently beneath you. One hand grips your head, pulling you down harder without thought, caught in the grip of release, while his other arm locks tight behind him, bracing against the mattress and forcing his upper body forward. His back arches, hips lifting fully off the bed, his torso folding over you as if every muscle in him is straining toward you, unable to hold anything back.

But you don’t stop. Your mouth stays on him, your throat tight around the tip, taking every inch as his body bucks beneath you. One hand holds his thigh steady, the other stroking him gently through the aftershocks as he gasps through a stuttering stream of “Oh God… fuck… you feel so good…” The words fall from him unfiltered, broken by the rawness of the release.

When the tension finally ebbs from his muscles and his breath slows, he collapses back onto the bed, chest rising and falling. Only then do you let him slip from your mouth, slow and careful.

The silence between you both is comfortable, filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing, and you move to sit beside him, your fingers gently brushing over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your touch.

"You okay?" you ask softly, your voice a soothing contrast to the intensity of the moment just passed. Your eyes are full of warmth and care, checking on him in a way that makes him feel safe and cherished.

Oscar nods, still catching his breath, his eyes meeting yours. A soft, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and his hand reaches for yours, gently pulling it to his chest. "Yeah… I think I’m just a little overwhelmed," he admits, his voice quieter now, full of a mixture of contentment and vulnerability.

You smile, your thumb gently tracing over his hand, the simple touch grounding him. "It’s okay. You did amazing," you say, your voice tender, reassuring.

He blushes slightly, the praise settling into him like a warm blanket, making him feel both shy and proud in equal measure. His voice almost shy as he looks at you with wide, honest eyes. "I… I didn’t expect it to feel THAT… good."

You chuckle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch tender and careful. "We can do that again, whenever you like."

He smiles, all flushed cheeks and messy hair, eyes still a little glassy from the afterglow. “Yeah?” he breathes, disbelief and hope threading through the single word.

You nod, leaning in until your foreheads touch, your thumb still gently stroking his temple. “Yeah,” you whisper, as if it’s a secret just for him. “You just have to ask.”

Oscar swallows hard, his heart thudding all over again—but for a different reason now. Not nerves, not lust. Just this quiet, aching affection building in his chest. “Okay,” he says softly. “I… I think I will.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek—sweet, not rushed, not trying to stoke the fire again, just sealing the promise between you. Then you rest your head on his shoulder, fingers drawing slow, lazy shapes on his chest.

For a while, you don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He eventually tilts his head to glance at you, his voice sleepy but sure. “You’re really good at making people feel safe.”

And he doesn’t say anything after that—just holds you a little tighter.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #op81

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laseracronym · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii I was wondering if you could possibly write a Tenya x Reader fic where the reader was noticeably jittery during the school day so he asked what her issue was and she told him she was, well, aroused, so he chose to help her out, sitting the both of them on his bed and he begins to play with her as he leaned over her shoulder, whispering praise into her ear and giving her kisses n stuff until she came :3 Nothing over the top, just a fluff and smut mix ^_^ !!

Thanks for sending this in! This was a really fun one, I do love it when Iida has a chance to shine. I hope you enjoy!

Content: Smut, some praise kink.

MHA-MHA-MHA

It was such a simple thing.

You were catching up with your friends at Mina's desk before the start of class. You backed up and found yourself stumbling into a solid, sturdy body. Immediately, large hands settled on your hips, steadying you, and you were pulled back against a broad chest.

Tenya's voice, low and warm, was at your ear, "careful, darling," he murmured, and then he released you.

It was such a brief interaction, barely a few seconds, but it went straight between your legs. Your face filled with heat as you turned to look at your boyfriend who smiled kindly, innocently, at you, having no idea that he'd just managed to turn you on with no effort at all.

He tilted his head, "are you alright, (Name)? You're looking a little flushed," he fussed, stepping forward to press the inside of his wrist to your forehead. "You looked fine at breakfast, but if you weren't feeling well, you should have told me. I could have sent word to Aizawa-sensei and escorted you to Recovery Girl."

You chuckled softly, endeared as he fretted over you in that way that was just so Tenya. You took his hand from your forehead, holding it between your own. "I'm fine, Tenya," you assured him, squeezing his hand before letting it go. You would have loved to have teased him a bit, maybe stolen a few kisses just to give the sudden rush of desire you felt a small outlet, but Tenya wasn't comfortable with too much PDA, and neither were you, to be honest.

Tenya's cheeks reddened in a soft blush and he was about to say something else when Midoriya called to him from across the room. "Ah, excuse me, (Name)," he said and he went to see what his friend wanted, your eyes trailed over his retreating back with interest.

"Simp."

You turned to see Mina and Toru snickering at you.

"Shut up," you rolled your eyes. You could drool over your boyfriend if you wanted to!

And you did.

You found yourself...distracted, during your morning classes. You kept thinking about Tenya, and all of the things you would rather be doing (to and with him) instead of sitting through boring lectures. It had you fidgeting in your seat, so aware of the heat, the ache, between your thighs.

"Are you sure you're alright, (Name)?" Tenya asked again as you both walked to lunch. "It seems like your mind's been elsewhere today, and you're still flushed."

"I'm sure," you said, and if you were a more reckless girl you'd be finding a way to drag him off to an empty classroom or a restroom for some relief. You bit your lip, considering for a moment, "it's not anything bad. I'll tell you after class, okay?" You knew he wouldn't let it go if you didn't give him something, but you weren't about to tell him you'd been having horny thoughts all day. Heaven knows at least one of you needed to be focused today, you were going to have to borrow his notes later as it was.

It was amusing as it was embarrassing to you. You normally weren't this pent up, it wasn't like Tenya neglected you in this respect, but damn if you weren't needy today!

With the promise that he would eventually get answers, Tenya dropped the subject for the rest of the day. He did, however, remain extra considerate of you, putting even more effort into doting on you, staying close to you in between classes and even sneaking (sneaking!) you some snacks. God, you loved him, and you wanted him all the more for it.

After class, you took Tenya by the hand led him back to your room in the dorms. Before he could ask or say anything, you were tugging his tall self into a heated kiss. Tenya was quick to reciprocate, wrapping his arms around you as he angled himself to meld your lips together more completely. His hands pressed into your back, holding you that much closer to himself and for a few moments, you had him thoroughly distracted.

"(N-Name)...?" he sounded so dazed, looking so enticingly ruffled as you both came up for air. His glasses were askew on his handsome face, and you felt the soft thrum of his engines, his entire body buzzing with the subtle vibrations.

You pressed yourself closer to him, your face was red and your desire was stronger than ever. "I have been...so horny all day," you told him shamelessly. Your hands wandered greedily up his sides and over his strong back, his clothes did nothing to hinder the splendid physique beneath them.

"Pardon?" he sounded so surprised and you couldn't help but laugh. The poor thing had been worrying after you all day only to find out that it was something like this that had been plaguing you, you couldn't help but find it funny.

"I've had you on my mind all day, I couldn't focus on anything else, I wanted you so bad," you felt how his breath hitched at your confession, his grip on you growing even tighter.

"It sounds like you've had a long day," Tenya's hand cupped your cheek and you looked up to see him looking back at you with a flustered, yet heated expression. His mouth quirked in an amused little grin, and he wet his lips with an eager tongue.

"You have no idea," you breathed.

"Well, (Name)," he cleared his throat, and you could feel the prodding of his growing erection, "if you'd like, I'd be more than happy to assist you."

MHA-MHA-MHA

"Oh fuck, Tenya."

Tenya was nothing if not efficient, you quickly found yourself naked and sat between Tenya's legs, your back to his chest, one of your legs draped over his knee as he pumped his thick fingers inside of you. He mouthed at your shoulder, his other hand fondling your breast, squeezing the soft mound and rolling your nipple between deft fingers. Tenya had stripped down to the waist, his skin heated and you swore you could feel the beating of his heart between your shoulder blades.

"Does that feel good, love?" his voice was like velvet and it had your walls clenching on his digits, a gush of arousal coming forth and aiding the glide of his touch.

"Mm, yes, it's so good," you practically purred, head tilting back to rest against his shoulder. Oh, this was just what you needed after being so pent up all day. Your hand rested over his, fingertips settling into the space between his fingers as he played with your tit, your thumb brushing over his skin. Your hips moved, angling to match his pace, grinding your clit into his palm, and your chest heaved. You were thoroughly enjoying yourself. "Keep going, Tenya."

Tenya groaned, kissing up your neck until his lips brushed your jaw. He shifted, subtly grinding his clothed erection against your bare ass, "you were already so wet when we started. You must have been in so much need all day," he gently, so gently, pinched your nipple, making you gasp. "I'm sorry darling, had I known sooner..."

"Would you have helped me at school?" you wondered with another roll of your hips, eyes half-lidded and lips curled into a sinful smile. "Whisked me off to a quiet corner and- ah!- fingered me under my skirt?"

His fingers curled then and you moaned loud, mouth hanging open. He curled himself around you, squishing your body to his as he shuddered at your words, "if...if you wanted. You know I'd do anything you asked of me," his words were strained and earnest, coated in lust as you both got further worked up over the fantasy.

"I know," your hand reached back, fingers sifting into his hair. You scritched his scalp fondly, "you're such a good boy for me, Tenya."

"Hahh," his engines revved softly, and he grinded needily against you, the praise obviously getting to him. Not once did he stop his ministrations, and your orgasm was steadily building.

"I'm so close," you told him, gripping his hair. "Oh, oh fuck..."

"Let go, (Name)," he told you, his fingers pumping faster, curling and finding that special spot inside of you. "Please, I've got you."

You came with a squeal, your slick coating his fingers and the bedding. Your long-awaited release was so worth it, especially when Tenya held you tightly against his chest as you slowly came down.

His hand, the one currently not coated in your juices, came up to carefully brush your sweaty hair from your face. "Feeling better, darling?"

"Much better," you panted, feeling all loose and lax. You turned your head, kissing at his jaw until he dipped his head down and met your lips with his own. You shared some soft kisses with him until you felt like you could move again. You turned, rising to your knees between his spread legs and pressing your hands against his broad shoulders. Tenya fell back easily and you looked down at his flushed face and mussed hair, his red eyes dilated as they focused on you and only you.

You licked your lips, "but we're not done yet."

(Requests)

#tenya iida x reader #iida x reader #tenya iida smut #mha x reader #mha smut #reader insert #fem!reader #female reader #laser writes #laser requests

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zrvllya · 3 days ago

Text

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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the great war, taylor swift

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regulus black x reader ! one shot ⏾

and maybe it's the past that's talking, screamin' from the crypt

ᵎ!ᵎ graphic depictions of violence, self-harm, suicidal-ideation, self-destructive behavior, emotional trauma, toxic and abusive family dynamics, war themes, wartime violence, dark magic, dubious consent, blood, injury depictions, mental health struggles, forced allegiance, coercion

word count [ 10,000+ ]

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your knuckles were bruised like violets against the stark white of hospital sheets.

regulus sat beside your bed in a rickety wooden chair, his robes rumpled from sleep, or rather the lack of it. his eyes followed the movement of a mediwitch as she flitted about the small room before eventually departing, allowing the heavy silence between you two to settle once more.

"you shouldn't have done that," he finally said, voice low and ragged.

you didn't look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling. "what else was i supposed to do?"

"literally anything else, y/n."

the clock on the wall ticked loudly, counting down seconds that felt like hours. forty-eight hours since you both received the mark. and here you were, hands bandaged from punching walls until they cracked and bled, sedated by potions after being found screaming in the bathroom of your place.

"i couldn't breathe," you whispered, still not looking at him. "it was burning and i couldn't—i just needed it to stop."

regulus's fingers curled into fists on his lap. "breaking your hands won't remove the mark."

"i know that," you snapped, finally turning to face him. his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles prominent against his pale skin. he looked as haunted as you felt. "don't you think i fucking know that?"

he reached for your hand, careful to avoid the bandages. it was a familiar gesture—how many times had his fingers entwined with yours beneath dining tables, in dark corridors, behind curtains? but now it felt different. heavier.

"we made a choice, y/n," he said softly.

"did we?" your laugh was hollow. "was it really a choice when the alternative was watching us— each other be slaughtered by our own families?"

regulus didn't answer. he didn't need to. you both knew the truth—you'd been bred for this, raised to serve, and now you were trapped. two purebloods fulfilling their destiny, following the path laid out since birth.

you thought about that morning, kneeling before the dark lord, sleeves pushed up to reveal unmarked forearms that would soon bear his brand. regulus beside you, shoulders squared with determination or resignation—you couldn't tell the difference anymore. his brother was long gone, escaped to a better life with better people. you sometimes wondered if regulus hated sirius for leaving him behind or admired him for having the courage to leave at all.

"do you remember," you began, voice barely audible, "when we were seven, and your mother caught us playing with muggle coins we'd found?"

his thumb traced circles on your wrist. "you took the blame."

"and you kissed me afterward, behind the curtains in the drawing room," you continued. "you said i was brave."

"you were." a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "you still are."

"i don't feel brave. i feel like i'm drowning." you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on you. "what are we doing, reg?"

he didn't answer immediately, instead bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. "surviving," he finally said. "that's all we can do now."

memories swam through your consciousness like fish in murky water—fragmentary, distorted, but unmistakably real.

your bodies tangled in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the air felt heavy with them. his lips on your neck, your shoulder, lower. whispered promises neither of you had any business making.

your hand in his at your father's funeral, a subtle pressure of fingers against fingers while walburga black wailed with more theatricality than genuine grief.

studying in the library, knees touching beneath the table, pretending the contact was accidental when you both knew better.

and now, months after receiving the mark, you found yourself in your shared place once more, the one you immediately got together when finishing hogwarts, but everything had changed. the playfulness was gone from your encounters, replaced by a desperate need to feel something—anything—other than the constant dread that had become your companion.

"they're sending us on a raid tomorrow," regulus murmured against your bare shoulder, his arm draped heavily across your waist. "some mudblood family in sussex."

you stared at the ceiling, tracing the constellation patterns he'd charmed there years ago. "together?"

"yes. the dark lord thinks we work well as a pair." his laugh was bitter. "at least we'll have each other while we commit atrocities."

turning to face him, you studied his features in the dim light. he'd lost weight in recent months, his cheekbones more pronounced, giving him an almost gaunt appearance that reminded you too much of the portraits of dead blacks that lined the hallways.

