#but you’re so right on the vulnerability and honesty side of it

[ethan-elliott]

there are SO MANY banging lines in this but that ending was just beautiful (and also, may I say, not only the perfect callback to Knives and Pens but also resonates very much with the Path of the Outcasts stuff)

How going through the worst years of his life made Andy Biersack A better writer: an in depth analysis on the evolution of Andy Biersack's lyrics.

Andy Biersack has always been a gifted lyricist. There is no denying that. It is baffling reading through the lyrics of songs like Sweet Blasphemy and Knives and Pens and knowing that they were written by a teenager. The lyrics of Carolyn are some I always point to when discussing his emotional depths that he has had even at a young age. A touching love letter about perseverance and staying strong to the mother of his band mate, Jake, who had confided in him about her struggles with depression. Andy has been able to touch people with his words from day one.

That takes us to Set The World on Fire. The Bands Junior album that had to surpass the first in every way(and did). This album is interesting to me because it is when we finally start to see the outside influences creeping in. We got heartfelt songs like Savior, a song musically written about the suicide of a close friend of Jinxx's and Andy was able to sit down and create the lyrics in 20 minutes. Religion has and will always be a heavy topic in Andy's writing, whether it's in the imagery or a blatant discussion on the corruption of the church like in the song New Religion where Andy says the line “You don't love a God, you love your comfort” in a rage-filled tone.

This album feels like a BVB record, of course it does, but then you have Love isn't Always Fair. A song that Andy admitted to only writing because he was pressured into writing a “sexy strip club song”. Andy wrote from the heart, he wrote of paint, triumph and showing people. Why the hell would he write about blow jobs and tits? It made no sense. Though I do love the song, it doesn't fit the band at all and is why we haven't seen a track like that from them since. You see that in tracks like Youth and Whisky as well.

This was also when we see bad habits forming. Andy was a young, impressionable kid who wanted to make it and a well respected producer is telling him he needs to drink before recording vocals. This was not the start of Andy's spiral as he had already started drinking to help himself be more social at parties before this. It was the beginning of the dependency though.

Andy was impressionable. Of course he was. He was young. This was when he started letting other people influence his art.

You see it in the imagery as well. Everyone in the band(except you know who) hated the Fallen Angels music video. It made no sense, it took an allegory and made it literal. They didn't understand the song and ignored Andy's input.

Even as a young fan who had barely gotten into the band, I could see that this video didn't fit the rest. Andy was 19/20 and being brushed off and ignored because he was young- Now obviously, this stuff isn't about his writing, but I promise, I'm getting to it, I'm setting the stage so to speak. To understand the changes, you need to know the reasons.

Now we find ourselves at the band's sophomore record. A highly anticipated album that had a huge album in their career to try and surpass once again. Wretched and Divine was the album where Andy started pushing more for his ideas which in turn, made certain people very unhappy. You see this in the Coffin music video. His hair is now shorter, his makeup is more minimal. Andy was tired of the glam rock and the poor caricature of what he had originally set out to create. This will be the first, but not the last time that we see Andy choose to burn it to the ground rather than fight to come to a compromise with someone who refuses to change.

So burn it down, he did.

Andy fired their old producer and scrapped everything they had worked on to work with someone else. He didn't want STWOF part 2. He wasn't about to become a self fulfilling prophecy. He needed to create. Andy, at 21 years old, wrote the storyline of what would become their most successful album while on a flight in his iPhone notes app. This was the moment Andy discovered his true talent in writing.

World building.

This album was exactly what the band needed. It was a brilliant Rock opera with orchestral pieces and an entire movie to go along with it. Black Veil didn't ask or beg for it to be made, they made it happen. We see Andy's writing broaden in this record and get their biggest song to date, In The End. A loving tribute to Andy's late grandfather that they play live to this day. This was when Andy finally started learning to collaborate and write with other people. He still made his voice clear without allowing it to be compromised.

This was, however, when we see his drinking take a turn. If you watch clips from the recording process of Done For You, Andy is bent over, barely holding himself up due to how drunk he was.

With every high must come a devastating low and that brings us to BVB 4

While self-titled is one of my favorite records from the band, this is the moment we really see what Andy calls the BVB mad libs. Andy was no longer writing from the heart, he was writing what he thought sounded like something he would say. While there are several tracks that are lyrically sound, I can see what he means. Andy had to drink a bottle or two of red wine every time he sat down to write. Andy has said that he is embarrassed by the lyrics on some of the songs from this record, admitting that he didn't even recall writing them due to how drunk he stayed. Andy has "jokingly" said that he doesn't remember most of 2014 and could you imagine that? He doesn't remember most of 23. I turned 24 a few months ago and I couldn't imagine losing a chunk of my life due to addiction.

But the main focus is; the thing he was most passionate about, he couldn't even stay sober long enough to do.

What was once an escape from the world and an outlet was now a chore. He no longer felt excited to create within the realm of BVB because he no longer had the freedom to do so. He was drinking heavily during the recording process and also going through undiagnosed health problems that nearly killed Andy. During Warped 2015, Andy stayed on his partner, Juliet's(now Lilith Czar professionally) bus to avoid his own. Andy was now at his all time low at this point in his life. He was drinking heavily to get through the days, his close friend passed away very suddenly, he was getting into fights regularly, he was on medication that was making him lose his mind, and now his own band was a waking nightmare to be in.

He had to get out.

Andy Black was announced under the guise of being a creative outlet so Andy could dabble in different sounds and genres without affecting the band. While there was some truth to that, it wasn't entirely true. Andy needed a way to continue making a living that wasn't going to affect him mentally.

This was when we finally saw a side of Andy that we hadn't seen in his past work.

Vulnerability.

If Black Veil Brides was about overcoming and being yourself through the face of adversity through world building and storytelling. Andy Black was an open diary. For the first time, we got to hear how Andy was feeling in a completely raw and unfiltered way. We learned of his fears, his struggles with mental health, his addiction(and two subsequent relapses in 2016) and his relationships. No longer were there veiled messages of his personal life through poetic Interpretations. It was just him.

A lot of people say that Vale sounds like an Andy Black record With more guitars, and I agree, but not in the way you think. Sonically, it is very much BVB, but now? Andy is being honest.

He is no longer hiding how he feels or what's going on. Through songs like When They Call My Name: a song about his severe struggles with anxiety and OCD and the devastating crash of everything he had been numbing with alcohol after sobriety and how his now wife helped him through it. We see angry songs filled with vitriol that can only be about one person truly. Tensions were high within the band because Andy wasn't staying silent in his songs anymore. This person didn't even work on the album, why would it matter to him?

Vale(This is Where it Ends) caused panic within the Fandom because Andy didn't hold back. “I can't put it back together. No, I won't put it back together. This is where it ends.” Andy took a stand. He was no longer going to be made miserable, he was no longer going to keep the piece. If it broke then he was going to add the gasoline and the matches to finish the job.

Andy had said by the time the last tour with BVB came along, he was fine around alcohol and wasn't tempted, but then they're on tour and Andy is talking about staying on a separate bus that is dry because he “didn't want to ask the band to not drink"(a request they were happy to oblige to during their 2021 tour cycle mind you)

We hear the band talk about going to bars, about CC's collection of White Claw. Hell, there is even a selfie of Andy and Lilith on the bus in 2022 with a bottle of alcohol on the table. Andy wasn't bothered by alcohol, but when he had to be on the Resurrection tour? He feared relapse. After two years of being sober and speaking of how he didn't even think of drinking anymore, he had to stay on a completely different bus and not allow drinking or smoking on it to fight the temptation.

Andy left that tour with the resolve that he was having to start over. He wrote The Ghost of Ohio, and album filled with obvious hints of his struggles during that time, including the very heartbreaking Westwood Road(if you haven't read the lyrics to that Song, it is not as fun as the music Makes you think) the Martyr, a fuck you to a lot of people and Know One. If you were a fan during this time, you know that essentially everyone blamed Andy for the band not touring. He was hated by everyone and couldn't defend himself because of an NDA contract that no one in the fandom was aware of.

This was a critical moment in time. Andy was so miserable within the setting of BVB, that he heared ruining his sobriety if he was subjected to it much longer.

“I can't change the way they look at me, I won't show you what you'll never see”

Andy understood that he was going to be the villain in this story, but he was going to make peace with it. This album shows how Andy has truly come to understand his voice and how his words and lyrics affect things. He learned that even if people hated him for what they perceived him to do to the band, he could still find an audience within Andy Black.

2019 comes to a close and DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD.

Lonny is now in the band and this was when we see Andy truly come into his own as a lyricist for BVB. He no longer feared writing how he felt(with songs like the Vengeance being a clear fuck you), he no longer hid behind allegories and fables, hoping people will understand what he's getting at; but he's no longer laying it out on the table completely raw and vulnerable. Andy found a middle ground, writing one of the best albums they have ever put out(The Phantom Tomorrow) and then putting out one of the most emotionally raw EPs I've ever listened to(The Mourning.)

Better Angels and Savior ii is an incredible example of how Andy has developed as a writer. They are completely raw songs that tell you exactly how much he has struggled in the past few years. Devil is a fuck you to Trash man and the Revival was a simple question of how the fuck do we get ourselves out of this?

The answer was simple. Lonny Eagleton( @ethan-elliott is writing an essay on that so follow him for whenever he posts it).

In short. Andy has always been a gifted storyteller and could touch people with his art, but it took a long road of pain, suffering, and growing up to come into his own as an artist. I don't believe that you have to go through a lot to come into your own, but it certainly helps.

Now we have some of the best music They've ever put out, exciting, conceptual art for a new era, a documentary, and a book series. Andy proves that it doesn't matter where you came from or what you've been through, it all comes down to how you are going to channel that pain. Will you choose the path of self destruction or creation? Only you can make that choice for yourself.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: another kofi commission!

Your naga lover was in rut, and you had been avoiding his den for the past few days per his request. He was hesitant to allow you in, since nagas had the tendency to squeeze their lovers tightly during passionate mating, and he really didn’t want to hurt you!

But 4 days in while you delivered food, you heard his whimpers and cries from deeper in the cave. It hurt your heart to know he was suffering all on his own.

You carried the basket full of eggs and meat, your footsteps echoing lightly along the cave walls. You didn’t really like visiting your lover here and much preferred when he came to your home instead, but right now he couldn’t leave his den.

While in rut, nagas were vulnerable to predators and could be killed due to how sensitive and weak they were at the time. It worried you, how could he even think you’d be able to stay away when your precious lover was in possible danger and pain!?

“B-baby, I’m coming!”

The sound of distressed whines and whimpers increased as you made your way further into the cave. A trail of a white, slimy substance led you to your poor, exhausted lover.

“I told you… not to come…”

His two cocks were poked out of his slit, his fist moving up and down the lengths as he panted and moaned. Precum gathered at the tip, his face flushed with embarrassment and need.

“How could I stay away when you’re suffering like this? Please… let me help you.”

You approached slowly, and he made no moves to stop you. Picking up your scent seemed to only worsen his current state. His cock twitched, and he was quick to pull you onto his lap.

“Fuck… you smell so good…”

His hands roamed your body, soft kisses being left along your neck and chest. Never before had he been so needy and affectionate.

Fangs brushed up against your skin with each lick and kiss. Every touch was gentle, he needed your body but he was also desperate for comfort and affection.

“It’s alright… I’m here for you, no more going through this alone…”

You guided his cocks towards your wet cunt, letting him rub his lengths between your fat pussy lips before sinking inside of you.

He had been inside of you many times before, but today it felt… different. His thrusts were quick and each movement of his hips caused him to cry out in bliss. It took very little to make your lover cum, and it was adorable to you.

“My sweetheart…” you murmured, your tongue dancing with his. Just a simple French kiss made him groan into your mouth, his hands gripping the fat of your hips.

“I l-love you…” he blubbered, crying tears of pleasure. Your chubby tummy was slightly bloated with his cum, and he couldn’t help but hold his hand over it as if hoping you’d become pregnant.

“I love you too…”

All through his rut, you were by his side. Every time he started to get needy, you’d sit on his cock and let him use you to get off.

It wasn’t all about sex, though. Sometimes all he wanted was for you to kiss his face and massage his lower half. His snake tail was in the middle of a shed, and your gentle hands helped his sensitive body feel less sore and sensitive.

You laid on a nest of furs, his head buried in your chest. His entire lower half was wrapped around you, using your body to keep himself warm as you sat on his cocks.

“Sorry… you must be tired. I’ve never taken on a mate… this is my first time going through a rut with someone who wanted to help.”

A giggle left your lips, and you played with his hair lazily. “Don’t worry about me, if I was tired I’d be sleeping. This is nice… I get to snuggle with you all I want.”

When his rut ended, your naga lover followed you home. In all honesty, he had gotten embarrassingly used to your presence and couldn’t sleep when he was all alone now.

As you got ready for bed, he soaked himself in your tub, watching you do your nighttime routine. “You humans do so much before you go to bed… can you hurry? I want to hold you…”

After brushing your teeth, you made your bed after being gone for an entire week. With a glance at your phone, you knew you’d be spending the next day or two returning missed call from worried loved ones.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get to bed.”

He cooked around you, his head nuzzling into your neck as you rubbed his back. After such an intense week, you were both ready to sleep without needing to wake up every hour so he could bury his cock inside of you.

The two of you snuggled up together, letting out content sounds in your sleep.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx

[shawtuzi]

can’t stop thinking about nanami putting you in a full nelson omg :(( (not proofread btw sorry <//3)

the first time he brought it up to you you were very intrigued, until you did a quick google search and saw wrestling images??? after he helped you find the correct images your interest peaked once more—i mean how could it not???!!the mental image of his big n beefy arms manhandling you in a such a position had the cogs in your brain turning and your pussy dripping with excitement.

“cmon let’s do it now now now!” you squealed tossing your phone to the side. you jumped into nanami’s buff arms, peppering his jaw and neck in glossy kisses. kento chuckled lowly, giving your plush ass a rough squeeze. such an eager little thing you were.

“now hang on baby i think you should stretch yourself out a little bit before we get started, don’t want my sweet thing to get a cramp hm?” he pet your hair softly, looking directly into your eyes to make sure you understood him. you let out a dramatic sigh and nodded, making kento smile at your obedience.

within minutes nanami had you strip down to your panties, knees digging into the plushness of the bed while your hands laid folded in your lap. “don’t look so serious little dove, we can have a little fun while we do it,” he chuckled, running his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling the digit away when he saw you tried to suckle on it.

nanami pecked you on the lips three times before slowly pushing you back, slipping your panties off once your back was to the mattress. he took this opportunity to admire your body in its most vulnerable state. he looked at every curve, every scar, every stretch mark with so much love in his eyes it made your eyes glassy. “you’re so beautiful….most beautiful woman i ever laid eyes on. god could strike me down right now and i’d be happy with this being the last thing i see,” he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, running his surprisingly soft hands up your thick thighs.

he slowly trailed his hands to the back of your knees, pushing them up to your chest. “fuck would you look at that….already soaking for me,” kento pushed his thumb between your soaked folds, covering the digit in your essence before bringing it to his watering mouth.

“alright m’gonna push your legs back a little more okay?” he waited until you verbally answered him before pushing your knees back until they were practically touching your ears. in all honesty nanami knew this shit was light work for you and he could manhandle you into any position he wanted with ease—he just wanted an excuse to eat your pussy hehe.

nanami couched down, spreading your pussy lips with his thumbs before spitting on your swollen clit. you gasped, clenching around nothing as he spit on your pussy once more. “how you doin’ up there gorgeous?” nanami spoke softly, chuckling lowly at the way you tried bucking your pussy into his face.

“s’easy babe! i can handle it just please do somethingggg!” you whined, kicking your feet in the most precious way possible. without a word nanami wrapped his lips around your clit, humming at the sweet yet tangy taste that is you. “oh! f-fuck kento,” you mewled, bringing your hand down to mess up his perfectly styled blonde locks. nanami slapped your hand away, grunting against your pussy as a way to tell you to keep your hands to yourself.

that’s how you both stayed—nanami on his knees devouring your drooling pussy while you held your legs back with shaky hands. “d-do it side to side again…yeah like th-that! oh my—!” you were cut off by kento swiping his tongue side to side with vigor, your legs beginning to shake, signaling your nearing orgasm.

“so fuckin’ sweet,” nanami growled, gripping onto the soft flesh of your ass cheeks before maneuvering your body up and down on his tongue. for such a prim and polished man he sure was a messy fucking eater.

the slurping noises coming from below you would’ve disgusted anyone but you personally?? oh it was your favorite. the only time nanami really lost himself was when his head was between your thighs, so you made sure to cherish every sloppy lick, slurp, and glob of spit he gave to your soaked pussy.

“i-i’m cumminggg,” you threw your head back in pure bliss as your orgasm washed over you, wave after wave of cumming hitting kento’s awaiting tongue. nanami lapped at your pussy a few more times, giving your clit a cheeky little suck before letting go with a pop!

nanami cleared his throat and stood up, loosening the tie on his neck. “you ready for me?” he asked, squeezing his achingly hard dick through his slacks. if you looked close enough you could see the tiniest wet patch where his tip was.

you made quick work to sit up and undo his belt, your mouth watering at the thought of sucking him off before he ravaged you. “slow down honey s’no rush yeah?” he cooed down at you, taking your face in his hands. you nodded slowly, tossing his belt to the side and undoing the zipper. “lemme….lemme suck you off a little please? need it kento,” you pouted, nuzzling your face into his toned stomach. nanami smiled down at you and brought his hand to your face, smushing your cheeks together before giving you a very sloppy kiss.

“later darling i can’t wait to be inside you another minute,” he gave your lips another kiss, smoothening the furrow in your brows with his thumb.

a few minutes later….

“ready for me my love?” nanami grunted, slapping the tip of his cock against your pussy. your back was snugly pressed against him while his strong arms held the backs of your knees up. “y-yes kento m’ready for you,” nanami wasted no time lifting your body until his tip was poking at your entrance, hissing at just how fucking wet you were. you both moaned in unison as he slowly sunk you down on his cock.

“f-fuck sweetheart you gotta ease up. cmon ease that pretty pussy up for me,” he took advantage of your exposed neck and began to kiss and suck on the most sensitive parts making you whine. he encouragement worked like a charm and soon he was almost entirely inside you. “yeah…yeah there we go,” you squeaked when nanami slammed body down, finally filling you to the brim. fuck you felt so warm and tight around him there was no way he’d last long.

“d-don’t go slow ken, fuck me till i pass out pleaseeee i need it,” you cried, clenching around him. nanami hissed and without another word began a brutal pace, the sheer roughness taking you aback. “yessss f-fuck kenny!” you squealed, your head falling back on his shoulder. in this position the tip of his cock repeatedly hit that spongy spot inside you that had you seeing stars. your wetness already began to soak both of your guys’ thighs, a sharp slapping sound echoing throughout the room from it.

“oh i know baby i know. feels good yeah? tight little pussy is fucking soaking us, you hear that?” he breathlessly chuckled, referring to the slapping noises your thighs were making. “uh huh! uh huh! i hear it kenny,” you whimpered, trying your absolute hardest not to start drooling.

kento securely held both of your legs in one of his arms while the other gripped your chin, forcing you took look at him. you stuck out your tongue the tiniest bit making him chuckle, “gimme a kiss baby.” he sucked your tongue into his mouth making your eyes roll back. you loved when he did that. nanami’s sloppy, tongue filled kisses were your personal drug of choice. the way he made you feel every ounce of love and want in just a single kiss made your head spin and your pussy throb.

“s’good ken you’re so strong. so. fucking. stronggg.” ken thrusted up a tad rougher towards the end of your sentence, his head inflated beyond belief. your praise was making his head spin, he had to give you the most earth shattering orgasm you’ve ever had—he had to.

he adjusted your position to where both of your legs were hanging over his arms once more, both of his hands now clasped behind your head. “ready pretty baby?” he huffed out, chuckling when the only noise you let out was a loud moan.

you didn’t know it was possible to be fucked completely braindead yet here you were, eyes rolled back and not a thought in your mind as kento brutally thrusted up into you. he could only imagine how full your pussy must’ve looked, god the thought had his balls tightening.

“ken! ken! ken! kenny!” you chanted his name like a prayer, your pussy now squelching each time his fucked up into you. nanami tightened his hands around your head (not too tight though ofc) and forced your head to look down, giving you a delicious view of his soaked cock spearing into your puffy pussy. “we *hiccup* look so pretty together kenny, wish you could *hiccup* see,” you sighed dreamily, because it truly was a beautiful sight.

“don’t worry baby i will later, s-see that—fuck! see my phone? hm?” he slowed his pace, and loosened his grip on your head allowing you to look up and see that his phone was indeed propped up recording the entire thing. you smiled and bit your lip, now excited for when you both watch the video together which will probably lead to him having you like this again hehe.

“rub your clit my love, cmon make yourself cum on your husbands cock—yeahhhh that’s it honey there you fucking go,” nanami growled in pleasure as your pussy squeezed him like a vice. his dick was getting wetter either each thrust inside you until he accidentally slipped out making you whine very loudly. “i got it baby i got it,” he huffed and slammed you right back down on his cock, making your eyes cross. “yes yes y-yes fuck, so good kenny please cum in me,” you cried, digging your nails into his toned thighs.

nanami growled removing his hands from your head to spread thighs as wide as possible, one hand toying sloppily with your clit while the other found purchase on your neck. “i’m gonna cum baby—right inside this tight little pussy, and you’re gonna take all of it like my good little wife aren’t you?” his hand began to slap your clit, making a broken moan slip past your swollen lips. “yesss kenny m’gonna take it all i promise!” you cried, aching to feel the warmth of his cum inside you.

“fuck fuck fuck goddammit,” kento let out a guttural moan right in your ear, his cock throbbing as he pumped his cum into you. there was so much. so much it began to slip down his cock and onto the bed. he was about to pull out but you quickly stopped him, wanting to stay like this for just a little while longer. “can i at least turn you around so i can look at you?” he hummed , giving your shoulder a gentle kiss.

you nodded and nanami slowly pulled out making you whimper before turning your body so you were facing him. he pulled you tightly against his chest mumbling praises on top of praises in your ear while he carefully pushed himself back inside you, moaning softly.

“so how’d you like it my love,” he grinned nudging your nose with his. you lifted your head up and cradled his face in your hands, pressing your foreheads together. “that was so. fucking. good. rest up while you can because you’re gonna fuck me like that again tonight!” you giggled, purposely clenching around his now soft cock. kento hissed, squeezing his eyes shut in sensitivity.

he’s probably created an even bigger monster in you but shit he wasn’t complaining!!!

btw peaches and coconut!eren fic coming soon!! i just wanted to get this out of my drafts *kiss kiss*

[aleksatia]

✨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Xavier.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional suppression / avoidance, BDSM themes (consensual, explored through metaphor & mechanics), Restraint / bondage, Power exchange, Surveillance intimacy, Emotional vulnerability, Reconciliation themes, OOC (arguably — Xavier shows unexpected sides).

Pairing: Xavier x ex-wife!you Genre: Psychological intimacy wrapped in red velvet and cold steel. Trust tested through touch, control unraveled by confession. Slow-burn tension, mechanical honesty, sensual restraint. Lovers to estranged to exposed. Summary: You signed up for a curated escape room. You got Xavier — your ex-husband, your mirror, your unfinished sentence. As each room pulls you deeper into physical vulnerability and emotional truth, you’re forced to confront the version of him you never dared ask about. The one who still knows how to touch you like a memory and undo you like a lock. Word Count: 6.7K 🤓 A/N: I swear, I have no idea how I ended up writing this kind of story — but everything just fell into place so naturally, and even Xavier, surprisingly, felt right in this role. That said, I’d genuinely love to hear your thoughts — even (or especially) if they’re the complete opposite of mine.

You hadn’t meant for it to be anything.

No fresh start, no stitched-up romance, no symbolic gesture to “finally move on.” You just loved escape rooms. The logic, the tension, the quiet way a puzzle waits to be understood. And lately, there had been no one to go with.

So when the email popped up — Experimental Couple’s Room. 60 minutes. One blindfold. One chain. One way out — you said yes without thinking too hard.

The description was vague. Something about "sensory challenges" and "collaborative vulnerability.”  Whatever that meant.

You weren’t looking for anything serious. Not even company. But the idea of spending an hour in a space designed for intimacy — manufactured or not — felt… curious. And curiosity was more than you'd felt in months.

Now, someone was tying the blindfold just a little too tightly, fingers brushing behind your ears. A low, pleasant voice gave the instructions — stay calm, stay together, follow the prompts. You and your mystery partner would remain close. Intentionally close. You wouldn’t see him until the signal.

You hadn’t cared. 

But you’d also worn your favorite perfume, just in case. Not for him— for yourself.

The world went dark.

You hadn’t even stepped into the room yet when the air shifted — sharp and immediate, like static before a storm. There was someone just ahead. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him move, but your body knew. A flicker of heat bloomed low in your stomach — tight, inexplicable. Not fear. Not quite. More like the moment before something fated. Something that knew your name before you said it aloud.

The organizer’s hand found yours, steady, and guided you toward the threshold. A subtle gesture, a nudge forward. The door hissed shut behind you.

And in the stillness — you felt him.

Not through sound or contact, but through something subtler. Atmosphere.

A silent weight, like gravity that only applied to your skin. A warmth pulsing beside you, not quite breath, not quite body, but unmistakably there. You had the sudden, irrational urge to tear off the blindfold and look. To see. To know.

You waited. Then came the beep.

You exhaled — sharply, unprepared — and reached for the blindfold.

Pulled it free. And turned.

Your stomach dropped.

The shock hit you like a slap of cold air across bare skin.

He was standing just beside you — still, composed, unmissable even in the low light. That posture. That precise, deliberate alignment of shoulders. And the eyes. Clear, bright, steady.

Xavier. Your ex-husband.

He didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

But you’d known him once the way lungs know breath — instinctively, automatically. And something flickered beneath the surface.

Not surprise. Not confusion. Impact.

He looked at you like someone looking at an old photograph. Not just with memory — with weight.

You froze, mid-breath.

“…Hi,” you said, and your voice sounded like it didn’t belong to your body.

Xavier tilted his head slightly.

“Your perfume hasn’t changed,” he said.

His voice was calm. Too calm. As if the past year hadn’t happened. As if this was nothing more than an awkward meet-cute in a bookstore aisle.

You blinked at him. Your mouth moved before your brain caught up.

“Of course,” you said quietly. “You always show up where I least expect you.”

His expression didn’t shift much. But something flickered behind the stillness — an old tension, a familiarity laced with heat.

“I don’t plan it,” he replied. “But I don’t fight it either.”

You hesitated. Searched his face.

“You knew it was me?” you asked.

He paused. Then, “Only when you reached for the blindfold. You still hesitate on the inhale.”

You wanted to say something clever. Something cutting. Instead, you just stood there, staring at him. The room around you was silent, waiting.

“Shall we?” he asked.

And the way he said it — gently, plainly — made you want to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

You took a step forward. And stopped.

Red.

It hit you like a blush that spread across the entire room. Crimson velvet lined the walls. Leather — lots of leather — wrapped the furniture, the fixtures, the frames. A swing hung from the ceiling, too artfully constructed to pass as gym equipment. Stirrups. Padded cuffs. A mirror angled too deliberately toward the bed. And the bed — don’t even start with the bed — was a cathedral of implication. Silk sheets, gold trim, four posts, ropes coiled neatly at the corners like they were waiting for instruction.

“...Well,” you said.

Xavier stood beside you, hands calmly folded behind his back, as if they were in a museum exhibit titled ‘Repression Through the Ages.’

You turned your head, slowly.

“Did you know it was going to be this kind of game?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked around, calm as ever, like he was scanning for weak points in the architecture — not taking in what appeared to be a decorative wall arrangement made entirely of whips, a shelf lined with sleek, gleaming objects shaped like sins, and what looked suspiciously like a collection of tails. Where those were supposed to go, you didn’t want to guess. Not out loud, anyway.

“I assumed it was a trust exercise,” he said finally.

You blinked at him.

“Xavier, there are cuffs on every surface, a mirror aimed like a camera crew forgot to pack up, and what looks like a decorative whip display curated by Satan himself. This isn’t trust. This is foreplay reverse-engineered by a sadist with a God complex.”

He took a single step forward and gestured casually toward the nearest installation.

“Technically, that’s a fisting horse.”

Then he looked at you.

Not quickly. Not sharply. But with the kind of slow, analytical attention people usually reserve for blueprints. Or confessions.

There was no grin. No lifted brow. Just that unnerving steadiness you remembered far too well.

Whatever he saw on your face, it didn’t rattle him. 

It rattled you.

You stepped back instinctively —

And ran full-body into something that looked medically questionable and hydraulically ambitious. 

“Oh my god.” You rebounded with a startled breath and a nervous laugh. “You’re disturbingly calm. You do realize we used to have sex in silence with the lights off?”

He glanced at you, his tone perfectly even. “I didn’t want to morally traumatize you.”

That stopped you cold.

“I’m sorry — what?”

He finally looked you full in the face. “You seemed fragile about contrast.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Fragile.

Contrast.

You suddenly needed air. And distance. And possibly therapy.

You pointed vaguely at the velvet swing in the corner. “So that’s been in you this whole time? Quietly judging my candle collection while fantasizing about harnesses and impact ratios?”

He didn’t flinch. “Not judging. Just choosing.”

You stared. “What does that even mean?”

He tilted his head. “You were already everything. Turned out I wasn’t that hard to please.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And hot.

Not temperature-hot. Not yet. But something had cracked, and you weren’t sure which side of it you were standing on.

You stared at him, jaw slack.

What.

Was.

That.

“Who are you in here?” you asked.

He looked around the room like it was the most natural environment in the world.

“The same person I always was,” he said. “You just never asked the right questions.”

You shook your head — sharp, as if the motion could scatter the static building behind your eyes. Whatever questions wanted to form, you shoved them down. They could wait. Until they came out cleaner. Or at least… printable.

The clock was already ticking.

So you moved. Toward the first station.

Carefully. 

As if the rope might strike first.

A thick silk cord lay coiled on a velvet-lined pedestal. Next to it — a screen glowing softly with scrolling instructions. A stylized animation of binding points on a human body flickered in slow, deliberate motion. 

Ankles. Wrists. Hips. Chest.

"The Knot of Trust."  Of course.

You crossed your arms. “Absolutely not.”

He glanced at you. “Then bind me.”

You stared.

“If you’re confident you can follow the pattern,” he added smoothly, “without compromising circulation or breath control.”

You squinted at him. “Are you seriously challenging me to a bondage competition?”

“I’m offering you agency.”

You exhaled. “God, I hate when you weaponize consent.”

Still, your fingers twitched toward the rope. You knew full well you had no idea what you were doing. You were not about to kill your ex in a place that looked like Freud and the Marquis de Sade co-designed it.

You shoved the rope toward him. “Fine. Just — make it quick.”

“I never do,” he murmured.

You stiffened. But he was already reaching for the cord, the movement so fluid, so gentle, it felt like it had already begun before you’d agreed.

He guided you backward — light touch on your elbow — and sat you down on a padded bench angled toward the mirror. You didn’t mean to glance at your reflection, but you did.

Still you.

Jeans, soft tee, slight flush to the cheeks. But as the rope slid around your arm, looped with exacting care beneath your ribs, you saw something change.

The tension of the knots drew your body into sharper lines — curves lifting under pressure, breath held just slightly shallow.  Everything still covered. Everything suddenly... obvious.

His fingers worked in silence.

Loop. Pull. Anchor. Glide.

He kept a palm pressed at the small of your back — not for balance. For calibration. Each new knot adjusted the way your body curved under his touch, the way your shoulder tilted or your neck stretched in compliance. He didn't grip — he guided, always with that maddening calm.

When he reached your waist, he leaned in — not to touch, but to read. His breath skimmed against your throat, unhurried, like he was studying your pulse by feel alone. His hand slid behind your knee, lifted, pressed — your thigh rotated outward, aligning you to the diagram like a mannequin in a boutique window.

He stepped back, and you met your own gaze in the mirror. That wasn’t just pressure. That was poetry.

Your shirt clung to your chest from where the rope framed you, perfectly emphasizing shape where before there’d been softness. One knot sat low on your pelvis, right at the seam of your jeans, cinched just tight enough to make you swallow.

And still — he hadn’t done anything wrong. Just... precise. Devastatingly precise.

He circled you once. Twice. Studied the pattern like an engineer checking for fault lines. Then bent low again — his lips inches from your collarbone, his voice barely a whisper:

“Dot.”

Another knot.

“Dash.”

A third.

He continued tapping the code into the panel, murmuring part of the sequence aloud — low, rhythmic. You barely registered the pattern until the last few. He leaned closer to your chest, his fingers grazing the fabric just above your heart.

“Dot. Dash. Dot.”

Silence.

You swallowed.

“What is it?”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at the mirror. Then back — steady, unreadable.

“Bench,” he said.

You blinked. “I—sorry, what?”

“That’s the word,” he replied simply. As if it wasn’t the most loaded syllable in the room.  “It’s the keyword for Station Two.”

And before you could say another word, he reached behind your back, caught the tail of the rope —

— and with two swift pulls, every knot slipped loose.

You gasped as the whole structure dissolved around you like silk falling through air. He stood calmly, re-coiling the rope with clean, quiet efficiency.

Your limbs felt like water. Your throat, dry.

He looked at you over one shoulder, utterly composed.

“Shall we?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, rising on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours. The ghost of the rope still lingered across your skin — your ribs remembered the shape even as your shirt settled back into place. You could swear your breath still caught on the knots that were no longer there.

The next station was impossible to ignore.

A curved bench upholstered in oxblood leather, smooth and gleaming under the low golden light. At first glance, it could’ve passed for an avant-garde lounge chair — until you noticed the straps at the base. The stretch of space between the floor and the arch. The deliberate placement of the interactive mirror directly in front of it.

As you approached, the mirror flickered to life. A voice — soft, sultry, genderless — spoke from hidden speakers.

“Synchronization required. Match the forms. Mirror will confirm accuracy. Full sequence reveals your key.”

A ghostly figure appeared in the glass: androgynous, stylized — fluid as ink in water. It moved into the first pose. You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, voice flat. “This is a yoga class now?”

“No,” Xavier replied, eyes already fixed on the display. “That’s the Yawning Lotus.”

You turned slowly. “That’s the what?”

He was already stepping onto the platform, holding out a hand for you like this was completely normal behavior.

“Xavier —”

“We’ll be faster if you follow my lead.”

“I can’t even tell where the legs go in that one — wait, how do you know this?”

He paused. "Reading."

You stared at him. “You read Kamasutra?”

“I read a lot of things.”

“Since when?”

He met your gaze with that same unbothered neutrality that made you want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.

“Since always,” he said. “You never asked.”

Heat crawled up your neck.

You climbed onto the bench because there was nowhere else to go.

The first pose had him kneel behind you, one knee between yours, his arms sliding under your arms and around your ribcage. Then — he lifted. Just enough to draw your spine flush to his chest, your thighs parted by the pressure of his leg.

The mirror caught it. Glowed green.

One down.

The second had you straddling him face-to-face, his hands low on your hips to stabilize the balance, your forehead nearly brushing his. He didn’t blink. You wanted to.

The third… well, the third was no longer pretending.

You were angled back over his arm, one leg lifted, your shirt riding just slightly too high, and his breath ghosting across your neck as he adjusted your position with slow precision.

He was quiet. So, so quiet.

Which is why it hit harder when he said, almost absently:

“I always wanted to try this one. With you.”

Your breath caught.

Your eyes snapped open. “With me?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“As in, specifically?”

“As in, exclusively.”

You tried to laugh. It came out shaky. “When? Somewhere between bleeding out in the field and writing mission briefs?”

He didn’t smile, but his hand slid slightly higher on your back, grounding you.

“Not everything I wanted fit into the version of me you liked.”

That landed like a slow detonation in your chest.

The next pose required you to lean forward over the bench, elbows braced on the leather, hips slightly raised as he adjusted your legs with clinical grace. Except it didn’t feel clinical. Not at all.