"we don't have to do it," you whispered, though you both knew it was a lie.

he traced the outline of your face with his finger. "and what, die instead? watch you being tortured in front of me?"

"maybe." your voice cracked. "maybe that would be better than becoming this."

regulus pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "i'd die before i let anything happen to you."

"that's what i'm afraid of," you replied, fingers threading through his hair.

silence stretched between you, comfortable despite the weight of everything unsaid. you'd always communicated best in silence—a shared glance across a crowded room, fingers brushing as you passed in hallways, a subtle nod that contained entire conversations.

"do you remember the promise we made?" he asked suddenly. "before all this?"

you did. fifteen years old, hiding in the astronomy tower long after curfew, stars scattered above you like spilled diamonds. regulus had taken your hand, eyes serious in a way that seemed too old for his young face.

"no matter what happens, no matter what they make us do or become, i'll always find my way back to you."

you'd sealed it with a kiss, naively believing that your love would be enough to withstand whatever the world threw at you.

"we were children," you said now, voice hollow. "we didn't know what was coming."

his hand found yours in the darkness, fingers interlacing. "i meant it, though. i still do."

outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like impatient fingers. somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. in a few hours, you would both don masks and cloaks and become the monsters you were raised to be.

the raid went wrong.

it was supposed to be simple—a show of force, a message to the "impure" that nowhere was safe. but the order had been waiting, as if tipped off. the moment you and the other death eaters apparated onto the quiet suburban street, spells began flying.

in the chaos, you lost sight of regulus. curses illuminated the night in violent bursts of color—red, purple, the sickly green of killing curses cutting through fog like searchlights. screams echoed between houses as muggles fled in terror, not understanding the war that had suddenly erupted on their doorsteps.

you ducked behind a garden wall, blood trickling from a cut above your eye where a severing charm had nearly found its target. your mask felt suffocating, the silver filigree pressing into your skin as you gasped for breath.

"retreat!" someone shouted—bellatrix, you thought, though it was hard to tell with everyone masked. "now!"

death eaters began disappearing with sharp cracks of apparition. you stayed hidden, frantically scanning for regulus among the figures still dueling.

that's when you saw him, locked in combat with a tall wizard you recognized as one of the prewett brothers. regulus was holding his own, but barely. his movements were slowing, and even from a distance, you could see the dark stain spreading across his robes.

without thinking, you broke cover, racing toward him as another death eater fell to a stunning spell nearby. regulus turned at your approach, distracted for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

the spell hit him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward several meters. he crumpled to the ground, motionless.

your scream was muffled by your mask as you reached him, dropping to your knees beside his still form. blood was seeping through his robes, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

prewett was advancing, wand raised for a finishing blow. you stood, positioning yourself between him and regulus, wand trembling in your grip.

"step aside," prewett commanded, his voice hard but not cruel.

"no." your voice broke on the single syllable.

something in your stance must have given him pause. he studied you for a moment, then glanced at regulus's prone form.

"he'll bleed out if he doesn't get help," he said finally. "is he worth dying for?"

you didn't hesitate. "yes."

prewett lowered his wand slightly. "take him and go. next time we meet, i won't be merciful."

you didn't need to be told twice. grabbing regulus, you concentrated through your panic and apparated, the crushing darkness a welcome escape from the battlefield.

the safe house was small, hidden deep in unplottable woods that had belonged to the yaxley family for generations. you'd brought regulus here instead of returning to his old home—walburga would have summoned the dark lord immediately, and neither of you could face him in this condition.

for three days, regulus drifted between consciousness and delirium as you worked tirelessly to heal him, applying every healing charm and potion you knew. your hands shook so badly you spilled more than you used, but gradually, his color improved, and his breathing steadied.

on the fourth day, he finally woke properly, eyes focusing on you as you changed the bandages on his chest.

"y/n," he rasped, throat dry from disuse. "where—?"

"safe house," you answered, helping him sip water from a cup. "no one knows we're here."

his eyes widened. "the dark lord—"

"thinks we're dead, or captured. i don't know. i haven't contacted anyone."

regulus struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wounds. "are you insane? he'll kill us both when we return."

"then we don't return," you said simply.

he stared at you as if seeing you for the first time. "what are you saying?"

you sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. for days, you'd been running on fear and determination, sleep coming only in brief snatches between tending to his wounds and jumping at every sound, convinced that death eaters would burst through the door at any moment.

"i'm saying i watched you nearly die, reg. i stood over your body, ready to die protecting you." your voice cracked. "and i realized something—i don't want to do this anymore. any of it."

"we don't have a choice," he said, but the words lacked conviction.

"there's always a choice." you took his hand, turning it over to expose the dark mark, stark against his pale skin. "this doesn't define us unless we let it."

he was quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the mark. "i've been... researching things. about him. about what he's done to ensure he can't die."

you went still. "what do you mean?"

"horcruxes," he whispered, the word itself seeming to darken the room. "he's made horcruxes, y/n. i don't know how many, but at least one."

the term was vaguely familiar from obscure texts in your family's library—the darkest of magic, splitting one's soul through murder to achieve a twisted form of immortality.

"how do you know this?"

"kreacher," he replied. "the dark lord borrowed him for something. when he returned, he was... different. traumatized. it took weeks to get the full story out of him."

regulus's eyes met yours, burning with an intensity you hadn't seen in months. "he's hidden one in a cave, protected by inferi and poison. i think i can get to it, destroy it."

"and then what? he has others, you said so yourself."

"then at least i've done something right." his hand gripped yours tightly. "something to balance the scales, even a little."

you recognized the look on his face—the same determination he'd shown when declaring he would become the person sirius had refused to be, when mastering particularly difficult spells, when promising to always find his way back to you.

"you're planning to die," you realized, voice barely audible.

he didn't deny it. "someone has to start dismantling him, piece by piece. why not us?"

"us?" your heart hammered against your ribs. "no, reg. just you, right? that's what you're planning."

his silence was answer enough.

"you fucking coward," you hissed, tears springing to your eyes. "you were going to leave me behind."

"to protect you!" he argued, reaching for you as you pulled away. "y/n, please—"

"no." you stood, putting distance between you. "every time i think we're in this together, you make decisions without me. you plotted this while lying beside me at night, didn't you? planned your noble sacrifice while watching me sleep?"

regulus struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from weakness. "it's not like that."

"then what is it like? explain it to me, reg. explain how abandoning me is somehow an act of love."

"because i can't watch you die!" he shouted, the outburst clearly costing him as he grimaced in pain. "i can't let you walk into that cave knowing you won't come out."

you stared at each other across the small room, both breathing heavily.

"but you expect me to keep living after you're gone?" you asked finally, voice small. "how is that fair?"

he had no answer for that.

three weeks passed in tense coexistence. regulus grew stronger daily, and with each improvement in his condition, the inevitable confrontation loomed larger between you.

you took turns sleeping in the single bed, the other keeping watch from a worn armchair by the window. you hunted in the woods for food, set protective enchantments, and lived like fugitives—which, in truth, you were.

on the twenty-third day, regulus found you sitting by the small stream that ran near the cabin, skipping stones across the surface with aggressive flicks of your wand.

"i've been thinking," he said, lowering himself carefully beside you.

"dangerous pastime for you," you replied, not looking at him.

he ignored the jab. "what if there's another way? not just destroying one horcrux, but finding information about all of them. something we could pass to someone who could actually defeat him."

you finally turned to him. "like who? dumbledore?"

regulus grimaced. "perhaps. or someone in the order."

"your brother," you guessed.

he nodded reluctantly. "sirius would know who to trust."

the idea of seeking help from the people you'd been raised to despise—blood traitors, muggle-lovers—should have been repulsive. instead, it felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long.

"so what's your plan now?" you asked.

"we still need to get the horcrux. but instead of... what i planned before, we find a way to substitute a fake, leave a message." his eyes met yours, hesitant but hopeful. "together."

you studied him—the boy you'd grown up with, the young man you'd fallen in love with, the death eater you'd followed into darkness. his features were so familiar you could trace them in your sleep, yet something had shifted in him, something fundamental.

"when did you start planning this rebellion?" you asked softly.

regulus looked away, watching the stream's gentle current. "i think it started the day sirius left. i was so angry with him—for abandoning the family, for choosing potter over us, for leaving me behind." he paused. "but part of me envied him. his certainty. his courage."

you reached for his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. "and now?"

"now i understand why he had to go." he turned his hand to capture yours. "i just wish i hadn't waited so long to follow his example."

the evening air was cool against your skin, the setting sun painting the trees in gold and amber. in that moment, despite everything, a fragile hope bloomed in your chest.

"if we do this," you said slowly, "there's no going back. we'll have to disappear afterward—change our names, leave the country maybe."

regulus nodded. "i know."

"your mother will disown you."

"probably."

"we might die anyway."

his smile was sad but genuine. "at least it would be on our terms."

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "no more solo heroics, reg. we fight together or not at all. promise me."

"i promise," he whispered, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of new beginnings.

memories swam through your consciousness like shards of broken glass—jagged, cutting, but unmistakably real. your bodies tangled desperately in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the very air seemed to suffocate around you. his mouth hot against your skin, leaving marks that would linger for days. whispered promises exchanged in the darkness, reckless and dangerous and impossibly sweet. your fingers intertwined with his at his father's funeral, that subtle pressure the only thing keeping you both anchored while walburga black's theatrical grief echoed through the mausoleum. stolen moments in forgotten corners of the library, knees pressed together beneath ancient tables, the pretense of accidental contact abandoned long ago.

and now this—your first real breaking point. bitter winter had seized hogwarts in an unforgiving grip, the castle corridors as frigid and unforgiving as the growing chasm between you and regulus over the past weeks.

you tracked him to an abandoned classroom on the fifth floor after he'd deliberately avoided you for nine agonizing days. you slammed the heavy oak door with such violence that dust rained from the ceiling, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the empty room.

"what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you demanded, voice raw with barely contained rage, each word scraping your throat like sandpaper.

regulus didn't even look up from his book, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly beneath his immaculate robes. "nothing that concerns you anymore. get out."

"bullshit," you snarled, storming toward him, blood roaring in your ears. "you've been avoiding me for over a week. you switched patrol schedules without telling me. you're sitting with rosier and his death eater groupies at every fucking meal. what happened to 'nothing will change between us, y/n'? was that just another convenient lie?"

he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against stone, his movement so violent the book tumbled forgotten to the floor. "maybe i'm finally tired of pretending."

"pretending what, exactly?" your voice dropped dangerously.

"that whatever this is—" he gestured sharply between you, disgust evident in every line of his body, "—isn't a fucking liability. avery saw us in hogsmeade last weekend. he's asking questions. making comments."

"so fucking what?" you challenged, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. "afraid daddy's little spy will tell the family their precious heir is banging me?"

something dark and dangerous flashed across his face. "you know that's not what this is about."

"do i?" your laugh was caustic enough to burn. "because from where i'm standing, it looks exactly like you're ashamed of me. the second anyone whispers, you bolt like a fucking coward."

"i'm trying to protect you, you idiot!" he shouted, composure finally shattering.

"protect me? fucking protect me?" you screamed back, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back against the desk. "don't insult my intelligence with that bullshit! you're protecting yourself. your reputation. your precious fucking legacy."

regulus straightened, fury transforming his aristocratic features into something almost unrecognizable. "you think i give a single solitary fuck about any of that?"

"yes! i absolutely fucking do!" you shoved him again, harder this time, both hands connecting with his chest with enough force to make him wince. "ever since sirius walked out, you've been desperate to be the perfect black son. the perfect slytherin prince. the perfect little death eater in training. it's fucking pathetic to watch."

his hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, fingers curling brutally around your wrist. "don't you dare talk about things you don't understand," he hissed, voice dropping to something lethal and quiet.

"i understand perfectly," you spat, wrenching your arm free with enough force to leave marks. "your mother's got her claws so deep in you that you can't even think for yourself anymore. you're nothing but her puppet."

"and you're living in a fucking fantasy world," he snarled, backing you against the wall, his face inches from yours. "you think we have actual choices? that we can just walk away from our families? from who we are? from what's expected of us? look what happened to sirius—disowned, cut off, living off potter's charity like a stray dog."

"at least he's free!" you screamed, throat burning with the force of it. "at least he's not regurgitating vile pureblood supremacy bullshit to impress his fucking death eater friends!"

regulus's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing to dangerous slits, his pupils blown wide with rage. "is that what you think this is? that i'm playing some kind of game? that i don't believe any of it?"

"the regulus i knew wouldn't," you said, voice dropping to something hollow and cold.

"then you never knew me at all," he replied, each word precise and cutting. "i believe in preserving our world. our traditions. our bloodlines. our magic. from people who would destroy everything that makes us who we are."

you stared at him, genuine revulsion twisting your features. "listen to yourself. you sound exactly like your fucking mother."

"don't talk about my mother," he growled, the muscle in his jaw working furiously as he crowded you further against the wall.

"why the hell not?" you challenged, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered painfully against your ribs. "afraid i'll tell you the truth? that she's a hateful, cruel, manipulative bitch who—"

his fist slammed into the wall beside your head with enough force to crack the ancient stone, making you flinch despite your determination not to show fear. "shut your fucking mouth."

"or what?" you taunted, adrenaline making you reckless. "going to hex me, black? show me what you've been learning from your new friends? what dark curses has bellatrix been teaching you?"

"you have no idea what i'm capable of," he threatened, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, somehow more terrifying than his shouting.

"i know exactly what you're capable of," you countered, trembling with fury. "cowardice. conformity. following orders like a good little soldier while pretending you have no choice."

something dangerous shifted behind his eyes. "i'm not my fucking brother."

"no," you agreed, delivering the final blow with deliberate cruelty. "you're not half the man he is. and you never will be."

the words hung suspended between you, a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. for a heartbeat, pure hatred flashed across his perfect features—then his mouth crashed against yours with bruising force.

the kiss wasn't passion—it was warfare. all teeth and anger and punishment, his hands roughly tangling in your hair as he backed you brutally against the wall. you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, viciously satisfied when he hissed in pain against your mouth. his response was to grab both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with enough force to leave marks.

"is this what you wanted?" he growled against your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw with bruising intensity. "to push me until i lost control?"

you laughed against his lips, the sound hollow and mocking. "fuck you, regulus."

"that seems to be the idea," he shot back, his free hand moving to your tie, yanking it loose with such violence that buttons scattered across the stone floor.

you wrenched your hands free from his grip, shoving him back only to grab his expensive robes and drag him closer again. your nails dug into his scalp as you kissed him, pouring every ounce of rage and frustration and heartbreak of the past weeks into it until you tasted blood and weren't sure whose it was.

he lifted you against the wall with a strength that surprised you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as his teeth found the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to mark you as his. you retaliated by dragging your nails down his back, feeling the fabric tear under your fingers.

"i fucking hate you," you gasped as his mouth moved lower, not meaning it but needing to say it anyway.

his hand slid roughly under your skirt, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave perfect crescent-shaped bruises. "no, you don't," he countered, voice raw with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "you hate that you still want me anyway."

you pulled back just enough to look him directly in the eyes, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "you're destroying everything we could have been."

"and you're asking for things i can never give," he countered, eyes dark with desire and fury and something that might have been despair. "things that would get us both killed."

"then give me this," you demanded, pulling him back to you with desperate hands. "make me forget for one fucking minute why i'm so goddamn angry with you."

he didn't need to be told twice. his mouth reclaimed yours with renewed desperation, one hand braced against the wall beside your head while the other explored with possessive intent. you worked frantically at his belt buckle, movements clumsy and urgent with anger-fueled desire.

a silencing charm went up with a sharp flick of his wand—wordless magic that reminded you how powerful he truly was beneath the carefully controlled exterior. your school robes hit the floor moments later, his following quickly after.

there was nothing gentle about what followed—nails leaving scarlet trails across sweat-slicked skin, teeth marking territory neither of you could openly claim, anger transforming into something else entirely without losing its jagged edge. every touch was a challenge, every kiss a battle neither of you was willing to concede, every movement a declaration of ownership that would leave marks for days after.

when it was over, you both slid to the cold stone floor, backs against the wall, breathing ragged and uneven in the sudden silence. your uniform was ruined beyond magical repair, his perfect hair a wild mess from your punishing fingers. purple bruises were already blooming across your collarbone, matched by deep scratches down his pale back.

"this doesn't fix a goddamn thing," you said finally, voice raw and unfamiliar to your own ears.

he glanced sideways at you, something unreadable flickering in the stormy depths of his eyes. "i know."

but you both knew you'd end up here again—fighting, breaking, fucking and coming together in the most destructive way possible. it was easier than facing the truth neither of you could escape: that you were standing on the side of a war that was coming whether you were ready or not, and neither of you knew how to build a bridge across that impossible divide to the side you were meant to be on.

the cave was exactly as kreacher had described—dark, foreboding, reeking of old magic that clung to your skin like oil. the sea crashed violently against jagged rock faces, spray hitting your cheeks like tears as you stood at the entrance, breath caught in your throat.

regulus stood beside you, his face marble-pale in the moonlight. without speaking, he drew a silver knife from his robes and sliced his palm open, barely flinching as blood welled up black in the darkness.

"blood sacrifice," he murmured, pressing his wounded hand against the rock. "he always did have a flair for the theatrical."

the stone dissolved beneath his touch, revealing a passage that led deeper into the cliff. you caught regulus as he swayed slightly, the blood loss and the magnitude of what you were attempting finally hitting him.

"we could still turn back," you whispered, though you knew neither of you would. there was something final about stepping into that darkness, like crossing a threshold you could never return from.

regulus's eyes found yours, that familiar constellation of gray and silver that you'd mapped a thousand times. "no," he said softly. "we finish this."

he reached for your hand, fingers interlacing with yours. his palm was slick with blood that now stained your skin too—a fitting metaphor for everything you'd shared.

the passageway opened to reveal an underground lake so vast the opposite shore was lost in shadow. the water was unnaturally still, a black mirror reflecting nothing. suspended in the center was a small island, a faint greenish glow emanating from its surface.

"don't touch the water," regulus warned, repeating kreacher's instructions as he searched along the edge until he found an invisible chain.

the boat that emerged from the depths was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. you squeezed in together, your body pressed against his in a way that would once have made your heart race for entirely different reasons. now, all you felt was dread, thick and choking.

"i'm scared," you admitted as the boat moved silently toward the island. below the surface, pale shapes drifted like ghosts—faces frozen in silent screams, hands reaching upward.

regulus's arm tightened around you. "i know. me too."

"what if we fail?"

"then at least we tried." his voice was steady, but you felt the rapid flutter of his pulse where your head rested against his neck. "at least we chose something different than what was chosen for us."

the boat bumped gently against the island. at its center stood a basin atop a pedestal, filled with a luminous green potion. within its depths, you could just make out the golden gleam of the locket.

regulus approached first, circling the basin with cautious steps. you followed, drawing from your pocket the duplicate you'd spent weeks creating—an exact replica, indistinguishable from the original except for the soul fragment it didn't contain. inside was the note regulus had written, his final act of defiance.

"i'll drink it," he said, conjuring a crystal cup.

you grabbed his wrist. "no. we agreed—i'll make you drink it, no matter what happens."

his eyes met yours, a silent argument passing between you. "y/n—"

"you know what kreacher said. someone has to force the drinker to continue. if you start, you'll never finish." your fingers tightened around his wrist. "i need to be the one who stays clear-headed."

"and if i try to fight you?" he challenged. "if i hurt you?"

you smiled grimly. "i've been dueling you since we were children, reg. i know all your weaknesses."

he didn't smile back. instead, he pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and fear and fierce devotion. "i love you," he whispered against your mouth. "remember that, no matter what i say when the poison takes hold."

your throat constricted painfully. "i know."

the first cup went down easily. regulus grimaced at the taste but nodded for you to continue. by the third cup, his hands were trembling. by the fifth, he was on his knees.

"stop," he gasped, pushing weakly at your hand as you brought the sixth cup to his lips. "please, i can't—"

"you have to," you said, your voice breaking as you forced the liquid down his throat. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but you have to keep drinking."

by the eighth cup, he was screaming, begging you to stop, his body convulsing with pain. tears streamed down your face as you continued, cup after cup of poison pouring between his lips.

"it burns," he sobbed after the tenth cup, curling into himself on the cold stone. "make it stop, please make it stop."

"just a little more," you whispered, your hands shaking so badly you nearly spilled the eleventh cup. "please, reg, just a little more."

the twelfth cup brought hallucinations. regulus stared in horror at something you couldn't see, scrambling backward until he nearly fell off the edge of the island.

"no, not her, please not her," he begged, reaching out toward nothing. "take me instead!"

"who?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what horrific visions the poison was conjuring.

his eyes found yours, but you weren't sure he recognized you anymore. "y/n," he whimpered. "they're torturing her. please, stop hurting her!"

your heart shattered as you realized he was watching you being tortured, some vision of what might happen if you were caught. with trembling hands, you forced the thirteenth cup between his lips.

the fourteenth cup brought silence—a terrible, unnatural stillness as regulus collapsed onto his back, eyes open but unseeing, chest barely moving with shallow breaths. for one terrible moment, you thought he was dead.

"reg?" you dropped to your knees beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him. "regulus?"

no response.

the last cup glittered mockingly in the basin. with shaking hands, you collected it and turned back to regulus. his lips were blue now, his skin ashen. when you lifted his head onto your lap, it lolled lifelessly.

"last one," you whispered, tilting the cup against his unresponsive mouth. the potion dribbled down his chin, and you frantically wiped it back up, making sure every drop passed his lips. "please stay with me. please."

as the basin emptied, you reached inside and grabbed the locket, quickly replacing it with the fake. the horcrux felt unnaturally heavy, throbbing with malevolent energy against your palm. you shoved it deep into your pocket, your attention immediately returning to regulus.

his breathing had grown so shallow it was almost imperceptible. his pulse, when you pressed trembling fingers to his neck, was erratic and weak.

"water," he rasped suddenly, the word barely audible. "so thirsty."

you remembered kreacher's warning about the lake—how touching the water would wake the inferi. but regulus looked seconds from death, his lips cracked and bleeding.

"aguamenti," you whispered, pointing your wand at the cup. nothing happened. you tried again, more desperately. still nothing. some magic in the cave was preventing the spell from working.

regulus's hand weakly clutched at your robes. "water," he pleaded again, his voice a dry rattle.

panic rose in your throat as you looked from his dying face to the still black lake surrounding you. there was water everywhere, just out of reach, just beyond safety.

"i'm going to get you out of here," you promised, attempting to lift him. his body was deadweight in your arms, and you staggered under it. "just stay with me, reg."

you half-dragged, half-carried him toward the boat, his feet trailing limply behind. each labored breath he took sounded like it might be his last, his chest barely rising.

"stay with me," you begged, lowering him into the boat with trembling arms. "don't you dare leave me here alone."

his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain. "so thirsty," he whispered again.

the boat began its silent journey back across the lake. regulus's breathing grew more labored with each passing second, his skin taking on a bluish tinge. terror clawed at your throat as you realized he wouldn't make it to shore without water.

in desperation, you conjured a small cup from thin air and, with trembling hands, reached over the edge of the boat toward the dark water.

regulus's hand shot out with surprising strength, grabbing your wrist. "no," he rasped. "inferi."

"you'll die," you choked out, tears blurring your vision.

his fingers weakened around your wrist. "better me than both of us."

"no," you growled, pulling your hand back. "we live together or die together, remember? that was the promise."

you pointed your wand at the water, preparing to cast aguamenti once more in hopes that away from the island, the spell might work—

the surface of the lake exploded.

pale, bloated hands erupted from the water, grabbing at the sides of the boat. sightless eyes and gaping mouths emerged as the inferi pulled themselves up, waterlogged bodies hauling toward you with unnatural strength.

you raised your wand, remembering kreacher's terrified whispers. "incendio!" you screamed.

flames burst from your wand, but the inferi kept coming, untroubled by ordinary fire. more and more broke the surface, hands reaching for regulus's limp form, for your ankles, for the edges of the boat that was now taking on water.

panic surged through you, clarifying your thoughts. this wasn't ordinary darkness, so ordinary fire wouldn't suffice.

"fiendfyre!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the cavern walls.

cursed flames exploded from your wand—serpents and chimeras and dragons made of fire, roaring as they engulfed the inferi. the heat was tremendous, scorching your face even as it kept the undead at bay. you'd never cast the spell before, had only read about it in the darkest books in your family's library, and you could feel it fighting your control, hungry to consume everything.

the boat lurched as more inferi attacked from below. water sloshed over the sides, soaking your robes, regulus's unmoving body. his eyes were closed now, his breathing imperceptible.

"no, no, no," you sobbed, trying to maintain the fiendfyre while checking his pulse. nothing. "reg, please!"

with a desperate cry, you directed the cursed fire in a circle around the boat, creating a barrier the inferi couldn't penetrate. the flames reflected off the black water, bathing regulus's deathly pale face in orange light.

you pressed your ear to his chest. silence. nothing.

"don't you dare," you whispered fiercely, starting compressions on his chest. "don't you dare leave me."

between compressions, you breathed into his mouth, tasting the poison still on his lips. around you, the fiendfyre roared, consuming inferi that still tried to reach you. the heat was suffocating, but you didn't stop.

one minute passed. two. regulus remained still beneath your desperate ministrations.

"please," you begged, your voice breaking. "i love you. please come back."

you brought your hands down on his chest one final time, a sob tearing from your throat—

and regulus gasped, water and potion spewing from his mouth as he convulsed beneath you. you turned him onto his side, supporting his head as he retched weakly, his body trembling violently.

"that's it," you encouraged through tears, "breathe. just breathe."

the boat bumped against the shore of the cave. with strength you didn't know you possessed, you hauled regulus out, dragging him toward the entrance while maintaining the fire shield behind you. the inferi followed to the edge of the water but could go no further.

the moment you crossed the threshold of the cave, you let the fiendfyre die, collapsing beside regulus on the rocky shore. the horcrux in your pocket pulsed like a malignant heart.

regulus's breathing was shallow but steady, his pulse weak but present. his eyes fluttered open, finding yours in the moonlight.

"you saved me," he whispered, voice wrecked from screaming and nearly dying.

you pressed your forehead to his, tears falling onto his face. "always."

three days later, regulus could finally stand without assistance. the cave had taken something from him—a vitality that had always been present even in his darkest moments. his face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than ever, eyes haunted by whatever visions the poison had shown him.

"we should contact sirius," you said as you changed the bandages on his hand where he'd cut it for the blood sacrifice. the wound refused to heal properly, as if tainted by dark magic. "the horcrux needs to be destroyed."

regulus nodded absently, staring out the window of the safe house. "he won't believe it's really me. i'll need to tell him something only i would know."

you finished wrapping his hand and sat beside him on the narrow bed. "what will you tell him?"

a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "about the time i caught him sneaking out to meet that muggle girl from the village. he thought our parents never knew, but i covered for him. told them the sounds they heard were me practicing dueling in my room."

you raised an eyebrow. "you never told me that story."

"some secrets aren't mine to tell." his good hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "even from you."

the statement hung between you, loaded with unspoken meaning. you knew regulus still kept parts of himself locked away—what he'd seen in those poison-induced visions, the full extent of what he'd done as a death eater, the deepest fears that woke him screaming in the night.

"i've been thinking," he said finally. "about what comes next."

your heart stuttered. "and?"

"we can't run." his eyes met yours, steady and sure despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "not yet. there's more to be done."

you'd expected this, had seen the determination building in him as his strength returned. still, fear coiled in your stomach. "we barely survived stealing one horcrux."

"i know." he squeezed your hand. "but we know things now—about him, about how he operates. information the order could use."

"you want to become spies," you said flatly.

regulus didn't flinch from the accusation. "i want to fix what i helped break."

you stood, pulling your hand from his, and paced the small room. "we've already taken a stand. we stole his horcrux. isn't that enough?"

"would it be enough for you?" he challenged. "if our positions were reversed, would you be content with one act of rebellion before disappearing?"

the answer stuck in your throat because you both knew the truth. neither of you were built to run, not really. you'd been raised as warriors—the wrong side, perhaps, but warriors nonetheless.