Not with his fingers curling under your thigh to reposition it. Not with his palm brushing the small of your back like it remembered you.

The mirror chimed — another ping.

You turned your head, catching your reflection.

Fully clothed. And yet you had never looked more undone.

The tension in your core. The arch of your back. The way his frame fit behind yours with unshakable precision. Your body looked sculpted into wanting.

Your mouth opened to say something — anything —

But he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear.

“Spreader bar,” he said.

“What?” you whispered.

“That’s the keyword.”

You blinked.

He stepped away. You didn’t even feel him untangle from you — he just... vanished from the contact like he’d never been pressed against every inch of your back. The mirror dimmed. The bench cooled.

You sat there for a second, still catching up. Still shaking.

He turned, already walking toward the next station.

You hated him. You hated him so much. And your body ached with the memory of his hands.

The bar gleamed dully under the golden light. Polished metal, black padding at the ends, a hinge like a secret waiting to snap shut.

You frowned at it, arms crossed. “Okay, but… how is this even supposed to work? Like in the real world.”

You regretted the question instantly. Because he turned to you like he’d been waiting for it.

He stepped in. Close enough that your breath hitched on reflex.

“It holds the legs apart,” he said softly. “Keeps control of range. Of motion. Of access.”

Your heart thumped.

“Access to what, exactly?”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he lifted the bar and held it, weightless, between you. “Sit.”

You didn’t move.

“Now,” he said.

And your knees obeyed before your brain caught up.

The mattress dipped beneath you — soft, cool silk under your palms as you steadied yourself. He stepped forward and knelt, positioning the bar with clinical ease — one ankle, then the other.

It clicked into place. Spread you open.

Not uncomfortably. But deliberately.

He looked up once, just once, as his fingers grazed your calf on the way down.

Then, still crouched between your legs, he rested one palm on the inside of your thigh, just above the knee.

Not moving. Not asking. Just letting you feel it.

Where you were. What you were. And how easily he could choose what came next.

“Still curious?” he asked.

You opened your mouth — something witty, maybe even flippant, already rising to the surface —

But then his hands moved. Not again. Just... continued.

Sliding from the bar, up along your calves with maddening patience — like he was drawing the outline of control, one inch at a time.

By the time he reached the back of your knees and pressed — gently, deliberately — your breath caught, and your body arched without asking for permission.

He watched that reaction. Closely. Quietly. As if memorizing it.

Then leaned in and placed his palm low on your stomach.

“And here,” he said, voice low, “is where you start to feel the shift. Where control becomes awareness.”

You swallowed. Hard. He didn’t move quickly — he never did.

His hand slid up, slow and flat over your ribs, the heat of it bleeding straight through the cotton of your shirt. His fingers paused just beneath the edge — not beneath the skin, but close enough to make you forget the difference.

“This,” he murmured, “is how it works.”

His thumb dragged lightly across the curve where your bra pressed through the fabric — just enough to remind you it was there.

Just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

Then he withdrew.

Not all the way. Just enough to leave a ghost where his hand had been.

You shifted, testing the bar between your ankles. It gave only slightly, the metal groaning in protest.

“This is… uncomfortable,” you muttered, looking away from him. “Like I’m not sure what part of me belongs to me anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just watched.

“That’s the point,” he said.

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Discomfort sharpens presence. Makes you conscious of everything — every inch of skin, every breath. You stop pretending you’re in control.”

You looked at him, suddenly colder. “Is that what this is to you? Control?”

“No,” he said simply. “It’s honesty.”

You opened your mouth to argue — but the words caught somewhere behind your tongue.

He stepped in again, slower this time, as if the conversation required a physical counterpart. His fingers brushed the inside of your knee, lightly. Not sensual — just… grounding.

“You asked what this is like in real life,” he said. “It’s like this. You agree to the rules. You consent to the dynamic. And then, sometimes —” his hand grazed your thigh, just enough for you to feel the tremor it left behind, “— you realize you hate the feeling of being stretched open, but it’s too late to change the game. You’ve already given it your name.”

The silence between you trembled like a taut string.

“I felt like this,” he added, lower now. “When you left.”

You looked at him — sharp, sudden. But he didn’t stop.

“Caught in something I agreed to. But didn't know how to move inside. Didn’t know how to shift without making it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath. “That’s not fair —”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “But it was accurate.”

You dropped your gaze. The bar was still between you, keeping you open, exposed, utterly unable to close the space between your knees  —or between the two of you.

“It’s not that I hated you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hated that you didn’t try.”

His voice stayed quiet, but firm. “I thought not pulling was a form of respect. I didn’t want to fight you like an enemy.”

“But you didn’t love me like someone you couldn’t lose.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted back on the bed, fingers sliding along the length of the bar still locked between your ankles. He reached beneath the padding with calm precision, found something — pressed.

A soft click.

The bar extended. One clean, deliberate notch wider.

And from within the central hinge, a slim panel popped open — silent and smooth. A curled slip of paper slid out, like breath exhaled from between clenched teeth.

He took it. Unfurled it. Read the single word on the card.

He didn’t say it yet. Instead, he looked back at you.

“You can move,” he said gently, reaching for the cuffs.

But as he unlocked them — slowly, deliberately — his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary against your skin.

And in the space where the bar had held you open, nothing filled the void. Only the awareness that you’d been there, and he’d seen everything.

You swallowed, pushed to your feet — weak-kneed and sore in places you couldn’t name. He handed you the card without a word. It read: Cross.

You both turned at the same time. And there it was, against the far wall.

Black leather. Polished metal. Straps. Angled restraints like an invitation no one sane would ever send.

You stared. Then turned your face toward him, expression flat. “Absolutely not.”

He tilted his head, unreadable. “Why?”

“Because first you have me spread wide like I’m about to compete in erotic gymnastics, and now you want me to pass the qualification for a depraved crucifixion?”

His brow quirked—just barely. “You're exaggerating.”

“Oh really?" You gestured toward the cross. "You're seriously going to stand there and pretend this isn't the BDSM version of execution?”

He said nothing.

You sighed and pointed at the console next to it. It lit up the moment you approached.

“Find the five. The body will tell you what the mouth won’t. The sensors know. The threshold is yours.”

You turned to him. “Please. Be my guest. The chances of injuring you on that thing are slim, even for someone as much of a novice as I am. I’m sure I can handle it without breaking anything important.”

He didn’t argue.

Just began unbuttoning his shirt. That — somehow — was worse.

No fanfare. No drama. Just quiet hands and clean movements, until the fabric slid off his shoulders and revealed everything you'd spent the last year trying not to think about.

He stepped up to the cross with that same calm, meditative certainty. Turned his back to you. Offered his wrists.

You stared for a second too long. Then fastened him in  — tight. He didn’t flinch. Not once.

There was a small table beside the console. On it: tools. Leather paddles. A soft flogger. A thin cane. A wand-shaped massager. Some objects you knew by name. Some you didn’t. And one you were afraid might actually buzz if you breathed on it too hard.

You raised an eyebrow. “Helpful suggestions?”

He glanced toward the table, just enough to take in the tools, and let a crooked half-smile play on his lips.

“Try memory,” he said. “You’re capable of more than you realize.”

You hated that that sent a shiver down your back.

You stood behind him, eyes tracing down the line of his spine. The muscles there were sharp and patient — coiled like a held breath.

You chose your hand first. Just fingers. Because you wanted to know where the heat lived now.

You started at the nape of his neck. No reaction.

Downward. Shoulder blade. Stillness.

Lower—ribs.

Then, on the left side of his waist, just above the hip —

A flicker.

His breath hitched, so subtle most wouldn’t notice. But you knew him. You always had.

You pressed there again, softer this time. Watched his fingers twitch against the leather.

One.

You moved around him, slower now. Let your hand trace a lazy line across his chest.

Nothing.

Until the edge of your palm grazed just under his collarbone — his left side again.

Another breath. Sharper.

Two.

He still didn’t speak. But his body was no longer neutral. The muscles along his stomach had gone tight. His lips pressed together.

You felt a strange triumph twist under your skin.

You reached for the soft flogger, testing the weight. Not to hurt. Just… to contrast.

A slow drag down his back. The leather strands whispering along his spine.

Then a light stroke across his inner thigh.

There. He tensed, full-body, the chain at his wrist clinking once.

Three.

You circled back in front of him. His eyes were closed.

You raised the wand vibrator — not on, just pressed it flat to the hollow above his pelvis. He inhaled sharply through his nose. Head tipped back for just a second.

Four.

And then, finally, you used your hand again — bare skin, palm pressed low and firm just over his heart.

It wasn’t even sexual. It was something else entirely.

Intimate. Final.

He opened his eyes.

You looked into them and realized — his mask was gone.

Every expression he’d ever hidden lived in that one look: grief, heat, guilt, surrender, longing so sharp it cut both ways.

The console beeped. The restraints clicked open.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And somewhere, far behind your sternum, you felt something come undone.

He stood there for a second, unmoving. Breath steady, but only barely. His chest rose with more tension than air. You could see the muscles in his stomach locked — as if holding still was the only thing keeping something inside.

Then — he moved.

One step forward. Deliberate. Weighted.

And then another.

You didn’t back away.

His hand came to your waist — not gentle, not rough, just decisive. His grip closed like memory.

You sucked in a breath.

He stepped into you, one arm sliding fully around your lower back, the other bracing the space between your shoulder blades, fingers curling around your spine with impossible accuracy.

And just like that, he turned you, pressed you into the cross, your body against the leather that still held the heat of his skin.

You gasped.

His hand moved from your waist to your hip, gliding, slow, unapologetic, as though mapping pressure points. His palm settled at your side. The weight of it grounded you more than the wall behind your back.

And then — his face was inches from yours.

His breath grazed your cheek. His nose brushed yours.

His lips hovered. So close.

Not touching. Just… there. Waiting.

And you — God — you tilted your chin, parted your lips, reached for something you weren't sure would even happen.

And then — his hand slid back up to your sternum, pressed you into the cross again, firmly.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Soft. But unignorable.

His eyes locked on yours. Not blinking. Not speaking. You weren’t even sure he was breathing.

It was like standing inside a held storm. If you moved — even a breath — it would break.

And then —

A voice shattered it.

“Please retrieve the clue to proceed.”

The mechanical voice came from the console beside you. Cheerful. Empty.

He stepped back immediately. Too fast. Too clean.

The warmth of his body vanished, replaced with air that felt… wrong.

He reached into the now-open compartment. Pulled out the slip of paper. Read it.

Then glanced at you.

“The Cage.”

He buttoned his shirt without hurry. Every movement too composed, too precise. And then turned toward the next zone.

You followed, still silent. Only when you were sure he couldn’t see, you reached up and wiped the sweat from your temple.

The hallway narrowed as you moved forward, swallowing sound with every step. The walls were darker here — brushed steel and cold stone — and something in the air made your shoulders tighten before you even reached the next chamber.

The room opened abruptly.

It was colder. Starker.

No velvet. No red. No warmth. Just gray metal, deliberate silence, and in the center — a cage.

Not decorative. Functional.

Iron bars, floor to ceiling. Smooth locking mechanisms on the hinges, a narrow entry, barely wide enough for two. Inside — two small seats facing each other, and above, a recessed light that flickered low, almost like a heartbeat.

Xavier didn’t pause.

He stepped in like this was nothing more than the next square on a board game.

You followed — one beat behind — and the moment your foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic finality that echoed through your spine.

A chime. Mechanical, hollow.

Then the voice:

“Apply the sensors. One on each wrist. The cage will read your truth. Five questions between you. Only honesty will unlock the door.”

Two thin wristbands extended from a hidden panel near the floor. Sleek, black. Unassuming. They might’ve passed for wearable tech in any other context — except for the way your heart dropped when you took them.

You fastened yours. Quietly. Slowly. Felt the hum beneath the surface — a subtle, pulsing heat, like it was waiting to catch your pulse.

Xavier mirrored you, wordless.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was expectant.

He met your eyes.

“Ask,” he said.

Not a suggestion. A beginning.

You stared at him for a second too long. The way the dim light caught the edge of his jaw, the fine tension in his throat, the steadiness in his eyes that always made you feel like he could wait forever.

It made asking the first question harder. But you did it anyway.

“Why were you never… with me?” you asked. Your voice came out thinner than you expected. “I mean, you were there. But never really. Not fully. I always felt like I was living beside you, not with you.”

He didn’t blink.

He just breathed once, slowly, and answered like the truth had already been waiting at the back of his tongue.

“Because if I let myself fully be with you,” he said, “I was afraid I’d lose control of it. Of myself. That if you ever saw all of it — everything inside — you’d run.”

He glanced down, just once, jaw tight. “You loved my light. I know that. But I didn’t know what you’d do with the dark.”

The band at his wrist pulsed. A low green flicker. A mechanical lock clicked behind you, out of view.

You didn’t speak right away.

The space between you wasn’t wide, but suddenly it felt harder to cross than ever.

He watched your expression carefully, like he was trying to track if the words had hurt you. Or reached you.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then said, quieter, “You could’ve just… told me.”

His silence held the weight of a thousand chances he hadn’t taken.

You exhaled, chest tight. Let your palm graze the smooth metal at your side, grounding yourself, before lifting your gaze again.

He studied you, brow furrowed — but not from defensiveness. From restraint.

Then, quietly, he asked:

“Why did you leave?”

There was no heat in it. No edge. Just raw, open space.

You looked at him — and this time, didn’t look away.

“Because our marriage stopped feeling like a home,” you said. “And started feeling like a task. A duty.”

Something in his expression shifted, just barely — like a muscle tightening beneath skin.

“It became another assignment to you. One more system to manage. A routine to optimize.” You laughed once, without humor. “We were efficient. Structured. Strategic. But not… alive.”

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked loose behind you.

He didn’t speak. So you kept going.

“You fought beside me like the perfect partner when we were out there. You covered me, you trusted me. But at home?”

You shook your head, voice softening. “I didn’t know where the hunter ended and my husband began. I started waking up next to a uniform, not a man.”

And still — he didn’t interrupt. So you went deeper.

“And the nights you disappeared into the no-hunt zones,” you said, more steadily now. “Without warning. Without even a message.”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“I got used to it. That was the worst part. I learned how to move around your absence like it was furniture — just another part of the house.”

He flinched then. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there — the barest recoil in his shoulders, like your words had landed somewhere that still bruised.

The sensor at your wrist blinked green. Another lock clicked free behind you.

You shifted your weight, one hand curling reflexively around the edge of your seat.

“And then there was that day,” you said. “That stupid quiet day, walking past the park. That little kid on the scooter almost ran into us.”

He nodded, barely. You could tell he already knew where this was going.

“You looked at him like he was noise. And then said — ‘I don’t really like kids. They’re chaotic. Pets are simpler.’”

A silence stretched between you.

“I smiled. Said something meaningless. Laughed, maybe. You didn’t even notice. But I couldn’t unhear it.”

You felt your throat tighten — not with panic, but with grief so old it had been carved smooth.

“I didn’t cry then. I didn’t even react for weeks. But later… later I realized that in the back of my head, I’d always seen us — somewhere in the future — with children.”

You looked at him now. Really looked.

“Not because I was desperate to become a mother. But because I wanted to build something with you that felt permanent. That breathed. That belonged to us.”

Your voice cracked then, and you hated it, but you didn’t stop.

“And that day? I realized you hadn’t pictured it. Not once. And I couldn’t make myself ask. I didn’t want to hear you say it again.”

His eyes shimmered — but he didn’t speak.

So you did.

“I wasn’t mourning the idea of children. I was mourning the fact that you didn’t want them with me.”

The sensor blinked, steady and green. The fourth lock disengaged.

He hadn’t looked away once.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Low, rough-edged — but soft in a way that sounded like something inside him had finally broken free of the armor.

“I would’ve loved them,” he said.

You blinked.

“I would’ve loved our child,” he repeated, slower. “Even if we’d had ten — I would’ve loved each one like the breath in my lungs. Because they would’ve been part of you.”

His gaze lowered for a second, almost reverent. “You should’ve told me. Not held that alone.”

His voice was warm, not blaming. No sharpness in it — just sorrow. Like he was grieving something that had never had a chance to be real.

The light above flickered, just once — casting his face in fleeting gold. For a moment, it looked softer than you remembered. Younger, somehow. Or maybe just open.

You let the silence hold for a beat. Then said, quietly, “And you should’ve told me what scared you.”

He looked back up. You didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t asking you to be perfect. I was asking you to be present. To tell me when you didn’t know how. To say, ‘I don’t think I can be a father yet.’ Or ‘I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong.’ That would’ve been enough.”

Your hands curled in your lap.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be ready. I just didn’t want to feel like I was the only one imagining them.”

His eyes glinted — moisture or light, you couldn’t tell — and the cage felt tighter now, not from space, but from everything unsaid finally rising to the surface.

He shifted slightly. Not closer, not further. Just... aware.

And then, gently — so gently you nearly didn’t register it —

“Do you regret it?” he asked. “Leaving.”

The question didn’t land like a blow. It landed like gravity — pulling something out of you you’d been carrying too long.

You let your eyes close for a second, let the breath fill your chest.

When you opened them again, the words came without hesitation.

“I regret it every day.”

A pause.

“I regret walking away from what we built. I regret not knowing how to reach you. I regret that I let silence grow roots where there should have been hands.”

You looked at him fully now, and your voice trembled — not from fear, but from truth that had lived too long in shadow.

“I replay it constantly. What if I had stayed. What if I’d said the right thing. What if I’d stopped listening to all those people who said, ‘If it doesn’t feel good, just leave.’ As if that’s wisdom.”

You laughed once, dry and small. “It’s not wisdom. It’s cowardice, dressed up in self-help quotes.”

Another breath.

“If something breaks,” you said, “you don’t walk away. You go back. You find the place it cracked. And you fix it.”

The last sensor on your wrist blinked green. Final click.

A hiss of compressed air broke the silence, and the cage door swung open — but this time, the lights in the room shifted.

Not toward another chamber. Not toward the next trial.

Behind the bars, through the now-open door, you saw it clearly: the exit.