"we'd have to go back," you said, the realization washing over you like ice water. "pretend nothing's happened. face him."

regulus nodded grimly. "it would be dangerous. if he suspects, even for a moment..."

"he'd kill us. but not quickly." you wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the summer heat. "we'd beg for death long before he granted it."

"i won't ask this of you," regulus said softly. "this is my choice. you can still leave, find somewhere safe—"

"don't," you cut him off. "don't you dare suggest we separate now."

he stood, wincing at the effort, and crossed to where you stood. his hands, one bandaged and one bare, came to rest on your shoulders. "i'm trying to protect you."

"and i'm trying to make you understand that i don't want protection if it means watching you walk into death alone." your voice broke on the last word.

his forehead came to rest against yours, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing between you. "we might both die."

"everyone dies," you whispered. "but not everyone gets to choose what they die for."

regulus's arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest where his heart beat steadily, a miracle after how close you'd come to losing him. "we contact sirius first," he said. "get the horcrux somewhere safe. then we return—bereaved cousins who got lost after a raid gone wrong."

you nodded against his chest. "they'll be suspicious."

"let them," he said with a hint of the old black arrogance. "they've always underestimated both of us."

that night, regulus wrote the letter to his brother—carefully worded, with just enough personal details to prove his identity but vague enough that if intercepted, it wouldn't immediately condemn you both. you added your own note, explaining who you were, why sirius should trust what his estranged brother was telling him.

"do you think he'll help?" you asked as regulus sealed the envelope.

"sirius has his faults," he replied, "but he's never lacked courage. and he loves a good rebellion."

you sent the letter with a nondescript owl, then began preparing for what would be the performance of your lives. the horcrux remained hidden in a magically sealed box beneath the floorboards, waiting for sirius's response.

regulus came to bed late that night, sliding under the covers beside you. you turned to face him in the darkness, tracing the sharp lines of his face with gentle fingers.

"scared?" you asked.

"terrified," he admitted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "but certain."

you moved closer, resting your head on his chest where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. "we should practice our story. where we've been, what happened during the raid."

"tomorrow," he murmured, fingers threading through your hair. "tonight, just... be here with me."

you understood what he wasn't saying—that these moments of peace might be your last, that tomorrow began a dangerous game with your lives as the stakes. so you pressed closer, memorizing the feel of him, safe and whole beside you.

"i keep thinking about what you said in the cave," regulus whispered after a long silence. "about living together or dying together."

you tensed slightly. "i meant it."

"i know." his arms tightened around you. "that's what scares me the most. not dying, but the thought of taking you with me."

"it's not your choice to make," you reminded him gently.

he was quiet for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. then: "in the cave, when the poison... there were visions."

you waited, letting him find the words at his own pace.

"i saw him winning," regulus continued, voice barely audible. "the world under his rule. no resistance left. and you—" his voice broke. "you were still alive, but not... not really. he kept you as an example of what happens to traitors. you begged me to kill you."

your breath caught in your throat. "it wasn't real."

"it felt real." his hand found yours in the darkness, clutching like a lifeline. "i couldn't save you. i tried, but i couldn't reach you."

you propped yourself up on one elbow, finding his eyes in the dim light. "it was the poison talking. using your fears against you."

"my greatest fear," he corrected. "losing you. failing you."

"you won't," you said with more confidence than you felt. "we're smarter than him. than all of them."

his smile was sad in the moonlight. "intelligence isn't always enough in war."

"then we'll be lucky too." you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. "now sleep. we have work to do tomorrow."

as regulus's breathing evened out beside you, sleep eluding you. the weight of what you were about to attempt pressed down like a physical thing. spying on the dark lord himself, walking back into the snake pit you'd so narrowly escaped—it was madness.

but the alternative—running, hiding, leaving others to fight while you sought safety—felt like a different kind of death. so you closed your eyes and planned, mentally preparing for the performance of your life, and hoped that somewhere in england, sirius black was reading his brother's letter and believing.

sirius's response came three days later, delivered by a different owl than the one you'd sent—a precaution you appreciated. the note was brief, unsigned, and written in a code you and regulus had created as children:

number twelve, grimmauld place. midnight. come alone. bring proof.

you stared at the address in disbelief. "he's using your childhood home as a safe house? is he insane?"

regulus's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "it's actually brilliant. the last place anyone would look for order members is a black family residence. and the protective enchantments are ancient—stronger than anything they could cast themselves."

regulus burned the note after reading it, watching the ashes float away on the breeze. "he always was dramatic."

"are you sure you should go alone?" you asked, anxiety churning in your stomach. "what if it's a trap?"

he shook his head. "it's not. only sirius would know to use this particular code."

"still," you insisted, "i should come with you."

"someone needs to stay with this," regulus countered, gesturing to the box containing the horcrux. "if something happens to me, you're the only other person who knows what it is, what it means."

you wanted to argue further, but the logic was sound. reluctantly, you nodded. "be careful. your brother might shoot first and ask questions later."

that night, you helped regulus prepare. he still looked too thin, too haunted to convincingly return to the death eaters, but you had time to build his strength back before facing the dark lord. this meeting was just the first step.

"if i'm not back by dawn," regulus said as he prepared to disapparate, "assume the worst. take the horcrux and run. don't try to find me."

you gripped the front of his robes. "don't say that."

"y/n," he said firmly, "promise me. promise you'll run if i don't return."

the request felt like swallowing glass, but you nodded. "i promise."

he kissed you then, deep and desperate, like a drowning man taking a final breath. "i love you," he whispered against your lips. "whatever happens, remember that."

then he was gone, leaving you alone with a piece of the dark lord's soul and hours to wait, each minute stretching like years.

you paced. you practiced dueling stances, defensive spells, anything to keep your mind occupied. you made tea you didn't drink and reorganized supplies you didn't need. and you watched the sky, counting stars to mark the passage of time.

one hour passed. two. three.

just as despair began to set in, a crack of apparition split the night. you spun, wand raised—

regulus staggered through the door, face pale but eyes bright with something you hadn't seen in years. hope.

"sirius?" you asked.

"he believed me." regulus sank onto the sofa, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "we talked for hours. he's taking the horcrux to dumbledore."

relief flooded you, making your knees weak. you sat beside him, taking his hand. "and then?"

"then we go back," he said simply. "we play our parts. we gather information. and we wait."

"for what?"

regulus looked at you, determination hardening his features despite his exhaustion. "for the moment we can help end him. once and for all."

you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, the weight of what lay ahead settling over you both like a shroud. there would be no running, no peaceful cottage in france. instead, you would walk willingly back into darkness, clinging to each other and the hope that someday, somehow, light would prevail.

three months passed like a fever dream.

you both returned to your respective homes, spinning tales of capture and narrow escape. the dark lord welcomed you back with suspicion that slowly eased as you proved your continued loyalty through raids and meetings. you became his perfect soldiers again—regulus the quiet, thoughtful strategist; you the unflinching executor of commands.

and all the while, you gathered information, passed it through elaborate channels to sirius, who funneled it to the order. small victories accumulated—intercepted attacks, saved lives, thwarted plans. tiny fractures in the dark lord's seemingly impenetrable armor.

you and regulus barely spoke in public, maintaining the appearance of mere acquaintances with shared history. but in shadows, in brief stolen moments, you held each other with the desperation of people who knew every touch might be the last.

"he suspects bellatrix," regulus whispered one night, lips against your ear in a darkened alcove at malfoy manor, where death eaters had gathered to celebrate a victory you had secretly helped minimize. "he's been testing her loyalty."

"good," you breathed back. "the farther his suspicion stays from us, the better."

regulus's hands tightened on your waist. "something big is coming. he's planning something for samhain. i haven't been able to learn what."

"i'll try to get it from rosier," you promised. "he talks when he drinks."

the clock struck midnight, your signal to separate before anyone noticed your absence. regulus pressed a quick, hard kiss to your lips before melting into the shadows, leaving you alone with the phantom pressure of his touch and the ever-present fear that each parting might be final.

two weeks later, your worst fears began to materialize.

it started with small things—sideways glances from other death eaters, conversations that stopped when you entered rooms, being excluded from certain meetings. then came the subtle tests—requests for information you shouldn't have had, invitations to express opinions on topics designed to reveal sympathy for the other side.

"he knows," you told regulus during a rushed meeting in knockturn alley, both of you disguised with complex glamour charms. "or at least, he suspects."

regulus's face, altered though it was, couldn't hide his concern. "we need to run. now, before it's too late."

"we can't," you argued. "the samhain plan—we still don't know what it is. we can't leave until we warn the order."

"y/n," he grasped your shoulders, "listen to me. i've seen what he does to traitors. we've both seen it. if he catches us—"

"two more days," you pleaded. "rosier invited me to his estate tomorrow night. he'll be drinking, celebrating. i can get the information then."

regulus looked torn, fear warring with determination on his face. finally, he nodded. "two days. then we disappear, whether we have the information or not."

you sealed the agreement with a kiss, ignoring the dread pooling in your stomach. "two days," you echoed.

the next night found you at rosier's manor, dressed in formal robes, a practiced smile fixed on your face as you circulated among death eaters who might or might not suspect you of treachery. rosier, as predicted, was deep in his cups by midnight, holding court in a corner of the ballroom.

you approached him carefully, glass of untouched firewhiskey in hand. "quite the celebration," you remarked. "one might think we've already won the war."

rosier laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "closer than you think, yaxley. after samhain, the tide turns permanently."

"oh?" you raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest while your heart hammered. "another raid?"

"better." he leaned in, breath hot with alcohol. "we're going after the bones."

your blood ran cold. "bones? the family?"

he snickered. "the prophecy bones, you idiot. the ones that tie the ministry's magic together. he's found them—buried beneath the department of mysteries. we destroy those, and their whole network of protective enchantments falls."

horror flooded you. the ministry's defenses, while not impenetrable, were the last major barrier preventing the dark lord from seizing control of wizarding britain entirely. without them, thousands would die.

"brilliant," you managed, forcing admiration into your voice. "when?"

"samhain night," rosier slurred. "the veil between worlds will be thinnest. makes the old magic weaker, easier to—"

a hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you turned to find lucius malfoy, his gray eyes cold and assessing.

"yaxley," he said smoothly. "a word, if you please."

your instincts screamed danger, but refusing would only confirm whatever suspicions he harbored. with a practiced smile, you excused yourself from rosier and followed malfoy into a side room.

he closed the door behind you, and your stomach dropped at the soft click of a locking charm.

"interesting conversation you were having," malfoy remarked, circling you slowly. "curious about our plans, are you?"

you maintained your composure with effort. "just making conversation. rosier enjoys an audience."

"indeed." malfoy stopped directly in front of you. "particularly when he's been instructed to provide misinformation to suspected traitors."

ice formed in your veins. "i don't know what you're—"

the slap came without warning, snapping your head to the side. you tasted blood but didn't reach up to touch your stinging cheek. showing weakness now would be fatal.

"save your lies," malfoy hissed. "the dark lord knows all. he's known for weeks. you and the black boy—passing information, betraying your blood."

"you're mistaken," you said evenly, mind racing for an escape. your wand was in your sleeve, but malfoy's was already in his hand.

his smile was terrifying in its certainty. "am i? then you won't mind waiting here while i fetch regulus black. he arrived a few minutes ago, responding to an urgent summons—from you."

horror washed over you. "what have you done?"

"nothing yet," malfoy replied. "the dark lord wishes to handle you both personally. poetic, don't you think? lovers dying together."

you moved faster than thought, your wand sliding into your palm as you cast a nonverbal bombarda at the floor between you. the explosion threw malfoy backward, giving you precious seconds to blast the door open and run.

the ballroom erupted into chaos as you burst through, death eaters turning in surprise. you didn't stop, racing for the exit, needing to find regulus before—

"looking for someone?"

bellatrix's voice froze you mid-step. you turned slowly to find her standing at the center of the room, wand pressed to regulus's throat. he was on his knees, face bloody, eyes finding yours with a mixture of despair and desperate love.

"i'm sorry," he mouthed silently.

"how touching," bellatrix crooned, noticing the exchange. "my little cousin and his blood-traitor whore, reunited one last time."

death eaters formed a circle around you, wands raised. there was no escape—not for both of you. perhaps not for either of you.

your eyes locked with regulus's, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between you in seconds. you saw the decision form in his eyes a moment before he acted.

"y/n, run!" he shouted, driving his elbow backward into bellatrix's stomach.

she doubled over with a shriek of rage as regulus lunged for her wand. chaos erupted—spells flying, voices shouting. you fought your way toward him, desperate to reach him before—

the green light of the killing curse illuminated the room.

time seemed to slow as you watched regulus fall, his body crumpling to the marble floor like a marionette with cut strings. his eyes, still open, still looking at you, empty of the life and love that had defined them.

someone was screaming. distantly, you realized it was you.

rage unlike anything you'd ever known surged through you, fueling magic that burst from your wand without conscious thought. death eaters fell around you as you fought your way to regulus's body, gathering him in your arms, your tears falling onto his still face.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. "i'm so sorry."

spells impacted around you, but you barely felt them. nothing mattered now—not the war, not surviving, not anything but the hollow absence where your heart had been.

but as your fingers brushed regulus's wrist, you felt something impossible—a pulse. Faint, barely there, but present.

hope flared, desperate and wild. a plan formed in seconds—you needed to get him out, needed to make them believe you were both dead.

reaching into your pocket, you withdrew the vial you always carried—draught of living death, intended as a last resort if you were ever captured. with shaking hands, you pressed it to regulus's lips, tilting it so the potion slid down his throat.

"stay with me," you whispered. "please stay."

curses flew closer as death eaters regrouped. you had seconds, no more. casting the strongest shield charm you could manage, you prepared to disapparate, regulus's limp body clutched to your chest.

bellatrix's face appeared through the smoke, twisted with hatred. "you can't escape him," she snarled. "he'll find you anywhere you go."

the crushing darkness of apparition enveloped you. the last thing you saw was bellatrix's wand raising, a curse on her lips—

impact. pain beyond imagining tore through your body as you landed hard on cold, wet ground. splinched—badly—but you'd made it. you were outside the wards of the safe house sirius had mentioned.

regulus lay motionless beside you, heartbeat now imperceptible under the effects of the potion. blood—your blood—pooled beneath you both, black in the moonlight.

as consciousness slipped away, you thought you heard footsteps approaching, a voice you vaguely recognized shouting for help. but it might have been a dream—one last mercy before the end.

whether either of you would open your eyes again remained to be seen.

#marauders #marauders era #marauders story #marauders x reader #marauders oneshot #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x fem!reader #marauders x fem!reader #regulus #regulus deserved better #regulus x reader #marauders x y/n #angst #death eater #one shot #fanfiction #regulus black fanfiction

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lvrclerc · 8 hours ago

Text

✶ FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL

summary: the italian sun shines on you and oliver's summer idyll, but the month of august trickles away rapidly─ what will happen when it reaches an end? ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « will you love me in december as you do in may? »

F1 MASTERLIST | OB87 MASTERLIST

pairing: oliver bearman x f!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: summer romance, bittersweet, fluff, hopeful ending, reader has an anxiety disorder, use of y/n, oliver has an injury for plot purposes

note: requested here! first time writing for ollie so i'm kinda nervous, hope i did him justice! also there's not near enough fics of the '25 rookies it's scandalous

♫ like real people do - hozier, august - taylor swift, let it happen - gracie abram

THE LASTING WEIGHT on your shoulders was something you became accustomed to. It settled there long ago. The quickened breaths, the sharp sting behind your eyes almost comforting in its regularity. The clatter of your pen dropping to the floor during another restless study session and the ache in your ribcage as you fought for hopeless takes of serrated air no longer startled you. Your newly-appointed therapist told you, scribbling away on her notepad— “Maybe you need fresh air, time away from university.” As if sunlight could smooth out the tension etched into your bones.

That was what the seaside house was meant to be.

It wasn’t a cottage per se. Just a weather-worn brick-walled home tucked near the Italian coast, kissed by salt and sun and blue shutters faded to memory, ivy hugging the balcony tenderly. You rented it with the help of your parents, who insisted that you go on this trip, but the silence you were standing in was yours alone. You, twenty years old, burnt out, along with a diary you promised your therapist you’ll write in every day, from the soft, sunlit beginnings of May to the cold end of August.

The house in itself was as isolated as it could get, perched above the sea along eroded rocks and concealed from the nearest town and its tourists. It stood alone, in all likeness to you, waiting for inhabitation. The only hint of human life you noticed, as you mindlessly sipped your iced tea from the back doorway, sun warming your knees, was the distant outline of another house, a few kilometers down the coast. Far enough that it’d take a good ten-minute walk to reach it, but close enough so that you could discern the silhouette of a tall man standing in its overgrown backyard.

You didn’t linger much on it. He was but the ghost of civilization— a shadow at the edge of your retreat you weren’t ready to let back in. This was the time to center on your thoughts, peel back the numbness eating at your heart, and relearn yourself. You stepped back inside, glass empty, and didn’t think about him again.

At least, not then.

The month of May passed slowly, honey dripping down the rim of a jar. You mostly stayed in your little alcove of the world, letting the days stretch out in silence. Mornings were slow— toast with jam, milk coffee, the dog-eared pages of half-read books sitting on the sunlounger outside. You wrote in your diary about it, about how you’d paint your nails one day and chip them off the next, or how on other days you’d lie out on the balcony, the crash of the waves lulling you in and out of sleep. You watched the ivy grow and the sky change. For a while, it was nice, soft, and still.

But solitude, even chosen, eventually turns sharp at the edges. By the third week, the silence wasn’t so romantic: you started counting the hours between meals, pacing the kitchen tiles barefoot, and you reread your own diary entries even if you hadn’t spoken aloud in days. The stillness you once craved had started to feel like a trap— yet the worst of it was yourself: thoughts of precious hours you were wasting away instead of sitting at the desk of your dorm room haunted your boredom, similar to a ghost.

Which is why, now and then, when the breeze shifted just right, you found your gaze drifting down a few centimeters down the coast, toward the other house, and the man you suspected might still be there.

To the unknowing eye, you’re sure it could have looked unsettling, but truthfully, you didn’t have anything else to do but to observe. He was a welcoming presence, something that didn’t make you feel so secluded. Some days, the man would tinker with a bike for hours until the sun bled orange. Other times, he’d vanish with a towel slung over his shoulders and goggles in his hand, not returning until dusk. Occasionally, he’d mirror you, barefoot in the garden, basking in the sun. And sometimes—only sometimes—you swore he tilted his head upwards and caught your eyes. On those days, you always turned away first, slipped back inside, and retreated for the night.

Your personal game of people-watching stretched for a week or two before you spoke for the first time.

You spent the afternoon on a small, sheltered beach just a few minutes away from your house. The dry air had nipped at your skin just enough for it to become uncomfortable after a few hours, and the sun-turned—from warm to punishing—had your cheeks tight with the start of a sunburn. You packed up as the sky began to blush with the first hints of sunset, already fantasizing about the cool shade of your living room and the steady hum of the fan. It would have been glorious.

Would have, if you hadn’t locked yourself out.

You jiggled the handle once, twice, but nothing. Your towel slipped from your arms, and you cursed under your breath, pressing your forehead to the wooden door. Saltwater still clung to your skin, your hair stuck to the back of your neck, and the stupid key was sitting smugly on the kitchen counter inside.

A posh, British accent spoke from behind you. “Do you need some help?”

You turned, confused about the origin of the sudden voice, and there he was. The man from the neighboring house.

It was unmistakably him— there was just something about the tousled mess of brown, semi-curls falling in front of his face, the soft eyes crinkled at the corners with barely contained amusement. His skin, darkened by the sweep of summer, looked like it had soaked up every hour of its beginnings. There was familiarity in the delicate shape of him and the easy way he stood, towering over you. The towel in his hand was the same deep navy you’d seen slung over his shoulder days before. His gaze—sharp, steady, curious—felt exactly like it had when you’d caught him looking up at you.

“I, uh… I might?” You stumbled on your words as you answered.

He chuckled, leaning slightly against the fence in front of your house. “Locked yourself out?”

“I wish I could say no,” you nodded, making a noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh.

The man, who looked increasingly more boyish the more steps he took toward you, gripped the door handle. He twisted it a few times before kicking the bottom of the wooden plank and, before your stunned expression, it snapped open. He looked at you with a proud smile. “Don’t worry, people who rent this house usually don’t know about this trick.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Does that mean you come here often?”

Mortification crashed over you along with realization— you threw an accidental pick-up line at a complete stranger. A stranger who, objectively speaking, was very cute, yes, but still a stranger. You opened your mouth, already halfway through a flustered attempt to walk it back. “Wait— I didn’t mean that like— I wasn’t trying to—”

He let out a surprised, wheezy laugh. “No, no- you’re fine,” he said, grinning now. “I come here every summer, actually. I’m in the house further down the coast.” He seemed to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes and gave you a knowing smile. “My name’s Oliver, by the way.”

“I’m Y/N,” you replied. “I… I think I’ve seen you around. Sometimes.”

Oliver’s traits softened, and you could see the playful interest behind the darkness of his irises. “Yeah.” His voice dipped slightly. “I think I saw you, too.”

Both of you stood there with the hesitant awkwardness usually reserved for teenagers— which, to be fair, you weren’t far from. He couldn’t have been older than you, early twenties at most. The silence stretched until he announced he had to go, something about needing to work on his bike. You had to abstain to say I know.

Yet, before he could disappear completely around the corner, Oliver paused. He looked back over his shoulder. “If you ever want company, it’s just me down there. Come by whenever.” You didn’t have to add that you were alone as well. In a strangely comforting sort of way, it looked like he knew.

And it didn’t take you long to take him up on his offer.

It started when your trips to the beach began to align— first by coincidence, but then by something more deliberate. You came to realize that you and Oliver had claimed the same forgotten stretch of land where the sea kissed the rocks, and you drifted toward each other like its tide. At first, it was just run-ins: you, stretched out on your towels, half-asleep due to the sizzling heat; Oliver, standing over you, droplets of salt water falling from his hair onto your flushed cheeks. “What are you doing here?” you’d ask, squinting up at him.

“I like running,” he’d say with a shrug, before his characteristic, mischievous smile reached his lips once again. “And a dip after a run keeps me motivated.”

Oliver started sticking around. He’d keep the last of his water bottle to rinse the sand off your feet, sharing watermelon he’d always accidentally cut a little extra from. He would walk you home, and you’d lead him with slow, lazy steps, to drag the moment longer. Your laughter would echo against the rock and sea walls paving the way to your house, and he’d talk about little things—the birds and the heat—then about bigger things, how the ocean seems to always stay the same but feels different every year, for example. You’d match him, word for word, stories unfurling like waves, and miss him when he’d continue his way without you.

It wasn’t long before the space between your houses stopped mattering. One afternoon turned into an invitation to see the inside of his cluttered living room, and that was it. The next week, Oliver was sitting on your ivy-covered balcony, sipping homemade iced tea with your legs draped over his. Eventually, your days began to blur— his shirt left on the back of your chair, your books forgotten on his windowsill. You stopped counting whose house you were in until it became the house you were in together.

The month of May slipped into June in tentative brushes of the hand and peals of laughter lost to the warm air of summer nights. Oliver had become Ollie by the fifteenth—the nickname fell off your lips naturally—and you spent most, if not all, of your days in each other’s presence. The rhythm between you was almost domestic: you’d wake up and see his bare back at work in the kitchen along with the scent of coffee and discarded pans, or how you now knew his schedule by heart. He’d spend most of his Wednesdays and Fridays fixing up the old bike he’d found rusting in the garage, and he was partial to running on Saturdays. Swimming, however, was reserved for when you were with him. Any day. Every day, if he could have it.

By the time Ollie finished repairing the bike, the first month of summer was waning. One golden morning, with grease all over his fingers, he turned to you and asked if you wanted to visit the nearby town— a trip made easier now that the bike worked. To your own surprise, you said yes.

The town had become another stepping stone in whatever you and Ollie were building. The days spent weaving through the local market were your favorites, brushing past stalls of sun-ripened fruits and handmade trinkets, among which you both stumbled through clumsy Italian that vendors gently poke fun at you for. You’d mangle a greeting, and Ollie would butcher a question about apricots, and still, they’d smile like they knew what you were saying. You chuckled and asked him what the point of living in Modena was if he didn’t speak Italian. “My family’s still British, you know,” he answered. It only made you laugh harder, a sound he seemed to chase.

You never discussed the reason that brought you both to this isolated part of the Italian coast. It never came up, the questions drifted in the periphery— hinted at in the pauses between conversation, but never spoke out loud. It was a silent agreement: you didn’t ask, and neither did he.

But there was one evening, on the crumbling stone wall nearing the edge of town. Your legs were swinging gently over the drop— the cicadas had begun to quiet, the last smear of strawberry gelato clung to your fingertips, and the world was exhaling into night. Somewhere below, a dog barked once and fell quiet. That was when Ollie asked. “So… what brought you here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You wiped your fingers on a napkin that smelled faintly of lemon, tossing and turning the way you could shape your response in your head. “Uni,” you said finally. “Or… me, I guess. Everything just got really loud, and I could barely think about anything else. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating… setting myself up for failure before I even started, basically.”

Ollie nodded, yet no pity or needless apologies fell off his tongue. “My therapist sent me there to remember how to be a person again,” you added to his silence.

“What about you?” You quickly asked, hasty to get the attention off.

He looked at you, mouth agape in a desire to say something, but ultimately deciding against it. Long seconds passed before the British spoke again. “I race professionally, right now I’m in Formula One.” One look at your face was enough for him to understand you didn’t know anything about motorsports. He continued with a crooked smile. “I, uh… I crashed back in March. Nothing huge, but enough to knock me out for the season, apparently. The doctors told me to rest and take it easy.”

You glanced over, catching the way his profile softened in the lamplight. You had noticed his grimace after long days spent walking around, the painful stretches in his living room when he thought you were still deep in slumber. You never brought it up.

“No one tells you how hard that part is—” Ollie continued. “The not-doing-anything part. I figured I’d go somewhere familiar to make it better, you know?”

Taking your mind off an obsession, when you made it a part of yourself so integral you’re unable to define yourself outside of it, can feel similar to the tearing of a limb— it’s something you carry around, an itch you can’t scratch because your fingernails will start digging for blood. It’s something you knew all too well, it was the reason for your presence on this stone wall.

“Well,” you murmured. “I think you’re going to get into your car next season and show them all the talent they’d missed.”

Ollie huffed a laugh. “Thanks for believing in me, but the car isn’t even—”

“You worked on your bike. You can work on a car.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

He laughed, curls catching the breeze, nudging his knees with yours. “Then you’re going to make every teacher regret putting you in this state when you go back.”

“That’d be assuming they care.” You rolled your eyes with nothing but fondness. “You’re too nice for the ruthless world of university, Ollie.”

The realization came as gently as the brush of his fingers above yours: you hadn’t thought about it at all. The tint of your skin had darkened, moles and sun-born freckles dusted your shoulders, your voice had picked up hoarser inflections from laughing, salt stuck to you like a robe, and you hadn’t noticed the oppressing heaviness of your shoulder ever since you ran into Ollie. You noticed, though, with a pleasant warmness swirling in your chest, that it seemed to have vanished. You couldn’t recall the last time you felt like the air around you wasn’t enough for your lungs.

In that moment, as the sky bruised deep violet and you could still taste the faint hint of strawberry on your tongue, it didn’t really matter what had broken you both to get there. You were here now, and that was what mattered.

The bike ride back to your house was spent in a sleep-induced haze. Your arms were loosely wrapped around Ollie’s middle, and he was pedaling slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere else but to you. When you reached the front door, you didn’t ask. He just followed you inside, barefoot and spent, and slept in the spare twin bed across from yours. The window stayed open all night. You could hear the sea mixing with his breathing. For the first time in a while, sleep came easy.

June made way for July, arriving in harsh, blinding sunlight, and days that stretched lazily into midnight. With it came a quiet shift, the startling and fluttering understanding that you might want to kiss Oliver Bearman.

It wasn’t in theory, in some hypothetical sunset-glazed movie scene. You wanted to kiss the real him, your Ollie, the one on the stone wall: the boy who stole your sandals to water your neglected garden, the one who wrangled in catastrophic Italian with a vendor for a pack of cherries you craved, the same one who read aloud from whatever your liking had set upon to make fun of it, only to keep reading when you weren’t paying attention.