Not a trick. Not a simulation. The end of the line. The threshold between the game and the world beyond it.

The voice didn’t speak. No instructions. No congratulations. Just silence, cool and final.

But the air between you didn’t move. The distance stayed.

He looked at the opening. Then at you. His expression unreadable, but his hands — his hands weren’t clenched anymore. Just open. Steady.

You thought maybe he’d turn. Maybe he’d nod and walk out. Instead, he stepped toward you.

One slow pace. And then another.

When he stopped, you were close enough to see the softened pulse in his throat.

“I know I wasn’t good at asking for things,” he said. His voice was rough again. Careful.

“I told myself I didn’t need to. That if I stayed steady, you’d stay. But that’s not love. That’s control.”

His hand lifted, hovered — then settled at your side.

“And I don’t want control. I want us back. If you still want it too.”

You swallowed, too fast. But didn’t pull away.

He took a breath.

“So if pride is the only thing keeping you from trying again... I’ll set mine down first.”

He held out his hand. Palm open. Nothing performative.

Just... him. Finally reaching.

Your own fingers closed around his before you even realized they’d moved.

And the second they touched, your body folded forward, gently, into his chest. Your forehead found his shoulder like it remembered the way there. His arms pulled you in, quiet, strong, grounding.

“When it comes to the heart,” you whispered, voice muffled against his shirt, “there’s no room for pride. Only honesty. Only love.”

You paused. Pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Do you still love me?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“More than I ever have,” he said. Then softer, into your hair: “More than I ever thought I could.”

The sensor on his wrist blinked once more. One final green pulse. Like the truth was finally complete.

You lifted your face to his. Tilted slightly, searching — but just before your lips reached his, his hand came up, warm and firm, fingers resting along your jaw.

He smiled, just barely.

“Not here,” he murmured. “Not like this.”

He leaned in — kissed your temple with aching care.

“I don’t want to love you in passing. I want to love you properly.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

He smiled again, fuller this time. The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in a long, long while.

Hand in hand, you turned.

And stepped through the open door—  not out of the game, but toward whatever came next.

Together.

[olderwomenenthusiast]

tell me in the morning (spencer reid)

PAIRING: spencer reid & fem reader DESCRIPTION: you make sure spencer tells you his confession when he's sober CAUTION: drunk spencer WORD COUNT: 2.1k AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read, they never are x

Morgan stared at Spencer, who was swaying slightly on the barstool, eyes half-lidded and a slight slur to his words. "Man, you're not usually like this," Morgan said, an amused yet concerned expression on his face. "Rossi, we need to get him out of here."

Rossi just shook his head, eyeing Spencer with a mix of disbelief and sympathy. "He's not usually this bad, but he’s been on a roll tonight. I think we pushed him a bit too far."

Morgan was already reaching for his phone, dialing your number. The sound of it ringing echoed in his ear. "Hey, it's Morgan. We’ve got a problem. Reid’s way too drunk, and I don’t think he can make it home on his own. Can you come pick him up?"

He paused, hearing the concern in your voice. "Yeah, I know, we tried. But you’re his best bet. Please come get him."

He glanced at Spencer, who was now giggling at some joke only he understood, then back at Rossi. "I’ll keep an eye on him, but he’s not going anywhere until you get here."

When you walked in, you saw Spencer’s usual sharpness completely gone, replaced by a goofy grin and a drowsy gaze. He perked up when he saw you, his eyes widening a little. "Hey, hey, it’s you! My favorite person," he slurred, attempting to stand but stumbling into the table beside him.

"Spence," you said softly, moving quickly to steady him, a little worried at how uncharacteristically vulnerable he was. "Let’s get you out of here, okay?"

He nodded, his head falling onto your shoulder as you helped him to his feet. "I’m fine, really," he muttered, but it was clear he wasn’t. He leaned into you more than usual, his weight pressing heavily on your side.

Morgan shot you a quick, apologetic look, and Rossi gave a knowing nod, both stepping back to let you take the lead.

"You’ve got him, right?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah," you replied, though there was no hiding the concern in your voice. "Don’t worry. I’ve got him."

Spencer gave a soft laugh, his arm sliding around your waist as you guided him out of the bar. "You always know how to make me feel better," he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You smiled, though it was laced with worry. "Let’s just get you home, Spence."

As you led Spencer out of the bar, his head bobbing slightly as he struggled to stay upright, you could feel the weight of the situation settling in. He was usually so put-together, so controlled—this side of him, so vulnerable and unguarded, was unsettling.

"You really went all in tonight, huh?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light, even as your concern deepened.

Spencer chuckled softly, but there was an odd, almost self-deprecating edge to it. "I just… wanted to forget, you know? For a little while. It’s... hard sometimes."

You stopped, glancing at him. He looked at you, eyes unusually glassy, but there was still that familiar vulnerability in his gaze. "Spence, you don't have to do this alone, you know. We’re here for you."

He leaned against you a little more, letting out a sigh. "I know. It’s just... sometimes it feels like I’m too much, even for you guys. Like I’m a burden." His words were slower now, a quiet honesty slipping out as the alcohol loosened his usual guardedness.

Your heart clenched. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or if Spencer truly felt this way, but you weren’t about to let him believe he was a burden to anyone—especially not to you. "You’re not a burden, Spencer. Never have been. We care about you. I care about you."

His head tilted up, just enough to catch your eyes, and for a moment, the playfulness faded as the weight of his words seemed to sink in. "You do?" he asked softly, almost like a whisper, his voice vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

You nodded, your hand gently brushing his cheek. "Of course. You're one of my closest friends, Spence. I’ve always got your back."

Spencer didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, before a small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Thank you," he whispered, voice full of sincerity.

You smiled back, guiding him toward the car. "Let's just get you home, okay? We'll talk more in the morning."

As you helped Spencer into the car, the ride back was filled with a kind of quiet tension. His hand rested on the seat between you, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for you, but he never quite did. His usual intelligence and wit seemed clouded, and his mind wandered more than it usually would. Every now and then, he'd mumble something under his breath, something you couldn't quite catch, but it didn’t seem important at the time.

However, as you pulled into the parking spot outside his apartment, he looked over at you with an intensity that was too sharp for the state he was in.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" His voice was softer than usual, almost fragile.

"Of course," you said, keeping the car in park and looking over at him. You noticed how his eyes were fixed on you, a kind of vulnerability in them that you hadn’t seen before.

He shifted, leaning closer, his breath warm on your face. "I’ve been meaning to say this for a long time," he continued, words slow, as if working through something heavy in his mind. "I... I think I’ve always loved you."

Your heart skipped a beat, and the air between you both seemed to hang still for a moment. You blinked, trying to process what he was saying, but Spencer was already moving closer, his hand finding your arm as he leaned in, eyes closing in anticipation of a kiss.

For a brief moment, you froze, feeling a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. This wasn’t right—not now, not like this.

"Spence," you said, your voice gentle, but firm. You placed your hand on his chest to keep him from leaning in further, your heart pounding in your chest as you made sure he was steady. "I care about you, I do. But this... this isn’t something we should do right now, not when you’re drunk."

He stilled, his face faltering for the briefest of seconds, and when he pulled back, his eyes seemed distant, like he was already retreating into himself. "Oh," he muttered, almost to himself, looking away from you. "Right. I didn’t think... I guess I just thought... you’d feel the same." His voice was tinged with hurt, and that small, vulnerable side of him seemed to sink even further.

You took a deep breath, your hand still gently on his arm, and you spoke softly, careful not to dismiss his feelings. "Spencer," you started again, searching his eyes, making sure he understood. "If you still feel the same way in the morning when you’ve had time to clear your head, then we can talk about it. We can see where things go. But right now, I don’t want you to make any decisions when you’re not yourself."

His expression faltered, but he nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, his gaze dropping. "I just... I just thought... never mind."

You could see the pain behind his words, and it made your heart ache. You reached out to gently squeeze his shoulder, giving him a comforting look. "It’s okay, Spence. Just... let’s get you inside and get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow, alright?"

He didn’t respond at first, but when you helped him out of the car, his steps were slower, as if the weight of his confession and your response had settled on his shoulders. Inside his apartment, you made sure he was settled onto the couch, and though you could see the disappointment and hurt in his eyes, you also knew that this wasn’t the end of whatever was beginning between you two. It was just a pause, a moment where time had to catch up with feelings and circumstances.

"Sleep, Spence," you whispered, tucking a blanket around him. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

He looked up at you one more time, his gaze soft but weary. "Okay," he said quietly, before closing his eyes. "Thanks for... not making this worse."

You watched him drift into a restless sleep, a swirl of emotions in your chest as you settled into the chair beside him. You didn’t know what the morning would bring, but for now, you stayed by his side, knowing that whatever happened, you would work through it together - when he was ready.

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as you busied yourself with the morning routine, the soft clink of mugs and the steady drip of the coffee maker offering a comforting normalcy after last night’s emotional rollercoaster. You were trying to focus on the task at hand, but your mind kept wandering back to Spencer, and the confession he had drunkenly blurted out in the car. You hoped that, with time, things would settle; though the quiet anticipation in your chest told you otherwise.

Then, you heard the familiar soft padding of footsteps behind you. You turned to find Spencer standing in the doorway, looking a little disheveled, his hair sticking out in every direction, but there was a slight glint in his eyes that made him look almost endearing in his disoriented state.

"Good morning," you said, offering him a soft smile as you poured the coffee. "You need pain meds? A glass of water?"

He shook his head, blinking as he seemed to gather himself. "No, surprisingly, no headache. Just... a little embarrassed." He scratched the back of his neck, his nervousness clear in the way he avoided your gaze. "I can’t believe I said that last night."

You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him more fully, leaning against the counter. "What exactly did you say last night, Spence? You’ll have to remind me." You couldn’t help but tease him lightly, letting the playful tone soften the tension that still hung in the air.

Spencer flushed, taking a few slow steps closer to you, his eyes never quite meeting yours, though you could see the vulnerability behind them. "I told you I loved you. And I meant it," he murmured, his voice quieter now, more serious than it had been before. "I just... I needed to tell you. I was too scared before."

Before you could stop yourself, your heart softened. You didn’t need time to think about it; you knew exactly how you felt. You stepped closer to him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I love you too, Spencer." Your eyes met his, and the depth of your words seemed to linger between you both.

He seemed to freeze, a surprised little breath escaping him as he finally allowed himself to look at you, his gaze searching your face for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he took one more step toward you, his hand reaching out to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek softly, almost as if he were still trying to convince himself this wasn’t just a dream.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice almost pleading now, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your jaw. "I meant it. I love you."

You smiled, feeling a flutter in your chest at the honesty in his words, but couldn't resist the urge to tease him just a little. "I know you meant it, Spence." You let your fingers brush over his hand where it cupped your face. "But it takes a genius like you to get drunk just to finally tell me."

Spencer’s face flushed deeper, and you could see the little smirk that tugged at his lips, despite the embarrassment. "I guess... I guess I needed a little push."

"You definitely did," you teased, leaning forward just slightly, enough that your lips brushed the edge of his cheek. "But I’m glad you got there."

Spencer chuckled softly, a genuine warmth behind the sound. "I promise next time, no alcohol. I’ll be a little more... coherent when I tell you."

You smiled, your hands gently resting on his chest as you looked up at him, heart full of warmth. "I think I’d like that."

He leaned in just a bit closer, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. "Good, because I plan on telling you a lot more often."

The air between you seemed to settle, a quiet understanding filling the space. Spencer’s nervousness melted away, and in its place was something stronger, something real. You didn’t know what the future held, but as you stood there with him, the weight of last night’s confession didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It felt right.

[ivyues]

Beneath the Midnight Stars - Bang Chan

“I didn’t want to date, but now you’re the one thing holding everything together.”

The streets were quiet, the world wrapped in the soft hush of midnight. Streetlights cast dim pools of light on the damp pavement, their glow reflecting off the faint sheen of rain that had fallen earlier. The cool night air bit gently at your cheeks, but Chris’ hand, warm and solid, was wrapped around yours as you walked side by side.

It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to sneak out for a late-night to early-morning walk. They were a rare escape from the chaos of schedules and deadlines – a time when it was just the two of you and the stillness of the world.

But tonight felt different. He was quieter than usual, his brow furrowed in thought. Every so often, his thumb brushed over the back of your hand absentmindedly, like he was grounding himself.

You glanced at him, concerned. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the empty street ahead. Then, with a deep breath, he stopped walking, tugging you gently so you turned to face him. The streetlamp above cast shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read, but his eyes were full of something raw and unguarded.

"I’ve been thinking," he said, his voice low but steady. "About us."

Your heart skipped a beat. The seriousness in his tone made your mind race. "What about us?" you asked carefully.

He hesitated, looking down at your joined hands before his gaze found yours again. "Before we met… I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think I should do it."

The confession caught you off guard. His words lingered in the air, and you resisted the urge to speak, instead gently squeezing his hand, letting him know you were listening.

He let out a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. "I thought I wouldn’t have the time. My job… it’s always been so consuming. Even before I met you, I was constantly busy – studio sessions that ran into the early hours, schedules that didn’t leave time for a proper meal, let alone a relationship." He paused, his jaw tightening as if struggling to find the right words. "I didn’t want to date because I thought I’d fail. I thought I wouldn’t be able to give someone what they deserved."

You blinked, his vulnerability leaving you speechless. "Chris…"

"But then you came along," he continued, his voice softening. "And somehow, everything shifted. At first, I thought I was being selfish. Letting you in, knowing how chaotic my life is. But now… now it feels like you’re the one thing holding everything together."

The honesty in his voice sent a wave of emotion crashing over you. You stepped closer, your free hand coming up to touch his face gently.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "I didn’t think I’d have time for this – for us – but now, I can’t imagine my life without you. You make everything feel… manageable. Like no matter how crazy it gets, I can breathe when I’m with you."

When he opened his eyes again, they were teary, the unshed tears glistening like tiny constellations. The soft light of the streetlamp reflected in them, mingling with the faint glow of the stars overhead. It was as if the universe itself had found a home in his gaze, a quiet testament to the depth of what he felt but couldn’t fully put into words.

For a moment, you simply stared, your heart catching in your chest. His vulnerability, his honesty – it was overwhelming and beautiful all at once. You reached up, brushing your thumb gently over his cheekbone, where a single tear threatened to fall.

He took a shaky breath, his voice breaking slightly as he whispered, "Thank you… for being in my life. For enduring the mess that I am."

Without a word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He didn’t hesitate, pulling you close, his arms encircling you tightly as if letting go wasn’t an option. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breathing unsteady, and you held him as if you could shield him from everything that weighed him down.

"You don’t have to carry it all by yourself," you murmured into his shoulder. "I’m here. Always."

The two of you stood there, bathed in the quiet glow of the streetlamp, the world around you forgotten. In that moment, it didn’t matter how busy life got or how many demands were waiting for him. With you in his arms, and your words anchoring him, Chris felt, for the first time in a long while, like he wasn’t carrying the weight of the world alone.

masterlist

[mariasont]

not exactly vacation material

hotch reluctantly admits he doesn't know how to vacation, and you're determined to help.

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: fem!reader, flangst, hotch opening up just a smidge prompt: here wc: 1.1k

“I still can’t believe Garcia actually dragged Rossi into a psychic reading booth.” Your voice trails off into a bubbly, disbelieving giggle.

Beside you, Hotch makes a sound of amusement that you secretly cherish way more than you probably should. The team had practically sprinted in different directions the second you got to the boardwalk, and somehow, you’d found yourself gravitating toward Hotch.

Or maybe he’d gravitated toward you. 

Either way, both of you quickly (and silently, always silently) established that sugary clouds of cotton candy and sketchy predictions about love and wealth weren’t exactly your thing.

Or rather, they were absolutely your thing, just not in front of Hotch. You just couldn't really bear the thought of him watching you get sugar-coated fingertips and a strawberry-stained tongue.

And you certainly weren't about to have a stranger peer into your future and hint knowingly at your absurd crush on your boss.

No, some vulnerabilities aren't meant to be shared, so instead you're here — strolling side-by-side, sneaking careful glances at his profile glowing in the quickly dying sunlight, pretending your heart isn’t beating double-time whenever your elbows brush.

It's not helping, though, that Hotch seems distant tonight — not cold, of course, he could never be cold — but thoughtful in that deeply, faraway way of his. It’s the kind of quietness that makes your fingers itch to smooth out whatever’s creasing his brow.

But that would be inappropriate, so you opt for nudging his shoulder lightly, hoping it feels playful instead of anxious. 

“You know, if you’re secretly dying to witness Morgan on the Ferris wheel, we still have time to turn back,” you say, smiling up at him through your lashes, “Or,” you pause, suddenly feeling emboldened, “we could talk about what’s bothering you. No pressure, though. This is a totally judgment-free walk.”

There’s a pause, and then Hotch looks at you in a way that nearly sends you face-first into the wooden boards beneath your feet. You really need to invest in coordination lessons if you’re going to keep hanging around him like this. 

Golden hour has never felt more cruelly intentional, spilling liquid gold across his features that blur every hard line you wanted to smooth away, turning them into something irresistibly gentle.

You do your best not to openly gawk.

“I’m just —” he begins cautiously, as though the words aren’t quite fitting right in his mouth, “not used to vacations, or downtime, really. Feels a bit foreign to me.”

It’s not every day that Aaron Hotchner actually admits he’s uncomfortable, and the blunt honesty hits you with enough force to knock you sideways.

Almost.

Your first instinct is to lean into gentle reassurance, maybe even squeeze his hand or say something profoundly comforting, but you’re fairly certain that might send him sprinting back to emotional lockdown at record speed.

So, you pivot, smiling instead.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you tease. “Hotch, I’ve seen you triple-check the Airbnb reservations and wake up at six a.m. just to get a good spot on the beach. You're basically the poster boy for dad-on-vacation.” Your grin broadens. “All you’re missing is the Hawaiian shirt and socks with sandals.”

You earn a laugh from him, and your heart practically cartwheels in triumph. Excessive, yes, but entirely justified. 

Hotch glances sideways at you. “I’ll have to draw the line at socks with sandals.”

“So, the Hawaiian shirt still has potential. Very interesting development.”