In the delicate dance of almosts that blossomed over the month of July, you allowed yourself to think he might want to kiss you, too.

The first time it happened, you were both locked out of his house— for a change. A tragic incident involving a missing key and a dinner reservation you were already late for had left you standing outside, your arms crossed, and his sheepish grin doing nothing to help the situation. Ollie suggested the bedroom window. You, naturally, thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

You’d both ended up clambering through the fragile wooden frame like teenagers sneaking in past curfew, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It was stupid, and maybe a little childish, but it was part of why it always felt so easy with Ollie. When it was your turn to hop off the ledge, he helped you, hands steady around your waist. His hands lingered there a moment too long and as laughter died down, leaving you breathless and dazed, something pulled you closer ever so slightly. Never close enough to break, however.

There was a second time, when Ollie brushed a stray strand of hair after you’d both ran from a summer shower and the touch warmed your forehead for hours. A third, when you fell asleep over each other in the garden during a heat-drenched day and you woke up with his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. There was a fourth, a fifth, an amalgamation of disarming instances during which your breath hitched in anticipation of what never seemed to come. When he caught you watching him, and never looked away.

The day you kissed him, you found yourself in a predicament you never thought would happen to you. Ollie had just leapt off the cliff.

There was no hesitation or second thoughts in the clean arc his body sliced through the air. The splash below was clean, and right when you thought he’d never find the surface again, his voice echoed upward, bright and breathless as he laughed. “Come on!” he shouted, waving at you. “It’s not even that high!”

You stood at the edge, toes curled against the rock, and you could only disagree with the brown-haired boy the way the water spiraled beneath you. “You’re insane. This is suicide.”

“Oh, you’re the one who climbed up there!”

“I climbed up to watch, not die!” you yelled back, heart hammering. “Also, aren’t you injured? Should you even be jumping off cliffs?!”

He shrugged. “The water’s deep enough.”

You glared, which only seemed to egg him on. “Come onnnn,” he complained. “You said you wanted to feel like a real person again, right? Nothing realer than that!”

Even in the lighthearted argument, you had to see the truth in what Ollie said. You had come to this quiet corner of the world to shake something loose inside of you, to try and find the pieces of yourself you misplaced among the tangy taste of tangerines and the soft mornings. This was the summer you were supposed to stop clenching your fists around fear, and to get rid of the anxious feeling lodged in your throat. Your heart had beaten loudly and unapologetically until now, what was slowing it down except for yourself?

So you took a breath. Two. Then a few steps back.

And jumped.

The fall was sharp, dizzying, and the scream that escaped your lungs was nothing short of horrified. Yet, laughter was wedged between the hiccups of it, and you broke the cold surface with a disbelieving gasp. Ollie was already swimming toward you— his eyes wide in wonder, and his hands reaching for your figure. “You did it!”

“I actually did it,” you sputtered.

Ollie’s hands found the dip of your waist under the water, steadying you against him. There were seconds of silence, filled with the splash of waves and your all too loud breathing. That was when his eyes dipped to your lips.

You hadn’t come there to find something as unreachable as love, and you especially hadn’t expected to fall for someone like Ollie, but somehow he had folded himself into your days and the smallest gaps of you— a placeholder until you could fill them yourself, you imagined. Still, you couldn’t envisage a version of your months without him, his voice, or the steadiness of the soul that comes with the brush of his fingers.

I jumped off a cliff, you thought. I can kiss Oliver Bearman.

So you did.

You surged forward before you could talk yourself out of it, arms slipping around his shoulders as your mouth crashed onto his in impatience. He stilled for only a second— more than enough to make you doubt your actions. But he kissed you back. Just as eager, the smile he put into it charmingly familiar. You could taste sea salt on his tongue, his sun-warmed lips moving hungrily against you, breathing your air and taking it away in the slow rocking of the waves.

You didn’t want it to end, but the lack of oxygen pulled you apart. Ollie’s forehead bumped against yours. “I was waiting for you to do that,” he murmured, dropping another quick kiss to your lips.

“Then you could’ve done it sooner!” You punched his shoulder with a laugh.

“I don’t know, I like it when you take the lead.”

You rolled your eyes, heat climbing up your neck, and dunked him into the water. You didn’t resist when he pulled you under.

The transition from July to August slipped from your attention, seawater between your fingers— impossible to hold onto but clung to your skin all the same. You barely noticed the days shifting; they blurred into one another with a sleepy sentimentality, each marked by rituals you and Oliver had grown to create. Mornings bled into slow breakfast where he’d sneak a bite of your toast before making his own, and you’d pretend to be mad about it even though you always saved the corner piece for him anyways.

There were afternoons spent with your ankles tangled together in the back gardens. He kept a bottle of your fragranced sunscreen in his bag. You knew what music to play when you both cooked dinner with the door open to let the cooler air of the evening sift through the kitchen. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it sickeningly romantic. It simply came as a natural progression, an obvious evolution in the most beautiful sense— like something that could last, if you let it.

You kissed more often, now, much to both of your delight. At first, it was shy, quick, smiling kisses stolen between absentminded conversations. The further you got used to it, the slower they became: curious, confident, eager to know more about each other in a way you couldn’t quite grasp before. Your hands knew each other’s mapped faces and bodies, your mouth recognized the other’s rhythm. Once, you kissed Ollie with your knees still scraped from a hike he’d convinced you to go to. Once, he kissed you beneath the pouring rain, soaked and giggling like children.

There were times you stayed over, and times he did the same, and it would just happen with no clear decision. Ollie would just end up asleep beside you, together beneath the light covers— somehow, even in deep slumber, his hands would always find yours, his breathing even and warm against your neck and lulling you to sleep.

You thought that maybe you had gotten too brave during your stay, enough to turn your cautiousness foolish, because you caught yourself believing this wouldn’t end. That it didn’t have to. August had felt achingly saccharine, it made you wonder where all that sweetness would go when it ended.

The last weeks trickled like sand in an hourglass in front of your eyes. The weight of each moment slipped past you, yet you tried nothing to catch them. It’s what hurt the most: you had all taken it for granted, you let yourself believe time could stretch forever for the sole reason it felt right. It wasn’t the truth, because the truth was in the dates printed in your calendar and the unread emails from your university. The suitcase under your bed, you carefully avoided.

Another year will start again soon. The patterns you persisted in peeling off—stress, anxiety, the pressure to perform until exhaustion and still look perfect—would be ready to claw their way back beneath your skin, circling you. Ollie knew it as well.

Neither of you said it out loud, yet the end was coming whether or not the words spilled out. It hovered just out of reach, a promise of winter in the chill of the end of summer. You’d catch him staring at the sea a little longer than usual, or watching you tie your hair up before journaling, memorizing the motion. You stopped taking pictures, and he stopped making plans for tomorrow. You still laughed, still kissed, and gripped the hours as if they weren’t running out. There was a grace to the silence— a fragile kind of pretending which somewhat felt like mercy.

But try as you might, pretending can never last long.

The sky was painted deep shades of violet and rust, cicadas humming low in the nature around the steps of the back porch you and Ollie were curled upon. His hand was brushing absent circles on your ankle, head resting between your thighs as your fingers curled in his locks. A pot of pasta was cooling in the kitchen. It should have been a perfect night.

You stared at the horizon, then at your chipped nail polish tangled in his hair. You don’t know what pushed you to ask, what made tonight different. The only thing you knew is that it would have happened nonetheless. “What happens when this ends?” It came out as something similar to a whisper.

Ollie’s fingers paused. He looked up at you, turning around completely, and there was nothing but expectancy in his dark irises.

“I was wondering when one of us would ask,” he answered, voice low.

You breathed out through your nose. No matter the number of times it happened to you, you never succeeded in hiding the tremor in your hands correctly. “I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not happening. I’m leaving because of uni. You’re leaving because of racing. We’ve both known that since the beginning.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah.”

“I just—” You paused, trying to find the thin breath you were holding onto. “I don’t know what happens next.” You looked at the crescent moons your nails had drawn on the inside of your palms. “I’m going back to school. There’s going to be deadlines and all-nighters and the pressure, and– it’s going to be hard to breathe. I don’t know how long it’s going to take before I… I slip again.”

Your voice cracked. “You never saw me like that, Ollie. You were lucky enough to get the version of me that wasn’t drowning, and I– I don’t know if you’d still want me if you did.” The confession came quiet and vulnerable, but you couldn’t linger on it when you had so many things to say and so little time. “And you’ll be racing again. You’ll have a whole world that doesn’t include this place, or me. I don’t expect you to hold space for me when everything changes.”

You were offering him a bright exit sign, the sole opportunity to be honest and to bring the sunset-colored haze you’d been navigating this relationship with down as softly as he could. There was no promise your heart would be spared the shock, but there was also no need to put it on display if it was the case.

Ollie stared at you for agonizing seconds. The traits of his face, the same you could trace with closed eyes, shifted into something different. It wasn’t fear, nor was it sadness, but a gentler thing that looked like something close to a quiet resolve. He took your hands into his, detaching each fingernail digging into your palm.

“I don’t know what happens either,” he admits, slowly, “and I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s going to look like. I just know I thought about it—about you—a lot. And…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Listen, I don’t need you to be okay all the time. I care about your stupid overthinking, the spirals, the bad habits that drive you crazy. All of it. That stuff’s not going to scare me off. I want you, not just the half of it I met this summer.”

“I’ll be racing, yeah,” he added with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve got time. I can make it.”

Ollie leaned in, just a little closer but enough so you could feel the warmth of his breath along the shape of your lips. “I don’t know what you’ll be like in December, but I want to find out.”

It broke the pressure behind your ribs, only for the burn to rise behind your eyes instead. There was a need in his voice that you hadn’t expected, or maybe was it its intensity. Ollie wasn’t asking you to be better, he was just asking you to stay.

“I want to find out,” he repeated, quieter, in the shape of a promise.

You tried to blink back the tears forming on your lashes, failing miserably. “Okay,” you whispered. Your voice gave up in the middle. “Okay.”

Ollie kissed you tenderly and unhurried, a gentle, wordless reassurance in the movement of his mouth against yours in which you sank, a ship in a storm. Summer was ending, yes, but the world wouldn’t be. This could still be something, and maybe it would.

You couldn’t guess what December would bring, and you didn’t know who you’d be when the skies turned grey and the noise returned. Yet, you hoped.

And for now, hoping was enough.

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szynkaaa · 7 months ago

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Just a gal and her Stone Monkey

this image pose template from here

HC since SWK cane change his size, the same applies for his Azure Dome form. So he can be as big as a mountain, or the size of a big yaoguai, or normal sized (whatever normal sized is for the Stone Monkey)

Much later on:

Slight NSFW under the cut

#szynkART #guess you can say he did eventually get that kiss on the lips #and much more than that #no one. absolutely no one:#me: why yes thank you for asking they did do the deed while he was in his Azure Dome form you're welcome #will I eventually make more suggestive art of Stone Monkey and Oz?#Stay tuned for more!#later. maybe. I make no promises #unreal how attracted I was to the giant stone monkey during the giant battle #starting to see the appeal in king kong I guess #cepheus baskerville #black myth wukong #black myth wukong oc #sun wukong #sun wukong x oc #sun wukong x reader #starfruit #former heroes who quit too late #fhwqtl

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solarsapphos · 24 days ago

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MOREEEE Im insane guys

#jwct #lab partners #labwhistle #brooklynn jwct #soyona santos #the handler #darius bowman #toxic yuri #I cant draw people kissing without making it silly guys #Im drawing a lot of lab partners i need to draw more raptor moms / whistlesnap to compensate #Solar maintain a consistent style challenge impossible #Its ok guys the more i draw them the better i get i promise i promise #Eventually #Maybe

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saintrosalyn · 5 months ago

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JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained.

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor.

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left.

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge.

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off.

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator.

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room.

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you?

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him.

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life.

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon.

Freedom.

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing.

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours.

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat.

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient.

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet.

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow.

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.”

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you.

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either.

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs.

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone.

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it.

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard.

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours.

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #ghost x you #ghost #simon ghost riley #reader is delulu in this

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libingan · 3 months ago

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—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #cod #cod mwii #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader fluff #cod fluff #simon riley x reader

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snail-day · 13 days ago

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Satoru doesn't do well with the idea of leaving you. Never has. Probably never will.

Even the short missions are enough to make him sulky, but the long ones? The ones where he’ll be away for days, maybe weeks? He turns into a whining mess. You wonder if he's always been like this, just never voiced it aloud to anyone before.

Packing takes three times longer than it should. Every time he tries to fold a shirt or zip his carry on, he ends up abandoning the task halfway through just to wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into the crook of your neck with a pitiful little whine.

"I don't wanna go," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, maybe saying it enough times might make the whole thing mission disappear. "You’re my little Pokémon, y'know? I should be able to just catch you in a ball and bring you with me."

You laugh, warm and breathless, reaching up behind you to card your fingers through his snowy hair. "You could try," you tease, and he groans dramatically, squeezing you tighter.

It’s not just joking, though. When you offer to come with him, he always gets a little quiet. A little stuck in his mind. Turning you around and pulling back just enough to look at you, and the way his bright blue eyes shimmer... God, it breaks your heart a little. He wants to say yes. You can see it in the way his hand trembles against your side. The way his pretty eyes scan your face. It's on the tip of his tongue.

But instead, he just shakes his head slowly, a wobbly little smile on his lips.

Because the thought of something happening to you, curse or no curse, makes his heart ache. Makes his mind wander a little too far for his liking.

What if he’s in the middle of a fight and someone targets you?

What if he’s too far away to reach you in time?

What if...?

"Can’t risk it," he finally says softly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hip, memorizing the feel of your soft skin. Maybe your scent will eventually be engrained in his mind. "You're... you’re everything, baby."

Already pulling you against his lean chest again, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, mumbling "I love you" over and over against the crown of your head. His palm rubbing up and down your back in loose patterns. You almost think he's tearing up.

"I love you. I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?" he murmurs between kisses to the top of your head. "Be safe. Call me if you even think something’s weird, kay? I’ll come running, promise."

You have to physically pry him off you just to get him to finish packing. And even then, he keeps glancing back at you every five seconds. Begging for one more hug. One more kiss. One more chance to touch you before he has to drag himself to the door.