The silence that follows is gentle, akin to the warm breeze threading through your hair. It’s comfortable. Peaceful without trying too hard.

Your shoulders brush occasionally — definitely accidental, obviously innocent, totally nothing worth overthinking (though you’re already doing exactly that) — but then it’s his arm brushing yours again. One might be an accident. Twice feels a little more intentional.

You both politely pretend not to notice.

Then your fingers collide, a hesitant meeting of fingertips. This time, neither of you pretend. You let them stay.

“Do you travel much?”

His question interrupts your quiet contemplation, startling you enough to nearly pull your fingers away, but you don’t. Instead, you lift your eyebrows, pretending shock at the very idea.

"Vacation? Bold of you to assume I'm allowed days off. I've got this super serious boss who frowns upon relaxation. Maybe you've met him?"

He shoots you a knowing look that melts your defenses, pulling a soft, almost shy laugh from your throat.

"Okay, okay, yeah, I traveled a lot growing up," you admit. “My parents were always off somewhere fancy for conferences or vacations. Figured if I didn't travel to them, I'd probably forget what they looked like.”

You regret the accidental seriousness the instant the words leave your mouth, feeling Hotch’s fingers gently retreat from yours. It's subtle, barely there — but enough to remind you of who you're talking to.

He knows your father, after all, and you’ve just inadvertently thrown the age difference (and everything complicated about this) right back in his face.

“Suddenly, your fixation on the thread count of the house’s sheets makes a lot more sense,” Hotch says, dry humor tugging lightly at the corner of his mouth, one eyebrow arching gently upward.

Yet your sharp eyes catch the subtle tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible stiffening — a clear indication your mention of family grazed a sensitive spot.

It’s a tiny sign that maybe you’ve stepped a little closer to a line he wasn’t ready to cross.

"Okay," you say, laughing a bit to cover the awkward flutter of nerves still dancing in your chest., "I'm sensing some judgment here, but for your information, my so-called fixation didn't stop me from backpacking through Europe and willingly sleeping on sheets that probably hadn’t been washed since the previous decade." You pause, looking to him. “You know, I actually think you’d really enjoy Europe.”

“I’ve been,” he replies, eyes distant and thoughtful in a way that has you holding your breath. “But only for endless hotel-to-meeting-room cycles.” He hesitates before adding, “Honestly, I wish I’d made time for real vacations earlier. Feels like I missed a lot of chances to just... slow down.”

Your mind stumbles a little, suddenly alert. It’s a small admission, so small anyone else might overlook it, but you know better. Because you know what he’s hinting at. You’re careful not to react too obviously.

“You've got plenty of time to catch up,” you reassure, “Honestly, anyone who packs extra sunscreen just in case already understands the basics of vacation-mode better than they think. Just gotta lean into it.”

Hotch chuckles quietly, tension easing from his posture as he catches your eyes. “I’m not sure packing extra sunscreen counts as vacation expertise, but I appreciate your generous interpretation.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, letting your voice hang somewhere between playful and sincere.

For a moment the comfortable quiet returns, filled only by your shared footsteps. You're aware of every tiny touch — accidental, intentional, completely uncertain — and wonder briefly, a little hopefully, if Rossi's psychic could predict what would happen next.

Probably not, but it's nice to pretend.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 2 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[aventurineswife]

Hey ♪ If I may request: drunk confessions w/ aven? (He's the drunk one). Thank you~ (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

“Drunk Words are Sober Thoughts”

Summary: After a night of drinking, Aventurine lets his guard down, confessing feelings he's kept hidden. With his defenses down, Aventurine reveals a side of himself he rarely shows, leaving the night open for possibilities when morning comes.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Drunk Confession, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Soft Aventurine, Sweet Kiss, Vulnerability, Slow Burn Romance.

Warnings: Mention of alcohol use.

It was nearly midnight when you found Aventurine at the bar, slumped over the counter in a way you’d never thought possible for the usually poised and strategic Stoneheart. His hair was disheveled, his hat tipped sideways on his head, and his glassy eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“Oh, there you are,” he slurred, a wide, sloppy grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight… but I’m glad you came.”

You sighed, stepping closer as he attempted to sit up, only to wobble and nearly fall off the barstool. Quickly, you reached out, catching his arm to steady him.

“Come on, Grandpa,” you murmured. “It’s time to get you home.”

He let out a little laugh, clearly amused. “Home? With you? Now that’s a jackpot, darling.”

Rolling your eyes, you helped him up, looping his arm over your shoulder as you led him out of the bar. As the two of you stepped into the cool night air, Aventurine tilted his head, squinting at you as though he were seeing you for the first time.

“Did I ever tell you,” he muttered, leaning in closer, “how annoyingly… irresistible you are?”

You tried not to laugh at his tipsy confession. “Oh, really? You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“Well, it’s true,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, I try not to think about it… I really do. But every time I see you, it’s like, ‘There they are. There’s the one person who makes me want to… to stop playing the games.’”

You felt your heart skip a beat, caught off-guard by his unfiltered honesty. But you couldn’t let yourself get too caught up in his words. Not right now, at least. “Let’s get you back first, okay? You can tell me all about it when you’re sober.”

As you led him down the street, he continued to mumble, words spilling out like confessions he’d been holding back for ages.

“You’re… you’re special, you know that? No one else would bother dragging me home like this.” He laughed, a genuine, heartfelt sound that softened something inside you.

When you finally reached his place, Aventurine let you guide him to his bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh of relief. He looked up at you, eyes half-lidded and warm as he reached for your hand, catching it gently.

“Thank you… for tonight,” he murmured, pulling you a bit closer. “For… everything.”

Before you could say anything, Aventurine tugged you down, catching you by surprise. His lips brushed against yours—a gentle, tentative kiss, warm and lingering. It was soft, but it held all the feelings he’d tried so hard to hide. You felt his hand on your cheek, holding you as though he were afraid you might disappear.

When he pulled back, he blinked, the weight of what he’d just done seeming to dawn on him, even in his hazy state. But instead of pulling away, he leaned his forehead against yours, his smile turning soft, almost shy.

“I… might have wanted to do that for a while.” He whispered, his voice barely audible.

A smile tugged at your lips as you rested a hand on his, fingers intertwining. “And I might have wanted you to, too.”

Aventurine let out a contented sigh, eyes fluttering closed as he whispered one last thing before drifting off. “Then… maybe… when I wake up… we can try this again?”

You brushed a strand of hair from his face, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Definitely.”

[wendichester]

hiii! love your work so much. i was wondering if you could do something where reader owns a bar that dean visits often and she has a natural flirty personality and she usually reserves it for dean but one day she flirts with another bargoer and dean gets jealous and becomes distant so she confronts him and he finally asks him out! if not it's okay but thanks for reading!

-🪽(idk if anyone's claimed this emoji but if not i'd like to)

｡𖦹°‧ another round,

summary. a new patron catches your eye and dean is not amused

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 583

notes. thank you for requesting love! you can definitely be 🪽 ᵔᴗᵔ

The soft clinking of glass bottles and the murmur of low voices fill the air of your bar as you wipe down the counter, a playful smile tugging at your lips. It's one of those nights when everything feels just a little bit more alive. Your usual crowd has settled in, but there’s a new face in the mix—a tall, rugged guy with messy hair and a grin that could charm anyone.

You catch his eye as you approach with a tray of drinks. "What can I get you, handsome?" you ask, your voice dripping with that flirtatious charm you’ve honed over the years. You don't usually flirt with anyone but Dean, but there's something about this guy’s smile that makes you want to tease.

Dean’s sitting at his usual spot at the end of the bar, watching you with those piercing green eyes. But tonight, there’s something off about the way he’s looking at you. His jaw is tight, his usual relaxed posture is stiff, and his beer bottle sits untouched in front of him. You can tell something’s up, but you focus back on the new guy, keeping the conversation light and teasing.

You hand him his drink, your fingers brushing just a little too long against his. You catch the slight smirk he gives you, and for a moment, you’re amused. But out of the corner of your eye, you see Dean shift in his seat, and you can almost feel the weight of his gaze burning into you.

By the time the night winds down, you can’t ignore it any longer. Dean’s been distant, giving short responses when you try to engage with him. You can feel the tension building, but you’re not sure what to do about it. You decide to confront him, knowing that this isn't how it usually is between the two of you.

You walk over to his side of the bar, leaning against it casually, but your eyes never leave his. “Something bothering you, Winchester?”

He doesn’t look at you right away, taking a long swig from his beer before finally glancing up. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is sharp when he speaks. “You seemed real... friendly with him tonight.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “It’s just flirting, Dean. You know how I am.”

He exhales through his nose, a deep sigh escaping as his hands grip the edge of the counter. “Yeah, I know. I guess I just didn’t like seeing it with someone else.”

The sudden honesty in his voice catches you off guard. You take a step closer, your heart fluttering. “Dean, are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you think he might brush it off. But then, he leans forward, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you rarely see. “Maybe I am,” he admits, his voice softer now. “Maybe I’m tired of just watching.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips, the tension easing between you. “Well, maybe you should stop watching and do something about it, then.”

Dean’s grin is quick and genuine, that familiar spark returning to his eyes. “How about I take you out sometime? Just the two of us. No one else around.”

You laugh softly, your heart racing at the thought. “I think I’d like that.”

Dean’s face softens, a warmth in his eyes as he reaches over and gently takes your hand. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while.”

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[scoupsakakitty]

Hi!! Could you please write like woozi x sister of another seventeen member like she is older to her brother so she is his noona but she is the same age of woozi, her brother could be from the maknae line like starts from 1997 to 1999 so yeah I don't if you can understand that lol 😭😭😭😭 maybe they're together since pre debut but their relationship became public just recently something like that hehehe THANK YOU!!!

The Secret Between Us | idol!Woozi x Reader | angst, fluff

Y/N had always been able to read Woozi like an open book. It was one of the things she loved most about him his honesty, his vulnerability, his openness. But lately, that openness had been replaced with a quiet distance that Y/N couldn’t ignore.

It had been a couple of weeks since their relationship had been made public, and the weight of the spotlight was clearly starting to affect him. She could see it in the way he would retreat into himself, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, the way his usual calm composure seemed slightly off. Tonight, after another long rehearsal, everyone was winding down, but Woozi wasn’t with the group. Y/N noticed he had slipped out of the room, retreating to a quieter corner.

She stood up and walked toward him, her heart beating faster with each step. She didn’t want to invade his space, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Woozi?” she called softly as she approached him.

He didn’t look up right away. His eyes were focused on the floor, his fingers tapping nervously against his knee. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice not quite matching his words.

Y/N frowned, sitting down next to him. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to find the right words, but when he spoke, his voice was low and full of hesitation. “It’s all happening too fast, Y/N. The fans, the attention... everything. It feels like there are more eyes on me now than ever before. And it’s just too much. I... I don’t know how to handle it.”

Y/N’s heart dropped. She’d known the public eye was hard on Woozi, but she hadn’t realized how much it was affecting him. “Are you saying... are you saying you want to end things?” Her voice was shaky with panic, her mind racing with the worst possible outcome. “Is that what you mean?”

Woozi’s head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. “What? No!” he exclaimed, looking horrified at the very thought. “How could you think that? I would never—”

Y/N cut him off, her breath coming faster now. “But you’re pulling away from me, and now you’re saying everything’s moving too fast. I don’t know what to think, Woozi. If you’re saying you can’t do this anymore, if you don’t want to be with me—”

“No, no, no,” Woozi interrupted, reaching for her hand, his touch warm but trembling slightly. “I’m not saying that. I could never say that. It’s not about you, it’s about everything else. The public, the media... I just... I don’t want you to be in the spotlight like this. You’re becoming a target, Y/N. And I can’t protect you from it.”

Y/N blinked, still not fully understanding what he meant. “What do you mean? I don’t... I don’t want to be kept in the shadows, Woozi. I want to be with you. I want to be by your side. But if you’re asking me to step back because you’re worried about the attention... I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking you to step back from me,” Woozi said, his voice softer now. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want people to treat you like some... trophy or prize. I can handle the pressure, Y/N, but I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you because of me. You deserve better than to be in the center of all this chaos.”

Y/N took a deep breath, processing what he was saying. “So... you’re not asking for space from me. You’re just asking me to protect myself from the world, to not put myself out there as much?”

“Exactly,” Woozi said, his shoulders sagging in relief as he looked at her. “I don’t want you to have to deal with the kind of pressure I’m facing. It’s not fair to you.”

Y/N sat back, her heart still racing, but her thoughts starting to calm. She understood now. It wasn’t about their relationship or Woozi pulling away from her—it was about his desire to protect her, to shield her from the harshness of their world. It wasn’t an easy request, but it made sense.

“You don’t have to carry this alone, Woozi,” Y/N said softly, her hand still resting in his. “But I get it. I understand why you’re worried. And if this is what it takes to make things easier for both of us, then I’m okay with it. I’ll step back a little. I don’t want you to feel like you have to protect me all the time. We can still be together, but we don’t have to flaunt it for the whole world to see.”

Woozi’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Y/N leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “I just want you to be happy, Woozi. And I want to be there for you, no matter what.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just holding onto each other, the weight of the conversation slowly lifting as they both processed what had just been said. For the first time in days, Y/N felt like they were on the same page again, like they were truly understanding each other.

The next few days passed in a blur. Woozi and Y/N continued to spend time together, but they kept a low profile, avoiding too much public attention. They made small changes to their routine, intentionally staying away from places where they might be recognized or photographed. It wasn’t about hiding—they weren’t ashamed of their relationship—but it was about reducing the noise, making things a little more private.

Mingyu, of course, had his own opinions about it. He’d noticed the change in Y/N and Woozi’s behavior, and he wasn’t shy about teasing them.

“So, you two are playing the ‘low-key’ card now, huh?” he said one day, leaning against the doorframe of their practice room. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re still obviously together.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We’re just... being careful, okay?”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “Careful, huh? Well, I guess if you want to keep Woozi safe from all the craziness, that’s your choice.” He paused for a moment, then added with a grin, “But you know, I think it’s a little suspicious that every time we see you two, you’re looking like you just walked out of a romance movie. Like, the way you look at each other... it’s honestly sickening.”

Woozi shot him a glare, though it was softened by the small smile tugging at his lips. “You really need to stop being so dramatic, Mingyu.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a sense of lightness she hadn’t in days. Even though they were still under the public’s watchful eye, they were finding their balance, adjusting to the new reality together. They weren’t hiding; they were just protecting what mattered most to them.

[umikawa]

modus / ego

requiem for a dream; ch.2

xeno houston wingfield x gn!reader | 3.3k wc | no major warnings. Xeno is sort of vulnerable, psychology explained by a geology major, jealousy, a few too many sexual innuendos/insinuations as jokes.

♫ modus / joji

When you walk into your office the following day, you’re met with the comical sight of Xeno’s pompadour peaking above your chair. “I don’t recall ever giving you a spare key.” 

He spins around in your chair, resting his elbows on your desk. “Is that so? If my memory serves me correctly, you gave it to me a year into our friendship.” 

You roll your eyes, moving to stand beside your desk, and your gaze follows as he stands. “You skipped a day to freshen up your wardrobe?” You asked, eyes raking over the black lab coat he wore. “It looks good on you, but–” you pause, taking another step back to look at him. “Xeno, is there something you want to tell me?” 

He sighs, placing his hands on his hips in defeat. “Not at all. I simply wanted your opinion.” He tips his head up to look at you, resting a hand on his chin. “You seem exhausted. Were you truly that worried about me?” 

When you avert your eyes with a scoff, Xeno doesn’t doubt that you were. You practically deprived yourself of care worrying for him, and though he wants to scold you for being so careless, a part of him finds it touching. 

He takes a cautious step forward, moving to the front of you, coming closer when you don’t back away. He keeps going until you’re walking with him, stopping when you feel the back of your thighs hitting your desk. “Xeno?” 

“I’m sorry for making you worry.” He says quietly, in a tone that was reserved solely for you. Cold fingers find your hands, wrapping around your wrists and holding lightly. 

“You have to tell me what’s going on, Xeno.” You murmured, tilting your head up when his forehead brushed against yours. 

“I believe you already figured it out.” 

Right, of course. You look to the side, “What are you gonna do?” 

“Well, I can’t risk going to a maximum security prison— heaven knows you’d be a wreck without me.” You roll your eyes. “Regardless, there’s not much I can do. Overthrowing the government will just make me public enemy number one.”

You stare at Xeno with narrowed eyes. He knows you're not the slightest bit convinced. He nods towards the stack of manila folders on your desk, a bright sticky note on top marking them as confidential. Of course he was trying to shift the conversation. “You did more research. Care to share your findings?” 

“Do you always snoop in my office reading confidential documents when I’m not around?” He averts his gaze, a laugh creeping up your throat at the blatant admittance. “We could get fired for that, you know?” 

He shrugs, “Then we could take over this place without fear of losing employment. Besides, they weren’t even confidential. They’re handwritten— completely illegible.” 

“I hate you.” 

He steps further, somehow, humming as he leans over you. “You can’t live without me.” His eyes snap to the hand on his chest, flicking them back to yours before you can look away. “You shouldn’t lie, you know? Especially to me.”

“Yeah? I guess I can say the same.” Xeno narrows his eyes, lifting his hand to your chin and moving it gently until you’re staring directly at him. “I know you aren’t okay. Quite frankly, Xeno– I think you’ve gone off the rails.” 

“Grateful as always for your honesty.” He says, dipping his head. 

The feeling of his lips against yours makes your brain fuzzy, but you’re not unfamiliar with it. Sure, you and Xeno weren’t explicitly dating, but everyone knew you belonged to each other without the label (even though there was that third variable that confused them sometimes.) It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed you, and you’re sure (from the way he always came back for more) that it wouldn’t be the last. 

“Maybe you’ll be the world's ruler in the next life.” Xeno chuckles at your proclamation, brows pinching in disappointment when you pull away just to say that. “But for now, try to keep your dreams of being a dictator to yourself.” 

“Of course.” He agrees, attempting to back away from you, but peers at your hand that held his tie to keep him in place. “They still need more projects to reject.” He scoffs when you flick his forehead, tugging his tie out of your grasp. “I’m only joking.” 

“Make me dinner.” He raises a brow at your sudden demand. “We’ll go over what I have – you’ll be disappointed, but at least you won’t be paying for my long list of drinks.” 

“Of course, since my salary can only handle paying for your four glasses of gin and three whiskey sours once a month.” With a roll of your eyes, your hands find his shoulders, turning him around and pushing him towards your office door. “This is the treatment I get? Manhandling me after I so chivalrously pay for your drinks?” 

“Shut it. You wanted info. That was your payment.” You turn him around just before you get to the door, planting your lips onto his, grinning at the muffled noise of surprise. “I’ll see you later.” 

Sputtering, Xeno tries to steal another kiss, but by the time he can look at you, you’re already shutting the door square in his face. 

He stood in shock for a moment before turning on his heel to return to his office, hiding his content smile with one hand, the other stuffed in his pocket. A sigh left the scientist's lips, but a determined smirk curled at the corners. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

———

“I’m having lunch with Byakuya.” 

Xeno, who’d shown up at your office with a bag of food, nearly dropped it after your announcement. “What?”

“I’m having lunch with Byakuya,” You repeat, slipping past him before he can block your exit. “In the dining hall. You’re welcome to join.” He scoffs before moving to catch up with you, skipping a step to match your stride. 

“Why are you having lunch with him?”

“Why do you have a problem with it?” You retort, turning the corner sharply, which throws him off. “And what’s your problem with him anyway? Every time I mention him, you always go rigid like someone stuck something up your ass.”

Xeno blinks, halting his movements. You look over your shoulder at the sound of his shoe skidding against the floor, turning fully once you see the offended look on his face. “I’m allowed to dislike people.”

“Help me understand why then.” You press, walking up to him. “He’s a good guy– I don’t get why you don’t like him.” 

He sighs, raising a hand to his head. “You talk about him a lot. Even when we’re alone, our conversation always drifts to him somehow– even if it’s minuscule. It makes me wonder– annoyingly so– if you view him in the same way I do you.” 

A pause, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights, and distant beeps from computers fill the space around you. So that’s what it was. 

Jealousy. 

You raise a hand to his cheek, sighing when he leans his head into your palm slightly, almost unnoticeable. “I don’t. He’s just…” you trail off, looking to the side, “someone I admire differently. Always positive, nothing but true unbridled optimism, comforting to talk to but nothing more than that.”

“I see.” Xeno hums, fingers circling your wrist to pull your hand away from his face. “Let’s go.” He walks off first, his head tilted downward, and his grip tightened around the bag. 

You’ll have to talk to him about it later. 

“Y/n, Xeno, I'm glad you could join!” the aforementioned man exclaims, cleaning up the slightly dirtied table. “We started eating without you guys; I hope you don’t mind.” 

You shake your head, eyes flitting to Xeno when he sets the bag on the table and walks off, wordlessly making himself coffee. Something’s definitely wrong. “Not at all. Apologies if we made you wait.” 

Byakuya waves his hand in dismissal. Cheeks stuffed full of the hamburger he was eating, “Ish mo pwoblm.” You grimace, smiling politely as he talks with his mouth full—just a minor pet peeve. 

Your eyes drift back to Xeno while Byakuya goes back and forth with a colleague, frowning at the sight of him standing alone by the window– that cup of coffee was likely the only thing he’d consumed since this morning. 

“Xeno,” you beckon, holding the half-eaten sandwich up. “Come take a bite— eat something.” His finger twitches around the handle of the mug, a visible slump in his shoulders as he makes his way to you. 

He leans slightly, humming when you lift your arm higher to accommodate him. Oddly enough, his eyes don’t leave yours as he takes a– larger than you expected– bite off the corner of the sandwich, walking back to the window with a hand covering his mouth while he chews. 

“That was awfully… intimate.” Byakuya coughs, averting his gaze when you look at him. “How long have you two been together?” 

“We’re not.” 

Byakuya nods, doesn’t press further, and takes another bite of his hamburger to fill the awkward silence. 

Then, your coworker decides to ask a very interesting question. 

“Hey, Xeno. What would you do if you got sent back to the Stone Age?” 

The moment he turns with an overly confident smirk and a low hum, you realize the words you told him earlier meant nothing to him. 

“I’d be able to make weapons of science from scratch and become a dictator, wouldn’t I?” You rest your face in your palm at his words, agitation seeping into your chest– so much for keeping it to himself. 

Byakuya turns with an amused grin, raising a brow with what feels like mockery. “Would you even want to become a dictator?” 

They go back and forth, Xeno with unhinged confidence and Byakuya with quick reasoning as to why it wouldn’t work. You groan quietly when he mentions his son. Of course he would bring him up.

“Whose side would you choose, Y/n?” 

You pick your head up at your sudden inclusion, lips parting slightly as you try to make up an answer that didn’t hurt either of their feelings– though you wonder if that even mattered in this situation. “That’s… complicated.” 

“I think I know the answer, it’s obviously–”

“That’s enough.” You cut them off, a terrifyingly sweet smile on your face. They clear their throat, nodding silently before looking down at their food, grabbing it hesitantly to occupy themselves with something else. 

“You okay, doc?” Byakuya asks hesitantly, sinking back into his seat. 

“I’m fine, no worries.” Quickly, you clean up your mess, dusting off your clothes and hands before pushing your chair back in. “Sorry for such a short lunch. I have an appointment I need to prepare for. I’ll see you all later.” 

Sparing one last smile, your eyes dart to Xeno, narrowed with indignation. He falters slightly under your stare, grip tightening around the mug’s handle– you’re sure by the positioning his knuckles are feeling a burn from the hot liquid inside. You don’t utter a word, but Xeno– likely everyone else in on the conversation– understood exactly what you were conveying before you walked off.

Disappointment. 

———

Xeno doesn’t see you for the rest of the day. He thought about entering your office, but he knew it would only result in him being lectured until he stood with an imaginary tail tucked between his legs. 

So he waits until you’re off work. 

Which was three hours after him. 

He’ll complain about it to you later. 

He picks his head up at the sound of your door creaking open, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bench beside your office. “Hey, " he says, hesitating unwillingly. 

You glance down at him; his breath nearly seizes in his throat when he registers the exhausted look on your face. “You could’ve waited inside.” You say, keys jingling against the wooden door as you lock it. “My virtual appointment was canceled at the last minute, so I was just napping.” 

He chuckles at your words, standing up when you nudge his foot with yours. “Napping on company time? I’d hate for human resources to hear about this.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You scoff, “Have me clock in at the ass crack of dawn, even though I said my availability starts after 10 a.m, so I’m doing virtually nothing for five hours, clock out at 11 pm, and expect me not to nap? Yeah, right.” He chuckles again, accompanied by a light shake of his head. “Were you seriously waiting out there for three hours?” 

He only shrugs in response. 

“You could’ve gone back to your place. I would’ve found myself there after work anyway.” Xeno spared a glance at the person walking past, raising a brow at them when they gave a reaction that showed they heard what you’d said. They look away quickly. “Plus, it’s a little late for dinner, and you probably haven’t eaten anything since that one bite at lunch.” 

“I know how to take care of myself,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “I ate a burger.” You swear, sparkles always pop up around him whenever he mentions his favorite food. “Now, let's go. I’m dying to know what useless information you have to tell me in the sanctions of my own home. This isn’t some elaborate rouse to get under my sheets, is it?”

“Don’t even go there.” You seethe, faking a grimace at his insinuation. “Lord knows you’ll talk about the scientific breakdown of hormones while climaxing.” 

He opens his mouth to retort but shuts it quickly whilst clearing his throat. His ears were burning red. “I would not.”

“Wanna test it?” 

Xeno snatches the folders from your hands and thwacks them over your head. “Absolutely not.” He speeds up, looking back at you, and scoffs at the satisfied smile on your lips. “Now hurry up!”  

The drive to his place is quiet, other than the soft music that fills your car and the light scoffs of playfulness whenever he brake-checked you or turned a corner obnoxiously slow. 

After you park, your eyes drift to the folder on your passenger seat, thrumming your fingers against your steering wheel. Was it even worth telling him? Sure, you basically wasted a whole afternoon scouring every article and blog for answers, but that didn’t mean you had to tell him. It was useless, and he knew it.

Three taps at your window break you out of your daze. Xeno waves, tapping his finger against the glass again. “Done daydreaming?” With a quick roll of your eyes, you grab the folder and climb out of your car, hitting him with the door on purpose. “I’m tired.” 

You follow behind him as he walks to his apartment door, resting your head on his shoulder while he unlocks his door. “We can go over it in the morning if you want, or I could tell it to you like a bedtime story.” 

He snorts at the suggestion, nodding as the door swings open. “That could work. You’re quite boring to listen to.” A frown makes its way to your face as you toe off your shoes, hand coming up to his shoulder to push him lightly. “I’m joking.” 

“Whatever.” You walk past him, setting the folder down on his kitchen nook. “What’ll be? Morning news or your bedtime story?” 

He hums in thought, tilting his chin towards the ceiling. “I suppose that means you’d be staying over then?”

“Not the first time you’d have me in your bed.” Xeno swats your arm, shaking his head at the nth insinuation that fell from your lips. “What– you dirty-minded scientist!” He groans, walking away from you with an agitated face. 

You follow him into his bedroom, laughing at the sight of him lying stomach down with his hands over his ears. Flopping next to him, your hands rest over his, tugging lightly at his wrists to bring his hands away. “I’m only teasing, I’m sorry.” 

He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, shifting to lie on his side with his head propped up on his palm. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“You like it.” 

“I don’t.” He leans forward, bumping his head against yours, and smiles lightly at the light noise of pain that left your lips. “Tell me after we’re settled in bed. We both have to wake up early tomorrow, and I highly doubt you’d want to start your day off with that.” 

You hum in response, following his figure when he gets up, huffing when he throws a pair of pants and a shirt your way. He exits the room wordlessly, shutting the door quietly before you could even utter another innuendo or tease– something about it not being the first time you changed in front of him or something.

After slipping into his clothes, you crack open the door slightly, stepping back when he stares back at you. “Creepy.” He rolls his eyes, takes your hand, and walks you back to the bed, slowly sitting at the edge. “This is too intimate for this sort of conversation.” 

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

“No.” A brief pause, “Not around you.” 

Xeno looks away, rubbing his head before he lies down on his back. “What do you have to tell me?” 

You almost mimic his actions, but you stay upright and face away from him, picking at the slight pilling on his pants. “When there’s an imbalance of egos and id, it can lead to a maladaptive personality.” He looks at your back, reaching out to trace shapeless patterns. “It prevents participation in certain aspects of life, whether by adjustment or adapting– socially, I think.” 

You glance up at the ceiling, trailing your eyes from corner to corner. “An overly dominant id can make someone impulsive, uncontrollable– borderline criminal.” 

Xeno’s hand stops for a second; you understand why. 

“It makes someone act on their basic urges without concern if it’s acceptable or legal. Like… they’re brainwashed or something.” 

“Or something?” He pressed, sitting upright. 

“You know what I mean,” you wave your hand beside your head as if you were trying to physically collect your thoughts. “The imbalance makes them act without reason, like a switch was flipped, and they just…” You stare at Xeno, eyes darting over his face, afraid to finish your sentence. “Become a completely different person.” 

He gives a curt hum in response, furrowing his brows when you avert your gaze. “Y/n.” You hum, staring down at the floor. “Look at me.” 

Hesitantly, your eyes slowly drift back to him, breath hitching in your throat when he was closer to your face than before. “What is it?” 

“Do you believe that I’m changing?” You look away again, but Xeno’s hand quickly cups your jaw and makes you keep your eyes on him. Gentle yet controlling.  “I know your answer, but I’d rather hear you say it.” 

 But you don’t say anything, no matter how hard he stares at you or how long he keeps you there. 

Nothing.

In resignation, he sighs. Brushing his thumb over your jaw and leaning forward to press the faintest kiss to the side of your lips. “Let’s rest.” You still don’t say anything. 

Not when he pulls you to lay under the covers, nor when he inadvertently places a barrier between the two of you with a pillow, and certainly not when his hand brushes against yours. 

“I want you to come with me.” You raise a brow, glancing at him from over the pillow. “To the expo, I’ll convince them to let you attend. I just–” he pauses, shifting under the covers until he’s on his side, facing away from you. “I want you to meet Stanley.” 

Something tells you that’s not what he wanted to say, but you don’t pry. Instead, you nod, your fingers twitching to reach out to him. You don’t. “Okay.” Xeno sighs once more, tucking into himself as he listens to you shifting in the bed. 

“I’ll be there.”

taglist (send an ask or reply to be added or removed): @dixonsbugaboo

a/n: meow. I like the idea that Xeno is emotionally vulnerable when he’s around reader, it just feels right for him to let go of himself a bit when he feels safe.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 14

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, emotional stuff and vulnerability, fluff, angst, typos for sure, inaccurate navy stuff

Words: 2547

The One I Want Masterlist

You’re lying on the bed, facing away from the door when Jake returns to the room. He says nothing as he slips under the covers and wraps his arm around your waist, scooting himself close so your back is to his chest. He’s gentle—cautious in his movements—and you know he thinks you’re still asleep.

His hand slides over the curve of your stomach and under your t-shirt, caressing soft skin as if intending to savor the feel of you, to burn into his mind what it’s like to have you in his arms. You do the same. You want to remember being completely engulfed by him. 

He kisses your bare shoulder. 

“Did Millie leave?” you ask.

Jake's body stiffens behind you like the life has been sucked out of him. The expanding of his chest from his inhales and exhales has paused. His fingers don’t so much as twitch against your stomach. 

He lightly clears his throat and his breath flutters the wispy hairs by your ear. “Did…did you hear us?”

“A little,” you admit, but not prepared to delve into the core of what you’d heard, you ask a safer question. “How is she this morning?”

“She’s ok.”

Jake removes his hand from your shirt to tuck those wayward hairs behind your ear, then he trails his hand back down your body. The brush of his fingertips from your neck to your shoulder and arm sprouts gooseflesh that he smoothes in some special spots by rubbing his thumb in small circles. 

Pulling you as close as your bodies will allow, Jake continues. “I asked her over to talk while Rooster went to get something for her on base. He just picked her back up.”

“Base? What would he have for her there?” Another safe question. You like the safe questions much more than the ones awaiting you.

Jake’s chuckle is mostly a puff of air through his nose. “There’s been a ring in his locker for a month,” he tells you. “He’s marrying her. Assuming she says yes, that is.”

You almost snort. Millie will say yes before Rooster has the entire ask out of his mouth. Carried by the ocean, her squeal will echo across every inch of the town, and you can imagine the entire event as if right by their side. 

She will throw herself into his arms, which will knock him onto his back. He will chuckle as he ignores the ache that the fall inflicts on his joints because holding her is more important. She will kiss him. He won’t let her stop. The ring will be neglected for many hours, but eventually, it will make its way onto her finger. And that is exactly what you want for the couple who proved to you a love so powerful and fulfilling exists.

“She will,” you say.

“Yea…” Jake agrees, “She will.”

The corners of your lips tick upward in a hint of a smile, but after a handful of seconds, the smile falls. Not because of Millie and Rooster—that can be said with every ounce of honesty in your heart. But in your attempt to continue appreciating your friends’ future happiness, you find a sudden overwhelming selfishness. You become incapable of dedicating your thoughts to anything other than the fact that what you feel right now—this moment where every bit of Jake’s body and presence and soul encompasses you—is about to be ripped right out of your hands. 

You don’t want to be a brat. You don’t want to cross your arms, stick up your nose, and stomp your foot in defiance like a child. But, fuck, you just got him. You just got him and it’s not fair. Nothing about Jake leaving speaks to the promise of any higher power’s ability to balance out the pain you’ve experienced with the pleasure and joy that has found you over the past few months. You are about to stop receiving what you’ve come to accept you deserve after the hell that was your life before Jake and the world he introduced. 

Had what you heard been said differently, you might not feel this strongly about him leaving. Were Jake and Millie’s words lighter, you might be able to believe that this separation will not last, that Jake will come home, and what is happening between you and him will simply pause for a couple of months before it resumes. But their tone suggested an unbearable alternative. 

You flip over so you can look him in the eyes and instantly see that he’s feeling what you feel. You don’t have to tiptoe around the deployment now. He knows you heard enough. 

“Will you tell me about it?” you ask.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything, you don’t say. Every detail, every move, every risk, every likelihood, every expectation you’re allowed to have. You want to know where he will be and when; when he will go and return. You think the more you know, the less you will worry. But Jake can’t give you that much. So you don’t ask for it.

Instead, you say, “Are you scared?” because maybe if he’s not scared, then you shouldn’t be, either.

“You know me, beautiful. I'm the best,” he says, but you can hear the uncertainty that weakens his voice. He doesn’t answer your question like you want him to. “But it's…different. We've been training hard for months. They've done everything they can to prepare us.”

“Is it enough?”

“It’s as much as they could do.”

You blink away the threat of tears and sniff away the tingling in your nose, but it’s hard to do as you try to accept that information. As much as they could do is not enough for you. 

“You’re not good at being reassuring,” you inform him.

Jake sighs into a sad smile. His eyes briefly drift, but when he locks your gazes again, a rich, thick vulnerability fills the space between you. “In this case, I don’t know how,” he says. “I’ve never had to explain this to someone I care about the way I care about you.”

You pause mid-breath and there’s a swelling to your throat that seems to squeeze the rest of that breath right out of you. Once again, you’re selfish, not considering what all of this means for Jake. He’s the one leaving his home, risking his life, and with everything you’ve gathered from Millie’s words and his own, nothing about this will be simple or can compare to what they’ve faced in quite some time. 

“It’s…different,” he told you; “...especially this time,” Millie had said.

This deployment—this mission—will be no in-and-out quick trip, no there-and-back, no ‘I’ll be home for dinner, honey’ for the Daggers. ‘The best of the best’ might not hold as much weight this time, and quelling your worries should not be occupying space on Jake’s plate.