By the time he actually gets to the door, he’s somehow hugging you again, despite your giggling protests, rocking you gently side to side in his arms, mumbling about how he’s going to miss you so bad he might just quit being a sorcerer and become your full-time house husband. (He’s only half joking.)

Finally, after a hundred kisses and whispered I love yous, he leans down one last time, nose brushing against yours, voice soft and almost trembling: "Be here when I get back, 'kay? I don’t wanna come home to a world without you."

But then, quieter, so quiet you nearly miss it he adds: "...And don’t... don’t forget about me either, yeah? Don’t find someone normal while I'm gone. Someone who doesn't leave. Someone who can give you the kind of life you deserve."

It’s said with a half-laugh, light and teasing, like he’s trying to play it off, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his voice wavers. That tiny, hidden crack in the foundation of Satoru Gojo: The fear that being the strongest might mean ending up the loneliest too.

And even as he finally forces himself to step away, flashing you that big, blinding smile. You catch the flicker of sadness he tries so desperately to hide. Because no matter how strong he is, when it comes to you, Satoru’s always afraid that someday you’ll realize you deserve more than a man who keeps having to leave.

#Angst friday #Some fluff #Based on my husband going on a work trip and his small complaints #😈 but I get the bed to myself #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #Gojo x reader #Gojo satoru x reader #Satoru x reader #Gojo satoru #Satoru gojo #Gojo #Satoru #Gojo jjk #jjk gojo

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stargirlygirl · 2 months ago

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imagine long-term bf katsuki being hung up on what engagement ring to buy you. he’s gnawing at his cheeks, constantly sighing and running his fingers through his hair for a couple of months, trying to find a ring that’s good enough for you.

after patrol, he browses every reputable jewellery store in tokyo, searching for your engagement ring. he takes pictures of every one he thinks might suit you and sends them to eijiro.

shitty hair: idk about this one man. diamonds are nice but y/n gives more garnet or ruby vibes

explosive: the fuck you mean? i have to get her diamonds

shitty hair: nah bro, you should get something that suits her. not every girl wants diamonds.

explosive: stfu i know what she wants better than you do

shitty hair: 🤷‍♂️ just my opinion man

you noticed immediately that katsuki was coming home later than he usually does. you didn’t say anything at first because maybe something came up, and he did seem really exhausted.

but as weeks turn into months, you become suspicious. what is it that your boyfriend's doing after work that you can’t know about. he hasn’t changed how he treats you. if anything, he’s been even softer and sweeter with you lately.

you decide to confront him about it.

you sit at the kitchen table, waiting for him to come home. as 8pm fades into 10pm and drips into 12am, your anxiety ramps up. your palms are all sweaty and your heart beats erratically in your chest.

you’re on your feet as soon as the lock eventually clicks and the front door is forced open. you stalk up to a sleepy katsuki, who flings his duffel bag on the floor with a sigh.

when he turns around, you’re looking at him angrier than ever. there’s fire in your eyes as you stare up at him, your brows knitted together and jaw tight.

you spit out, “where have you been?” katsuki blinks slowly, too tired to register your words and respond. he moves to throw his arms around you, but you step back, dodging his embrace.

this time, you repeat yourself with more venom, “where have you been?” you sigh, “i’ve been waiting for you since eight.”

he grunts thickly, “why’d you stay up, babe?” you roll your eyes and slightly suck in your cheeks.

you say exasperatedly, “because i was worried about you. you’ve been coming home late from work for the last two months now.” you fold your arms beneath your chest as you scold him, “so where have you been?! seriously, like, where the fuck have you been wandering off to while i make you dinner and do your laundry?”

katsuki shakes his head, whispering, “baby, s’not like that.”

you catch his words and scoff, “so then, what is it like? i clearly don’t know so why don’t you tell me?”

his full lips draw into a hard line as he huffs, contemplating whether to tell you he’s been hunting for the perfect engagement ring for his perfect girl… and that he’s finally found one. it wasn’t easy, especially since he has just put up with yappertron 3000 chargebolt, skateboard freak elbows, and shitty hair for the past three hours while acquiring this ring.

he bites his tongue, mumbling, “look, i’ve just been busy, yea?”

you chuckle derisively, “you’ve been busy? right, okay.” you turn around and begin walking away from him when he catches your elbow. his grip is firm but considerate.

he tugs you back, making you stumble into his chest. you try to shove him away, but he doesn’t even budge as he draws you into his arms, wrapping you up tightly.

you shout, “just fuck off, katsuki!��

wincing, he rests his chin on the top of your head and murmurs, “no more late nights, baby, i promise. at least not for a while.” his body is so warm against yours, and his musk is so strong. you give up your assault on his concealed but delicious muscles and still in his grasp.

you grumble, “it’s not about the late nights, katsuki. it’s about you keeping things from me.” he kisses the top of your head and rubs circles on your back with his calloused palms.

he mutters into your hair, “i’ll tell you soon, okay?” you shake your head before tilting it back, returning his soft gaze with your harsher one.

you murmur, “so you’re not cheating on me? or are you cheating on me but intend to come clean?” your boyfriend’s mouth falls open as he stares at you, his blond brows raised slightly. regaining his composure, his usual scowl is back on his face.

he grumbles, “cheating? why the fuck would i be cheating on you?!” he licks his lips and gazes past you for a moment, sighing, “for fuck’s sake, babe. god, why the fuck would i be cheating on you? d’you really think i’m a cheater?!” you shake your head, taken aback by his sudden frustration.

he shouts, “I’VE NEVER CHEATED! NEVER! NOT LIKE FUCK-ASS DEKU WHO DIDN’T EVEN HAVE A QUIRK AND THEN—”

you gently pat his chest as you try to soothe him, “okay, okay, honey, it’s okay. i know you’re not a cheater.” after a few minutes, he calms down (for the most part).

he grunts, “d’you really think i’d do that?” a droplet of his spit hits your eyebrow. you go to wipe it away but he beats you to it, apologising all the while. you reassure him it's okay as you stroke his well-defined back up and down.

you say softly, “of course not. but if you’re not cheating on me, then what else are you doing? i just don’t understand, suki.” he shakes his head before settling back into the crook of your neck; his resting place.

he murmurs into your hot flesh, “just give me a few days n’ i’ll tell you, alright?” you pull back, cupping his cheeks with your hands while his fingers clench the back of your shirt.

you shake your head, saying, “you can tell me now.”

he huffs, “babe—”

“no,” you cut him off. “tell me now. i deserve to know why you’ve been coming home so late.” he gazes down momentarily as his fingers curl into your shirt even more, close to tearing the fabric with how tight his grip is.

he mumbles, “stubborn brat.”

it’s like something snaps. he releases your shirt from his killer grasp and smirks. he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvety red, ring box.

he grabs your wrist and places it in your palm, saying, “that’s the reason.” he gazes at you expectantly, waiting for you to open the box. but you’re in shock.

your wide eyes bore into his narrow ones as you blink dumbly. your lips are slightly parted, open enough for the flies to make a home in your mouth. and they could with how little you’re registering right now. you can’t think or speak or move. all you know is that your long-term partner just placed a ring box in your hand.

katsuki rolls his eyes, attempting to hide the pain in his expression as you continue staring at him. he huffs, “well, are you gonna open it or not?”

you nod, your mouth awfully dry. you seal your lips as you shakily open the box. inside is the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. leaves protrude from the band and petals encircle a bright ruby glistening in the golden living room light; a rose. your gaze flickers up to him before switching back to the ring, and then back up to him.

you stutter, “a-are y-you, u-um, a-ask-asking m-me t-too—”

“yes,” he says solemnly. “you’re everything to me, baby. s-so, yea, will you be my wife?” you nod furiously. smirking, he takes the little box from your hand and slips the ring onto your finger. all the tension pent up in his body dissipates as he embraces you once more.

you squeeze his slutty waist tight as you begin tearing up, trying to process that your boyfriend just became your fiancé. katsuki sweetly kisses your forehead before resting his against yours.

he mutters, “i don’t tell you how much i love you enough. clearly like fuck. i fuckin’ love you, baby girl. more than you’ll ever know.”

a/n: link to the engagement ring design here (please lmk if it doesn't work); just imagine that it's a ruby and not a diamond.

#★’s works #x female reader #bakugou katsuki #established relationship #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki angst #bakugou katsuki fluff #mha x reader

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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Heartbeat | [1/3]

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x pregnant wife!doctor!f!reader

| Next

Summary: You get called in to assist with the mass casualty event on your day off and you’re grateful to be there when your husband finally breaks.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: episode 13 hurt a lot so I wrote this to cope. Likely will write more specific stuff after I’ve fully processed.

Word Count: 4.4k+

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: age gap (16ish years, I have a problem okay? The age gap trope feeds me), established relationship/marriage, hospital/medical inaccuracies, hurt/comfort, panic attack, foul language, angst (it’s who I am), gore/gun violence (Pittfest), vague details from ep. 11-13, pet names (baby, my love), non-graphic shower scene, fluff at the end because we deserve it after that episode???

not beta read

You had met Dr. Robinavitch when you started in the ED as an attending. While your love blossomed slowly, it bloomed into so much more than you were expecting. It had been a bit of a whirlwind, from dating secretly to Dana and Jack finding out only a month after, to getting engaged just a year later.

You had done what you could to keep it from the hospital administration, but the time came where you got married and paperwork needed to be filed. You kept your maiden name to ensure there was no confusion, plus it added to your privacy. Everyone you worked with knew you were married, just not to each other, but it was more of an open secret to some of the nurses and other attendings.

Gloria nearly moved you to a different department. She tried separating you by shifts, maybe hoping you would leave and find work in a different hospital. Michael was technically your boss, after all. In her reports, however, she found that when you two were on shift together, it was seamless. Like you two operated on a frequency that no one else was even aware of.

Despite the bumps in the road, and Michael’s aversion for talking about his feelings, you made it work. Some shifts could be frustrating, and that sometimes got carried home, but you respected each other immensely. Michael was not keen on letting such a good thing in his life go that easily, and eventually opened up about Adamson and the toll the pandemic had taken on him.

After that hurdle, everything else was easy. Eventually, you decided to grow your family, and you got pregnant not even five months later.

—

On the fourth year anniversary of Adamson’s death, you were surprised to find Michael preparing for a shift.

“Didn’t you take off?” You asked, watching him dress into his scrubs.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at you. “Peterson had a family thing, and I know they’re short staffed.”

You frowned, “You could’ve asked me.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He said, turning to look at you and his heart swelled at the sight. “I don’t want you to cancel your appointment.”

You sat on that for a moment. For as busy as you both were, Michael had made time for every appointment you had after finding out you were pregnant.

“I know, I know. I promise I won’t miss the next one.”

That satisfied you. For all Michael was, someone to break his promise was not one of them.

“I was hoping to find out the gender today,” you said with a tiny smile. “But a little anticipation never hurt anyone.”

He looked grateful at your words, moving to kiss you. He tasted like mint, holding your head so gently in his hands. Your hands moved to his chest, wanting to hold him against you, but you released him.

“Jake know yet?”

He smiled, “Yeah. He asked to take his girlfriend instead.”

You raised an eyebrow and grinned, “Oh?”

You and Jake had gotten close slowly, him being like a step-son to Michael, but now you loved the kid.

“If you need anything, just call, alright?”

He nodded, grabbing his coffee, giving you one last lingering kiss before heading out the door.

—

Your day was mildly uneventful, taking your time with a handful of chores before sitting out on the balcony to have lunch. Your OB appointment had gone well, and you got a recording of the heartbeat, knowing Michael might need to hear it after his shift.

As time moved, you missed that Michael had not been able to be there with you. You missed his touch and his presence beside you. Dinner came with a takeout box of your latest craving, before your phone rang.

Jack Abbot’s name flashed on your screen. You still worked a few shifts with him from time-to-time, but Michael had you mostly scheduled for days, with him.

“Hey,” you said when you answered.

“Did you hear?”

“That’s so specific, Jack,” you said, opening the fridge to scan your snack options.

“There was a shooting at Pittfest, unknown number of casualties. Closest trauma center is PTMC.”

Your heart stuttered to a stop, “What?”

“Heard it on the scanner. You’ll likely get an alert that it’s all hands on deck, but I wanted to give you a heads up before traffic got too bad.”

Despite not being super close with Jack, you were still friends and you knew he had your back. While you hated being treated with careful hands at work now that you were pregnant, part of you still appreciated the gesture of it. It was like something unspoken had happened between Michael and Jack months ago, both of them moving to take the more combative patients whenever you were around.

“Shit, Jack.” You breathed out, rushing into your bedroom to grab your scrubs. “Fuck, Jake is at Pittfest. Let me try to reach him.” You fumbled through your drawers, taking a deep breath through your nose. “I’ll be in. See you soon.”

“Drive safe!” He said before the call disconnected.

After changing, you moved to grab a few odd snacks and water bottles, stuffing them into your lunch bag, along with your cell phone charger. Who knew how long this was going to take, or if Michael had had the chance at any point today to eat. He hadn’t texted or called, but that was not uncommon. The Pitt never made it easy, which was why you were grateful that you worked most of your shifts with your husband.

You tried reaching Jake, leaving a voicemail and a text message before reaching out to his mother. You briefly explained the situation and asked for an update as soon as she heard anything, before you promised the same.

When you got into your car, you took a deep breath to steady your heart before beginning your way to PTMC.

Michael called you, your phone ringing through the car’s Bluetooth.

“Hey, don’t have much time, but I need you.” He told you, his voice quiet but full of so much emotion.

“I’m already on my way. Abbot called ten minutes ago. Tried calling out to Jake, too, he didn’t answer. Told his mom to reach out to either of us if she heard anything.” You said in a rush, coming to a stop at a light. Almost there.

He let out a breath that almost sounded like relief.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The mass alert came through your phone as soon as he hung up. Thank fuck for Jack.

You made it into the parking garage, waving at the security guard now posted at the entrance. You sat in your car for just a minute to get your bearings, knowing tonight was going to be a shitshow.

As you entered the Emergency Department, you saw patients leaving, escorted by nurses and admin staff — and you moved quickly into the back. It was a circus, but you spotted Michael and Jack and beelined for them.