“Normally, I only have to think about myself and my team,” he continues, falling onto his back and layering his hands over his abdomen to stare at the ceiling. “Now I think about you. I’m doing the last thing I wanted to do—leaving you here—and yet, when I go, you’re still coming with me. You’re going to be on that ship, in my bunk, in my jet…” 

Lifting onto your forearms, you inch closer until your face is surely within his peripherals. His eyes meet yours and one of those layered hands reaches to cup your cheek. Fingers slide through your hair to the ends of the strands and he gathers a few between his thumb and index finger. They carefully twist the section of hair back and forth, then he curls it around his finger. Another part of you he’s hoping to permanently remember.

“You’ll be all around me at all times, beautiful,” he says. “And that, I’m unprepared for.” 

While sweet in delivery, you realize what he’s telling you are words not coming from a man happy to have someone in his heart, but from a man tormented. It’s why his smile isn’t full and his eyes contain only a fraction of their common light. Jake is a man unable to reassure you of anything because with you came change, and change is a wrench in what is otherwise a consistently stable practice in his life and career.

��Unprepared for…” leaves your mouth slowly as you finish processing what that really means. “As in, I’ll be a distraction.”

His hand drops, back to layering over the other. His stare returns to the ceiling. “I’m good at my job.”

“I know that, but are you going to be able to focus if I am in your head all the time?” When he doesn’t answer, you feel your nerves start to wiggle under your skin, blood rushing at an unnatural pace. “Don’t think about me when you’re there.”

His soft smile does nothing but throw the rest of your body into panic. “I like thinking about you.”

“I don’t care if you like thinking about me. I care about you coming home.”

Pushing the covers off your body, you stand, evading Jake’s effort to pull you back to his side. You bite down on your nail hard enough for it to give way under the pressure. 

He’s sitting up, feet to the ground when you turn to face him, and you take a few steps from the bed, hoping he won’t follow so the fear that pulses around you doesn’t infect him.

“Beautiful…” he sighs with an energy that irritates you. While tinted with melancholy, it’s too calm and gentle and plush, like he has all the time in the world to lay back and ponder the future when that could very well be untrue. 

You rip your nail from the trap of your teeth. “Do not think about me if you can’t do what you need to do at the same time.”

“I can guarantee you’ll be in my head no matter what, so if we’re making demands, that one’s off the table.”  

“It shouldn’t be if it means you’ll spend all of your time worrying about me!” you shout. “Tell me that’s not going to happen!” 

Jake gives you a long look. Then his head falls forward and he runs his hand down his face. “I’m doing my best to keep my head where it needs to be.”

“And you’re failing?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he tells you, meeting your gaze. “It’ll be ok.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jake stands then, sharp in the movement, and you take another step back. “What do you want me to do, beautiful?” he just short of snaps. His hand presses into his chest. “I have to leave you behind for months. I’m leaving you to loneliness and a silent apartment, to Brit, for fuck’s sake. I’m leaving you and I’m terrified that as time goes on you’ll start to question things. Like whether or not you’re a burden or a waste of space. Like whether or not you’re loved. And–”

“You’re afraid I won't be here when you come back.”

His shoulders release their tension. “Can you blame me?” 

No, you think; you can’t. It has not been long enough to lock that security into place, and it wouldn’t be right to shame him for lacking full confidence. You know Jake has faith in you. You know it’s not your ability to wait for him he questions, but instead, how healed you are to not be influenced to disappear from his life if he’s not there to remind you why you matter. 

While you’ve done your best to prove your commitment, your best is also new for you. Only recently have you been able to promise yourself that you’re making the right decisions for your happiness, and that one of those decisions is Jake. To expect him to be further along than you is unfair. He may be your hero, but he’s not invincible. He’s not immune to his thoughts running away with him any more than you once were. So no, you can’t blame him. Not for this. 

You close the distance between you, grabbing his hands with yours to weave fingers. “Jake, I can’t be the thing that takes up so much of your mental energy you have none left to protect yourself. If something happens to you…” You shake your head, not willing to finish the thought. “Use me in a different way. Instead of worrying, turn me into the reason you come home because of everything we can have when this is over.”

He takes a moment to let the suggestion sink in, and you let him, because you need him to understand the depth of what you are offering. Not only are you swearing to stay, but you’re beginning to paint the picture of the future he has been unsure exists. It’s the future you want, but he must meet you halfway. You’ll be here for him as long as he does everything within his power to return home for you. 

“I'm going to be here, Jake,” you say, unweaving fingers to wrap your arms around his neck. “So please don't let something like that distract you. Keep your focus on what you have to do and then come back to me.”

—

Three weeks pass in a flash. Three weeks full of sex and kisses and laughter and a million conversations about everything you plan to do when you’re together again. You don’t entertain other possibilities. 

Neither do you see your friends. Millie called to shriek over the new ring on her finger, but that was it. Each pilot has people of their own to share their time with, so they don’t waste a second of it. They hold on to every precious moment down to the last kiss and hug and touch of hands before time is up and they have to walk away to board a ship. 

Though she tries not to, Millie cries new tears to replace the ones Rooster kissed away. You keep yours locked inside so Jake doesn’t worry as he kisses you goodbye. The two join the rest of their team, glancing over their shoulders multiple times to get final looks at you and Millie before they’re gone. 

Your friend doesn’t watch them leave. She can’t is what she tells you. It’s too hard for her to see them disappear. But she waits for you in Rooster’s truck as you stay behind a little longer. 

Even though Jake is not within sight, you know he’s there, and so you keep your eyes on the ship while it begins to depart. Your gaze is unwavering until your phone begins to ring in your pocket. 

Your brow furrows in confusion. With the exception of one, everyone you know is on that ship and you’re sure they aren’t allowed to have phones, but you answer without a second thought. 

“Jake?”

“I love you,” he says. “It’s important to me that you know that.”

You can’t breathe. Your eyes dart back to the ship, expecting to see him, but it’s too far gone and you can only make out silhouettes. “Jake–”

“I’ll see you soon, beautiful.”

And then he hangs up. 

You dial back but it goes to voicemail. As do your next five attempts.

---

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @emma8895eb @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @hookslove1592 @alwaysclassyeagle

[otissbluebearshirt]

“i don’t do hugs.” for terry bruno :)

Hugs - [ Terry Bruno ]

Prompt: “I don’t do hugs.”

Word Count: 1386

Warnings: none

Masterlist | Terry Masterlist

Throughout the entire year he’d been your partner, Terry had always used his humour like a shield. The amount of times you’d been met with a witty one-liner after asking if he was okay was more than you could count on both hands and in all honesty…you’d stopped asking after the sixth or seventh time he’d made you roll your eyes over his attempt at a joke. 

It was a waste of breath at this point, trying to get a sneak peek underneath the heavy armour he wore on his chest and you’d come to terms with that. You respected that he was shut off. That he didn’t like to openly show his vulnerable side to those around him and instead threw up a facade, however today…things couldn’t have felt more different if they tried. 

For starters, Terry was quiet. He wasn’t making jokes. The usual spark you always loved to see was gone from within his eyes and he just seemed more closed off than usual, as though there was something eating away at him from the inside out. And you could tell that there was. That something was clearly bothering him as you watched him through the break room window, with nothing but his muscular back facing towards you as he surpassed his tenth minute of staring absently into the bright lights of the vending machine. 

It wasn’t normally like him to take this long picking out a snack. He always chose the exact same thing each time he went to the machine and if that alone didn’t tell you something was wrong with him, then you honestly didn’t know what else would.

“You know, I heard that if you put money in it and press a few buttons it’ll give you a snack,” You said with a touch of humour, folding your arms and leaning against the break room door frame as Terry slowly turned towards you. The second he did you stepped further in, your arms dropping back to your sides and your heart breaking at the utter dullness of his eyes as they glazed right past you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Terry replied quietly, flashing you a smile that couldn’t be any less reassuring if he tried…and he knew it.

By the frown that tugged at your lips, he knew you weren’t buying it, but he simply didn’t have it in him to care right now. He was far from in the mood to talk about his feelings and instead, he went to walk right past you. To leave the room and return to the safety of his desk should you interrogate him further like he knew you would. 

However, before he could… Before he could even catch so much as a faint whisper of the gentle chatter of the squad outside, your hand hooked around his arm and wrapped itself tightly around the hardened shape of his bicep, very easily halting him in place directly beside you.

Both of you knew that Terry could have quite effortlessly pulled himself from your grasp if he wanted to. He was bigger than you. Taller than you… He was a hell of a lot stronger and really all it would have taken was a light shrug for him to free himself and yet, despite his obvious incentive to flee, he stayed. In fact, he did the exact opposite of what he was intending to do in that he allowed you to drag him back into the break room, to two of you growing further from the door the deeper you delved inside. 

“I know it’s pointless to try and get you to talk to me,” You began, lifting your hand from his arm to hook your index finger under Terry’s chin, having to physically tilt his head up in order for him to look at you. “But can I at least give you a hug?” 

“I don’t do hugs,” Terry said instantly, already beginning to back slowly away from you. 

“Well maybe that’s the reason as to why you’re so gruff all the time,” You replied with irony, stepping closer to him and finding minor amusement in the way in which he lightly frowned. “It’s just one hug, Bruno. That’s all… One hug then I’ll leave you alone.” 

Nothing but a gentle sigh left the back of Terry’s throat as you reached out, taking a hesitant hold of his hand to keep him from retreating any further. You were honestly surprised that it worked. That he didn’t recoil or snatch it away. That he didn’t even flinch at your sudden touch and instead he simply grew still again, allowing you to close the small gap that lingered between your bodies. 

And when Terry still didn’t move as you did so, you smiled. It was a small one. A faint, barely noticeable to those who didn’t know you smile, but it was a smile nonetheless and it very easily allowed Terry to relax a little as you let go of his hand, slowly trailing yours up the length of his arms and over his shoulders. He grew stiff as you did, his muscles tight and rigid beneath your touch and when you finally pulled him close, wrapping your arms around the firmness of his body, it was almost like hugging a piece of wood. 

Like seriously… Terry didn’t even lift his arms to hug you back, he just stood there — like a statue who was scared to move so much as an inch and it was because of that…Because of the obvious awkwardness that moment seemed to arise that you didn’t overstay your welcome.

You pulled back, retreating to about an arms length away from him, “See… That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“I guess not,” Terry muttered, his eyes drifting from you as another smile worthy of a photo tugged at your lips. 

It’d be a lie if he said that the sensation of having you embrace him the way you didn’t hadn’t made him feel… something. He wasn’t sure what it was, and even though he hadn’t taken full advantage of that brief hug, he knew it was there. Deep down in the pit of his stomach he felt a whole new wave of emotions at having your arms wrap around him so tightly…So comfortingly. Whether it was that simple ease the moment seemed to offer him. Or whether it was the lurking affection he’d always had for you… Maybe even the love he often denied he felt for you… There was just something about that warmth he felt in his chest that he liked. 

In fact, he didn’t just like it… He craved it. Despite only experiencing it for a few measly seconds, Terry very quickly found himself wanting more, therefore, the very second you went to move past him in order to return to the bullpen, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into the sanctity of his arms. 

This time, it was you who stood as nothing more than a stiff wooden board against him as it took your mind a second to catch up with what he had done. You hadn’t been expecting it, clearly. But once you realised what was happening you immediately loosened up and slipped your own arms around Terry’s body as best you could, holding him equally as tight and feeling as he shifted the position of his head in order to bury his face in the crook of your neck. 

You drew your hand up the length of his back, feeling as the fabric of his shirt shifted to the softness of his skin as you carried on up his neck, threading your fingers through his curls and keeping him close to you. You could tell he needed this. He’d been so starved of genuine affection these days that something as simple as a short hug had easily unlocked the gates to his softer side, and it didn’t take you long to see that. 

He may think he doesn’t “do hugs” but with the mere way in which he clung to you. The way he leaned every ounce of himself onto you as you held him close, you couldn’t help but think that perhaps… Terry Bruno was far more of a hugger than he was truly making himself out to be. 

Like Terry? Apply to his tag list so you don’t miss out on his works!

Like my work? Consider buying me a coffee!

[dolcezzatoru]

Just seen your sfw & nsfw alphabet for gojo (my current obsession) and I think your grasp of his character is really good. I'm all for he's an all or nothing type. If you break through those walls he's all in. I was wondering if you could do headcanons for how he'd be if his f partner was a virgin and not very used or comfortable with being vulnerable or exposed.

hi angelcake, i wrote a lil bit of a fic instead (sorry) !! if this doesn't answer your question, shoot me another one and i'll write some delicious headcanons instead ♡ thank you for requesting, love ♡

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞?

gojo satoru x virgin f!reader

“fuck, you’re so beautiful,”

satoru nips at your neck, the two of you grinding against one another on the couch. the apartment was cold, and the only light in the room was the low light of the television reflected against you and your boyfriend. it was playing some show you two stopped watching a while ago, the quiet dialogue between two characters on-screen humming behind satoru’s soft pants.

it felt good. satoru was a little needy; his hands running all over your body, pushing his own further into yours to try and be any closer than he was now.

it felt good, you thought. or it was supposed to.

anxiety started to pull you out of what was a moment of ecstasy. you became a little too aware of it all–how his body felt on yours, the way your hands rested effortlessly onto his back, how your hands were clammy, and your lips might be chapped, and your hair might be tangled, and-

“hey now,” 

satoru catches his breath and runs the back of his hand on your cheek.

“you okay?”

his voice was soft, gentle, and concerned. it was safe. he was safe.

“i’m…um-”

your voice trailed off as your eyes darted to anywhere but his face. you settled on looking down into his lap.

“sorry. yeah, i’m fine. sorry about that,” you said.

satoru shuffled a bit more to get a better look at your face. something about the light coming off of the tv made your eyes look more watery than usual. but you had a soft blush on your face, and your lips were pouted and puffy. you looked perfect. 

“we don’t have to go any further if you don’t wanna,”

“it’s okay, satoru, really,”

“have you ever…done this before, love?”

“um, sure–plenty of times,”

your lie must’ve been bad, because satoru saw right through you. he squeezed your hand in his and laughed when he answered. 

“ah, i see, i didn’t realize i was with an expert in the field”

he was joking to make you feel better, but your face definitely got hot. you looked up to see him laughing, not daring to let go of your hand as he searched for what to say next.

“oh, shut up, satoru, i don’t know,” you make a weak attempt at defending yourself, “i’m nervous,”

your honesty makes his gaze soften into yours. he finally lets go of your hand to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.

“we can go however far you want, okay?”

you nod as you feel emotions well up in your eyes.

“good to keep going, baby?”

“yeah, s’okay, satoru,”

he hums in agreement as he kisses you again, slowly working up to the pace you were at before.

it feels good. for real this time. you mean it when you think it, and you think it when you feel it. he feels good.

you stop a bit when satoru’s hand settles on the edge of your shirt, slowly lifting it. you pause as the cool air just touches the exposed skin, and satoru stops.

“is this okay?”

he’s whispering now, slowly speaking in front of your mouth as to not startle you, hurt you, or break you. simply treating you like he loves you.

you think on it for a fraction of a second, suddenly self conscious of anything you’ve ever done or been in your life.

and then you snapped back into it. satoru’s hand on your side, waiting for direction, while the other one was just underneath your jaw, holding onto your neck like he’d be lost at sea without it tethering you to him.

he was close, patient, and accepting. you figured no matter what the direction was next, he’d be okay with it. he’d listen if you were uncomfortable, if you needed to stop, if you felt self conscious; it all mattered to him in ways unexplainable. 

it’s because he did love you. he wasn’t doing these things like he loved you–it’s because already does. a lot, really. an unfathomable amount. it doesn’t matter if you wanted to fuck now or ten years down the line. it would be with you. you’d be together, and the details would just fall into place after that. he was sure of it, and you were just coming around to realizing that now.

“s’okay, satoru,”

he leaned in more to kiss you sweetly, nodding his approval for your consent as he carefully lifted your shirt off. he followed suit shortly after, taking his off with your help in solidarity. 

“god, you’re so beautiful”

this was the second time tonight he’s said that, in addition to the heaps of times the words have fallen out before today. it felt different tonight though. satoru could not be looking at you more when he said it. he said it like he was reciting a prayer–if he didn’t say those words it would kill him.

it made you bashful. you found yourself instinctively covering your exposed torso up and looking away. 

satoru took your wrists in his hand. 

you lean in to kiss him as he stands up to take off his pants, his erection suddenly obvious as his boxers try to contain it. naturally, your eyes point towards it. satoru’s quick to lift your chin to meet his line of sight.

“hey, eyes on me, sweetheart,” he smirks, “you okay?”

you’re at eye-level to his belly button, a soft white line of hair dancing down into his boxers. you hold his waist in your hands, using it to steady yourself as you rise to your feet.

“‘m okay, love, really,”

satoru kneels down to remove your pants and panties, pressing his face to your tummy to be close to you. he peppers a small parade of kisses across your waist as he gently palms your ass in his calloused hand.

he rises up to meet you again, taking your jaw in one of his hands. 

“are you still okay with this?”

his genuine care makes you melt a little, finding yourself clenching your thighs together at his sweet remarks for consent.

“mhm, please satoru, ‘m ready”

he leans in once more, kissing you a little feverishly than before, and holding your entire head in his hands as he pulls you closer to mold your body into his.

“sure, baby, just follow my lead,”

[wolvietxt]

𝓒HAPTER 𝓕OUR !

series masterlist     taglist form  pairing : logan howlett x reader warnings : jealousy, mentions of food + cooking together, fluff, slightly suggestive, light angst, fluff, happy ending  wc : 4.6k a/n : this is a weird little chapter, the storyline isn’t really clicking in my head anymore, so enjoy this last chapter which is just little snapshots into their relationship😖

logan hadn’t left your side all day.  

it wasn’t subtle - not the way his hand found the small of your back when you passed in the hallway, or how his rough voice softened whenever he addressed you. he’d been like this since last night, a quiet intensity in his actions that you couldn’t quite name but felt deeply. it was comforting and overwhelming all at once.  

you sat together on the couch in one of the x-mansion’s quieter lounges, where the fire crackled in the hearth, painting the room in a warm amber glow. no one else lingered nearby, the hour late enough that the mansion had mostly gone still. logan had been uncharacteristically patient as you sifted through a book - not actually reading, just needing something to occupy your hands. his arm rested along the back of the couch, close but not quite touching you.  