Michael’s brown eyes caught you as you approached and his face relaxed, though his shoulders were still tense. Dana was beside them, and her usual quip of “Oh I get Dr. R squared today?” did not fall from her lips, but she was sporting a black eye. You looked at her in alarm, but she waved it off.

“Just another happy customer.” She said, but you only frowned at her.

Michael spoke next, introducing you, and then quickly running down the new faces to you: Dr. Mel King, an R2, Dennis Whittaker, an M4, Victoria Javadi, an M3, and Dr. Trinity Santos, an intern. You tried to remember their names, but knew you would not likely remember them in the chaos.

You went to quickly put your stuff down, and when you turned around, Michael was standing there. To everyone else, he appeared neutral, controlled, normal. To you? He was wearing his shift all over his face and you could see plainly that it had not been a good one.

“This is going to be stressful, I should’ve let you stay home—”

While you appreciated his concern, you would have come anyway. “I promise, if I get too stressed out, I’ll let myself take a few minutes. But you have me. What can I do to help?”

“I need you in pink zone.” He told you, moving right back to business. “You’ll be with McKay and Javadi, and incoming night shift. But I need you at the head of it.”

“You got it.” You said, honored he was trusting you to run point on your zone.

—

While the victims did not stop coming, you found yourself moving mostly on instinct. Assessing, treating, moving along — trying to do your best to teach when you came across any of the new faces. You flitted into red zone when there was a particularly bad patient and then moved to triage so Dr. Shen could take a quick bathroom break.

When you assisted Michael, you moved together like a well oiled machine — and despite the tragedy, it came to you both naturally. You only barely registered the tension between Michael and Dr. Frank Langdon — a senior resident, and someone Michael had taken under his wing. You would have to remember to ask about it.

Time moved by in a blur, but you were painfully aware of every minute, every patient that came under your care. All the blood, all the death, all the tragedy.

It only got worse when Jake arrived, thought were thankful he was alive. He was asking about his girlfriend when you approached.

“Jake?” You got his attention as you began to take in his appearance. Jesus Christ, he was covered in blood.

“It’s mostly her blood,” he told you blankly, eyes moving around the room at the carnage. “It’s mostly her blood.”

You called for a wheelchair, your gaze searching for Michael. He was working on a patient, giving CPR from the look of it, the patient blocked from your view by the charge desk.

“Take a seat, Jake.” You told him softly, gently touching his shoulder. “Let me take a look at you, yeah?”

He sat down, his head swiveling around to locate his girlfriend. “I think—I think I got hit in the leg.”

You nodded, moving him into the yellow zone so you could bandage him up. You were not related and there were no official familial ties, so there were no problems of ethics — at least that was what you told yourself.

He moved to stand, and you pushed his shoulder back down.

“Let me assess you and then I promise I’ll go check on your girlfriend, okay?”

Jake nodded numbly and moved onto the gurney so you could look at his leg. His injury was not as bad as you had feared, and while you knew he would need stitches, you made do with some bandages for the time being.

“What’s her name?” You asked, trying to bring his attention back to you.

“Leah,” he told you, voice heavy with emotion. “I need to see her.”

While you did not understand the full panic he was experiencing, you knew Leah was in good hands.

“She’s with Robby, Jake. Leah is getting the best care.”

He was still not looking at you, and you got him set up with an IV antibiotic drip.

“Jake? Jake, can you call your mom for me? Cell service might not be great right now, but can you try? She’s worried about you.”

He took that information in slowly, before nodding.

The call did not go through, but you made him promise to keep trying while you assured him you were going to check on his girlfriend.

By the time you reached Michael, he was calling time of death and your heart constricted. You wanted to scream. By the look in his eyes, you can see he wanted to as well. You could feel Jack’s gaze on you and when you turned, he simply shook his head at you. You easily translated that to ‘your husband is not doing good’.

“I couldn’t save her.” Michael whispered, and only you caught it.

You gave his hand a subtle squeeze.

Jack was there then, reading the situation perfectly, “No one could have saved her. Maybe if this was a normal day, but it tore right through her heart. There was not much we could do.”

Fuck, you thought, she’s so young. You hoped she did not suffer.

Michael moved to find Jake and you followed him, but he stopped you.

“Can you take over for me in red so I can let Jake know?”

Every part of you screamed to go with him, but you nodded, turning to step back into pace with the work. You tried to push away your emotions, packaging them away to deal with later, but compartmentalizing was tough. You felt guilty for never meeting this girl, someone Jake had so obviously cared a lot about.

You attempted to get lost in the work, but you caught sight of Michael wheeling Jake out of Peds — the current place they have been putting the deceased — and the look on your husband’s face made your heart plummet. He had moved back into the room, leaving Jake just outside and you quickly gestured to a passing nurse to get him back to yellow.

The security guard did not make any comment when you walked into Peds, and you were devastated at what you found. Aside from the deceased, the number of them slowly ticking upwards, it was the sight of Michael on the floor in tears that truly struck you.

After ripping the curtain closed behind you, to block the view into the hall, and give you both just a small amount of privacy, you moved back toward Michael. It had been a long time since you had seen him like this. He had broken down when he told you about Adamson and the weight of his choice, and once he had even broken down after a particularly bad argument, but nothing like this.

“Baby, baby, hey,” you crouched down beside him, but you did not move to touch him.

His breath caught in his throat, but his sobs continued, hyperventilating with his arms pulled across his bent knees.

“Michael,” you tried, a name you had never called him when within the walls of the hospital.

His watery gaze met yours for just a moment, before his eyes were back in his lap, face scrunched. His ears were red, as well as his face, with red rimmed eyes that broke something in you.

“Michael.” You stressed again, moving so your hands hovered just above his arms. “Can you look at me?”

“I—I—I couldn’t—fuck—I didn’t save her.” His breaths came in short bursts, in in in out, in in out, tears coming down his face, his cheeks red.

You found yourself at a loss on how to help him — you knew none of his thoughts were rational at the moment, and anguish rushed through your veins, feeling so helpless. So useless.

An odd idea struck you, and you pulled out your phone before you could doubt yourself. You flipped through a few of your apps before settling on the one you had used to record your baby’s heartbeat.

“Can you take a deep breath with me?” You asked gently. You took a deep breath in through your nose and then out through your mouth.

You didn’t give him time to respond before you were pressing play on the recording. The sound of it filled the room with something other than Michael’s panic, and he quieted just enough to listen to it.

“That’s our baby.” You told him, though the sound of it was obvious enough, racing steadily like hoof beats.

His eyes found yours, and while he was still breathing quickly, he seemed to have returned to the reality around you, rather than stuck in his head. Relief took a bit of the weight from your shoulders.

“Can you breathe with me?” You asked again, finally touching his arm.

His hand found yours immediately and squeezed, but he nodded. You took a few more deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth, watching as he mirrored you.

Aside from the quick beats of your baby’s heart, the deep breaths you both took filled the room. You desperately tried to ignore the dead around you, trying to solely focus on the man in front of you. When the recording came to a stop, Michael’s hand twitched toward your phone.

“Can you play it again?”

You nodded, pressing play and handing him your phone. The fast heartbeat filled the space again, and he cradled your phone like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

“Very active today.” You told him. “Wouldn’t sit still.”

A ghost of a smile passed over his lips, but it was gone in a moment.

“I have a video file that they sent me from today, but I didn’t want to look at it without you. Figured if either of us looked long enough, we’d be able to tell the gender ourselves.”

“Can we?” He asked, looking at you with tears still in his eyes.

You smiled, moving to sit next to him. You did not know how long the moment was going to last — sooner or later, someone was going to come looking for either of you. You tried to ignore it, trying to center yourself in this moment with Michael, forgetting about the outside world for just a moment.

Clicking on the video you had saved, you both sat quietly watching your baby move. Michael grabbed your hand in his and held it close to his chest. This was only going to be a bandaid, but any distraction was a welcomed one in that moment.

“They’re healthy. Measured 6.6 inches, 11 ounces.” You rattled off, moving your other hand to his head and running your nails along his scalp and through his hair. Any time in the past that he had had a panic attack in your company, you found that at the tail end of it, he enjoyed the feeling of your hands on him. Like it was grounding.

Michael’s hyperventilating had fully stopped, though a handful of tears still slipped through. His face was still scrunched in pain, but he watched the video attentively.

“You did all you could, my love,” you whispered. “No one could have saved her. Not even if it was all of us and just her. I’m so sorry.”

“Jake—”

You hushed him, “Jake is still in shock. He’s grieving. Whatever he said to you, he didn't mean it.”

“No, no, he does. I didn’t save her. I told him I would. I told him.”

You brought your lips to his temple, closing your eyes and willing no tears to come. You couldn’t, not now.

Michael tapped on the video again, watching as your baby moved, kicking against your womb like it was their job.

“It’s not your fault.” You told him, moving across the floor until you met his gaze. “I would never lie to you, you know that. I promise. If anyone could have saved her, it would have been you.”

His face scrunched again like he was going to cry.

You held him in your arms, squeezing him tight to your chest, hoping perhaps the more you squeezed, the more he would believe you.

You held his face in your hands, and willed him to look at you. “I love you so much, Michael. This was not your fault. Blame the shooter, they caused this whole thing. Jake will see that eventually, you haven’t lost him.”

Brown eyes held steady on yours, searching them with a gaze that nearly made you shy away. But you hold strong, wiping away the tears on his cheeks with your thumbs.

“Robby! Robby!” Dana’s voice came through the curtain, before it was pushed aside.

Dana only blinked at the sight of you, you knelt in front of your husband, both of your faces twisted and pained.

You found your voice, “Just two minutes, Dana. Please.”

She only nodded, closing the curtain again and disappearing.

“I can’t promise the rest of this is going to be any easier, but,” You paused. “Fuck it, if you want to leave, we can blame me right now. Say I have high blood pressure and you want to make sure I get home safe. I don’t care. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

You remembered all the times he covered for you when your morning sickness made you late, or when he had taken time away from the hectic flow to talk you through a bad case, or a death. When he shouldered the weight of an abrasive family member or aggressive patient, even before you were married. The times he let you leave early when you were having a bad day, or encouraged you to take breaks even when he didn’t.

“Let me try to take care of you right now. Please. Whatever you need.”

Michael took a long breath, rubbing his eyes. “Let me just splash some water on my face. After…stay by my side?”

“Done. If you need a minute, tell me to take a break and come with me. I can shoulder that right now.”

You did not say it because you thought he was weak, but simply because you felt you had the capacity to bear the brunt of the remainder of this shift. People knew he was going to worry about you regardless of the situation, so him ‘checking in’ would not phase them.

“Michael,” you started as you both moved to stand, him offering a hand to help you, “You’ve always been so great with Jake, just give him some time.” You paused, “You’re going to be an amazing father to our child.”

Tears flooded his eyes again and you felt like you had just made it worse while trying to make it better.

“You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. How on earth did I—”

You cupped his cheek and hushed him again, bringing his face to yours until your foreheads touched. “I’m the lucky one.”

He kissed you softly, before bringing you into a hug, careful of your growing bump.

When you parted, he took one last deep breath before facing the chaos that awaited you both out in the ED. You knew the heavier parts of your conversation were going to have to be shelved until you got home.

Michael moved toward the closest bathroom and you rushed back to red zone. There were no words to exchange with Jack, but with a knowing glance at him, he seemed to understand.

“Robby’s moving me to red. Bilal’s got pink covered.” You told him, referencing the night attending.

Abbot only nodded.

When Michael returned only a minute later, you watched him — had you not known him that well, you might not have been able to guess what had just transpired. You were thankful no one else in the hospital knew him as well as you did.

You got back to work, busying your hands to try to stop your mind from worrying too much. Whatever he had done in the bathroom, he had clearly thrown his panic attack into a bag and stuffed it deep inside his mind. It made your heart ache, but you would help him unpack it once you were both in the safety of your home.

Michael still made sound decisions, and not once did you feel the need to question his judgement. Jack was steadfast with you both, and you were grateful for him.

—

It was 10pm by the time the dust began to settle and the situation finally simmered to a more controllable level. You were beat and you had only been there a few hours, Michael encouraging you to take a seat and have some water while he checked on a handful of things. You took that moment to find Jake — who now had been stitched up and was with his mom.

“I’m so sorry, Jake. I really wish I could have met her.”

He nodded numbly, “You would’ve really liked her.”

A sad smile formed on your lips, “I’m sure I would have.”

You wanted to tell him to go easy on Robby, but the words did not form on your tongue. It was still too soon, and while you did not want Jake to blame him, you knew it wasn’t the time or place.

You parted from them sadly, before going to check on the med students and finally finding Michael with Jack.

It was a half hour later that you both finally left, Michael following you silently to your car. You were still digesting it all, wondering how the hell you were even going to begin processing it.

At home, you both quickly discarded your scrubs to the floor and made your way to the bathroom. It went unsaid that you both needed to wash this shift off, more so mentally than physically, but being clean would certainly make you feel better.

It was amazing how well you had learned to read each other, and you held onto him under the warm water for a long moment. He kissed the side of your head before grabbing the soap, sudsing up his hands and gently cleaning your skin. You relished in the feeling of him.

Once you rinsed off, you returned the favor. You moved your hands over his arms, his chest and then his back. You added a kiss here and there, knowing he enjoyed your touch just as much. He held your belly in his hands, eyes faraway again — but you brought your hand to his face to get his attention.

You kissed him, holding onto him and trying to translate all the things you felt into it. He returned the kiss and you felt yourself sigh in contentment.

It was quiet, but cathartic.

You both dried off, and changed before collapsing into your bed, Michael immediately pulling you close. You rested your head on his chest to listen to the calming sound of his heart.

Moving off his chest, you pulled him close to you and let him rest his head on you, his hand going to your belly. His breathing was slow and controlled, but you knew his mind was racing. You held him tight, your fingers going to his hair.

“I’d like to talk about today.” You said. “Not right now. Maybe not even tomorrow, or this week. But eventually.”

He was quiet, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your stomach. “We can do that.”

“I’m here when you’re ready.” You told him.

He moved to press his lips to yours, peppering your face with kisses, before bringing you back to his chest. He held you for a long time and you did not even dare let go.

“I saw what it was.” He said.

“Oh?” You questioned against his chest, leaning your head back to look at him.

“Our baby.”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

He grinned and kissed you deeply. Truth was, it didn’t matter. And as you held each other, you knew it was all going to be okay.

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