"you’re awfully quiet tonight, sweetheart," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that broke the silence.  

the endearment caught you off guard - not because he hadn’t used it before, but because it was still so new, still carried so much weight. your chest tightened, though not unpleasantly, and you glanced up at him, his sharp gaze already on you.  

"just tired," you murmured. it wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t everything either.  

logan shifted closer, the couch dipping under his weight. his hand reached out, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. "you thinkin’ too much again?" he asked, his tone edged with gruff concern.  

you smiled faintly, unable to help it. "i guess so."  

his brows furrowed, his thumb trailing briefly along your cheekbone. "listen," he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "i know i ain’t been... easy. but i mean it when i say i’m tryin’, darlin’."  

your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. logan didn’t apologize often - he wasn’t wired that way - but this wasn’t about the words. it was about the way he looked at you now, the vulnerability hidden beneath his tough exterior.  

"i know you are," you said softly.  

he exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if your acknowledgment eased something deep inside him. "good. ‘cause you mean too damn much to me to screw this up."  

your breath hitched, the weight of his admission settling over you. it wasn’t poetic or perfect, but it was logan - real, unfiltered, and entirely sincere.  

unable to find the right words, you leaned into him instead, your head resting against his shoulder. his arm came around you instantly, pulling you closer, his hold firm but gentle.  

"you’re not screwing anything up," you said after a moment, your voice muffled against his shirt.  

logan chuckled, the sound low and warm. "guess we’ll see ‘bout that."  

he didn’t let you move far from him after that. his hand stayed firm against your side, as if anchoring you, while his other came up to rest on your knee. it wasn’t possessive - just solid, grounding. you wondered if he even realized how much he did that, how his instinct was always to make you feel safe.  

the firelight flickered in his eyes, softening the usual sharpness there. he shifted slightly, angling himself to see you better. "yer too hard on yourself, y’know," he muttered, the words almost grumbled, like they were difficult for him to admit.  

you blinked at him, confused. "what do you mean?"  

"i mean you’re sittin’ here, lookin’ like you got the weight of the damn world on your shoulders," he said, his thumb absently brushing a slow circle against your knee. "you don’t gotta carry everything by yourself, darlin’. not when i’m right here."  

the quiet conviction in his voice undid something in you. logan had always been the kind of person to fix things with his hands, to fight or protect or mend in ways that didn’t rely on words. but tonight, he was saying exactly what you needed to hear.  

you didn’t realize you were crying until his fingers caught a stray tear on your cheek.  

"hey," he said softly, leaning closer. "what’s all this for?"  

you shook your head, a watery laugh escaping despite yourself. "i don’t know," you admitted, wiping at your face with a shaky hand. "just... everything, i guess."  

"aw, c’mere," he murmured, pulling you fully into his lap without hesitation.  

you didn’t resist, letting him wrap his arms around you completely. he tucked your head under his chin, his hands running soothingly up and down your back.  

"you’re somethin’ else, sweetheart," he said quietly, his breath warm against your hair. "don’t know how you put up with me."  

"you’re not as bad as you think," you whispered, your fingers curling into his shirt.  

logan huffed a laugh, low and rough, and you felt it vibrate through his chest. you stayed like that for a while, the room quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of his breathing.  

when you finally pulled back to look at him, his hand came up to cradle your face again, his thumb brushing over your cheek. his expression was softer than you’d ever seen it, an openness there that made your heart ache in the best way.  

"you okay now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  

you nodded, leaning into his touch. "yeah. thanks to you."  

logan’s lips quirked into a small, crooked smile. "good."  

he kissed your forehead then, slow and deliberate, as if sealing the moment between you.  

"c’mon," he said after a beat, his arms still loosely around you. "let’s get some sleep. i’ll stick close, just in case you start overthinkin’ again."  

you laughed softly, letting him guide you to your feet. "you sure you’re not just making excuses to stay near me?"  

logan raised a brow, smirking. "damn right i am."  

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that things could really be this good.  

logan’s hand lingered on yours longer than it should’ve when you passed him a cup of coffee the next morning. it was a small gesture, fleeting, but it sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the steaming drink. his touch was rough, calloused, yet careful, as if he was afraid of pushing too hard.  

“thanks,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly from sleep.  

“don’t mention it,” you replied, flashing him a soft smile. you weren’t used to mornings like this - quiet and unhurried, where logan wasn’t already halfway out the door or brooding in some corner.  

he sat across from you at the table, his gaze flickering between the mug and the window. the sunlight caught on the silver streaks in his hair, softening his usual sharpness. you didn’t say much; you didn’t need to.  

the silence between you had shifted - no longer heavy with unspoken tensions but something... lighter. 

you found yourselves alone in the training room later that day, an accidental coincidence, or maybe not.  

“you’re getting sloppy,” logan said, his tone gruff but without the usual edge.  

you rolled your eyes, leaning on the padded wall to catch your breath. “says the guy who hasn’t sparred me in weeks.”  

he smirked, stepping closer, his shadow falling over you. “you sure you’re ready for me?”  

“always.”  

the first hit came quick, but you dodged it, twisting away with a grin. sparring with logan wasn’t just training; it was a dance, a test of wit as much as skill. and for the first time, it felt like you were evenly matched - not just in the ring but in how you read each other.  

he pulled his punches just enough, and you met his strikes with the same restraint. when he caught you around the waist, pinning you down to the mat, his breath warm against your ear, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.  

“what’s so funny?” he asked, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.  

“you’re holding back,” you teased, still trapped beneath him.  

“don’t get used to it, baby,” he shot back, the nickname slipping out like second nature. his eyes widened slightly, as if realizing what he’d said, but he didn’t take it back.  

instead, he released you and stood, offering you a hand up. when you took it, his grip was firm but not rough, steadying you as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t fall.  

“same time tomorrow?” you asked, trying to ignore the way your heart was racing.  

he nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah.”  

that night, you found him in the library, a glass of whiskey in his hand and an old book on the table in front of him. he didn’t look up when you entered, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.  

“mind if i join you?”  

he shrugged, gesturing to the seat across from him. “free country.”  

you sat down, pulling a book off the nearest shelf more for show than anything else.  

“you always this friendly after sparring?” you asked after a moment, your voice light.  

logan chuckled, low and rough. “depends on the company.”  

you raised an eyebrow. “so i’m good company now?”  

he didn’t answer, but the faint smirk on his face said enough. ��

for the next hour, you sat in companionable silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. every now and then, you’d glance up to find him watching you, his expression unreadable but softer than usual.  

when you finally got up to leave, he spoke, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “sleep well, darlin’.”  

it wasn’t much, but it was enough to send you to bed with a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the fire.  

days turned into weeks, and the fragile bond between you grew stronger with each passing moment. logan wasn’t one for grand gestures, but he didn’t need to be. it was in the little things - the way he’d save you the last cup of coffee in the morning or how he’d linger just a second longer when your hands brushed.  

he still had his rough edges, still growled and grumbled more often than not, but there was a softness beneath it all, a quiet care that he didn’t try to hide anymore.  

and you? you found yourself falling into a rhythm with him, a push and pull that felt as natural as breathing.  

one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found yourselves on the porch, the world bathed in golden light.  

“you ever think about just... getting away?” logan asked, his voice thoughtful.  

you looked at him, surprised. “getting away from what?”  

“all of it,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “the missions, the danger, the... noise.”  

you considered his words, your gaze drifting to the horizon. “sometimes,” you admitted. “but i don’t think i’d ever stop looking over my shoulder.”  

“yeah,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “me neither.”  

you placed a hand on his arm, your touch light but grounding. “but we’re not alone, logan. we’ve got each other, right?”  

he looked at you then, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the truth in your words. after a moment, he nodded, his hand covering yours.  

“yeah,” he said quietly. “we do.”  

and for the first time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, the both of you were exactly where you were meant to be.  

logan’s lips crushed against yours the moment you closed the door to his room. it wasn’t the first time you’d stolen a few moments together like this, but tonight felt different - more urgent, more consuming. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the thin fabric of your shirt.  

“you’ve been drivin’ me crazy all day, darlin’,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice low and rough. the words sent a shiver down your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.  

“yeah?” you teased, breathless. “what’re you gonna do about it?”  

logan didn’t answer with words. instead, he backed you up against the wall, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a heated path in their wake. your head tilted back, a soft gasp escaping you as his teeth grazed your skin.  

“keep quiet,” he murmured, his voice barely above a growl. “walls ain’t exactly soundproof.”  

you bit your lip, trying to stifle a laugh, but it quickly turned into a quiet moan when his hands slid under your shirt, his touch rough but careful. he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was barely holding onto.  

you were just about to lose yourself completely when the doorknob rattled.  

“logan? you in there?”  

both of you froze, your heart leaping into your throat. scott’s voice was unmistakable, and it was far too close for comfort.  

logan pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he muttered a string of curses under his breath.  

“stay quiet,” he mouthed, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of annoyance and amusement.  

“logan, we’ve got a situation downstairs,” scott continued, his tone impatient.  

“yeah, yeah,” logan called back, his voice gruff. “gimme a minute.”  

you clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh, and logan shot you a warning look that was entirely undermined by the faint smirk tugging at his lips.  

“you’d better not be doing anything stupid,” scott added, his footsteps retreating down the hall.  

as soon as the sound of his boots faded, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders shaking with silent laughter.  

logan shook his head, a grin breaking through his usual scowl. “you think this is funny?”  

“a little,” you admitted, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment.  

he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your knees weak. “then maybe you need a reminder to keep that mouth of yours quiet next time.”  

your laugh dissolved into another kiss, and this time, neither of you cared about the risk of getting caught.  

you were laughing, leaning on the kitchen counter as bobby attempted some ridiculous story about his latest stunt with his ice powers. the way you lit up the room - head tilted back, eyes crinkled with amusement - was magnetic. you always had that effect, drawing people in like moths to a flame.

logan had walked in moments earlier, unnoticed, and the sight of you surrounded by laughter hit him like a sucker punch. it wasn’t your laughter, though. it was bobby’s face - bright, playful, maybe a little too damn charmed by you - that set his teeth on edge.

“funny guy, huh?” logan’s gruff voice cut through the chatter, his presence suddenly filling the room. the atmosphere shifted immediately. you glanced up at him, smiling instinctively, but his expression was unreadable.

“logan,” you greeted warmly, though there was a flicker of confusion in your eyes. “what’s up?”

“just passin’ through,” he muttered, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. his gaze flicked between you and bobby before landing firmly on the latter. “don’t let me interrupt.”

bobby blinked, glancing at you and then back at logan. “uh, no, you’re good. i was just telling her about the - ”

“yeah, i heard,” logan cut him off, voice flat. “guess you’ve got a knack for stories.”

you frowned, catching the sharp edge in logan’s tone. “bobby was just being funny,” you said lightly, trying to defuse whatever this was. “it’s nothing serious.”

logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering to yours. “sure doesn’t look like nothin’,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch.

bobby, either oblivious or too nervous to address the tension, quickly excused himself. “uh, i’ve gotta go... do, uh, something. catch you later!” he darted out, leaving you and logan alone in the now-silent kitchen.

“what the hell was that?” you asked, crossing your arms as you turned to face him.

logan shrugged, nonchalant. “what was what?”

“don’t play dumb,” you said, your voice tinged with exasperation. “you were acting... weird.”

he scoffed, pushing off the doorframe. “wasn’t actin’ any kinda way.”

“logan.” you stepped closer, searching his face. “if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

he avoided your gaze, tension radiating off him. “don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

you sighed, frustration bubbling up. “why are you acting jealous?”

his head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “jealous? me? of that kid?”

“yes, you,” you said, throwing your hands up. “you don’t need to be. bobby’s just... bobby. he’s a friend.”

logan’s expression darkened, his voice low. “didn’t look like ‘just a friend’ from where i was standin’.”

you stared at him, incredulous. “are you serious right now? bobby and i were literally just talking.”

“yeah, well, maybe i don’t like the way he looks at you,” logan snapped, his voice rougher than he intended. the words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for a beat too long.

you softened slightly, stepping closer. “logan,” you said, gentler now. “you don’t have to worry about anyone else. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

his jaw worked, his defenses still up, but your words seemed to chip away at the wall he’d thrown up. he didn’t respond, but his posture shifted, less rigid now.

“can we just... not do this?” you asked, placing a hand on his arm. “please?”

logan sighed, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. “yeah,” he muttered, his voice quieter. “sorry. didn’t mean to...”

“it’s okay,” you interrupted softly. “just... trust me, okay?”

his gaze met yours, a flicker of something raw and unspoken in his eyes. he gave a small nod, the smallest crack in his usual gruff exterior. “i’ll try.”

logan was quieter than usual after the kitchen incident. it wasn’t like him to sulk - if anything, he preferred to keep himself busy when something was on his mind - but today, he lingered. even as you moved through your routine, you could feel his eyes following you, his presence hovering like a storm cloud.

when you finally had enough, you found him in the gym, pretending to focus on some heavy bag that had long since given up under his relentless punches.

“logan,” you called, stepping into the room.

he paused mid-swing, turning toward you. his brows were drawn low, jaw set tight, but the flicker of hesitation in his eyes softened the edges of his scowl.

“what?” he asked, the single word gruff but not unkind.

you crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “are you gonna talk to me about what happened earlier? or are we just gonna keep pretending everything’s fine?”

he scoffed, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. “don’t know what there is to talk about.”

“really?” you raised a brow. “because it seems like you got upset over nothing and haven’t let it go since.”

he muttered something under his breath and turned back to the bag, but you weren’t about to let him escape this time. you marched forward, planting yourself in front of him, forcing him to look at you.

“logan, talk to me,” you insisted, your tone firm but not unkind.

his eyes flicked to yours, reluctant but unable to resist the pull of your sincerity. he took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “it’s nothin’, alright? just... don’t like the way people look at you sometimes.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the quiet admission. “logan... you know you don’t have to worry about that, right? no one else matters to me.”

“yeah, I know,” he said, his voice low. “it’s just... hard to turn that part of me off, y’know? seein’ someone else lookin’ at you like... like they could just take you away -”

“no one’s taking me away,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “not bobby, not anyone. i’m here. with you. always.”

his gaze dropped, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to ease. “you say that now, but... things change. people change.”

“not me,” you said firmly, reaching out to take his hand. his calloused fingers curled instinctively around yours, the contact grounding him in a way nothing else could. “i don’t care how many people look at me or talk to me. none of them matter the way you do.”

he let out a heavy sigh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “you’re too damn good for me, y’know that?”

“don’t start with that,” you said, squeezing his hand. “i’m here because i want to be. because i care about you. and you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

a small, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and for the first time all day, the storm in his eyes began to clear. “guess i’ll just have to keep you then.”

“damn right you will,” you said, grinning.

he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your heart ache in the best way. his free hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch gentle despite the strength behind it. “you’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

“yeah, i’ve heard,” you teased, leaning into his hand.

his smile softened, and before you could say anything else, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of all the things he couldn’t put into words. it wasn’t rushed or heated, but it left you breathless all the same, your hands finding their way to his chest as his fingers threaded through your hair.

the kiss deepened, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer, and for a moment, everything else fell away. no jealousy, no doubts, no outside world - just the two of you, tangled in each other.

you broke away only when the need for air became too much, your forehead resting against his as you tried to steady your breathing.

“feel better now?” you asked, a little breathless.

“maybe,” he muttered, but the small smirk on his lips told you all you needed to know.

the kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of evening light, the scent of garlic and herbs mingling with the rich tang of tomato sauce. you stood at the stove, focused on stirring, the rhythmic motion soothing as you lost yourself in the process. the soft hum of a song you’d been playing earlier still lingered in the air, blending with the faint sounds of the mansion outside. it was a rare moment of quiet, just you and logan, finding comfort in the simplicity of cooking together.

“you’re gonna burn dinner if you keep staring at me like that,” logan’s voice came, deep and teasing, from behind. the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the stove, but you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

you didn’t turn around immediately, taking a moment to savor the way he always seemed to make your pulse quicken without even trying. when you finally met his gaze, the corners of his mouth were curled up in that smirk you’d come to know so well. he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, eyes glinting with amusement.

“maybe i just want you to distract me,” you teased, tilting your head and letting the words hang between you. you felt a rush of exhilaration at the way his eyes darkened, the smirk giving way to something deeper, more intent.

“oh, i can do that,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and closing the space between you in a few long strides. his hands found your waist, strong and secure, pulling you close enough that the air between you was charged. his fingers splayed over the fabric of your shirt, and the touch sent a shiver up your spine.

“i can’t reach you if you’re too high up,” he muttered, eyes glancing down at the counter, then back up to yours. before you could react, he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the edge of the countertop. the sound of a spoon clattering to the floor barely registered as you let out a startled laugh, the warmth of his body pressing into yours.

the soft hum of the sauce simmering behind you was forgotten as logan leaned in, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that was warm, tender, and almost unbearably slow. your heart stuttered, a sharp jolt of longing coursing through you. the heat between you seemed to seep into your skin, filling every space with the kind of comfort you didn’t know you craved until now.

“log - ” you started, but the word dissolved into a soft breath as he deepened the kiss, the rough edge of his stubble scraping gently against your skin. the kiss was unhurried, as if he were trying to savor every second, every touch, before the world outside could pull you away.

“damn it, we’re gonna set off the smoke detector,” you managed to say when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving slightly. the smoke detector was already starting its impatient chirp, but he just chuckled, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

“let’s forget about it for a while,” he whispered, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the smoke.

but reality had a way of reminding you of its presence. the faint, acrid smell of burning garlic reached your nose, and a flash of smoke curled into the air. the sauce, left unattended, had turned from a rich, warm red to a deep, unappetizing black. you gasped, scrambling to reach the pot and turn the burner off, but logan’s hands were at your hips, holding you steady.

“log, the sauce - ” you said, half-laughing, half-panicked as you glanced at the mess.

“who needs it?” he replied, voice low, eyes full of mischief. he dropped a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another, and you let out a laugh that felt free and light. the room filled with the sound of the smoke detector blaring, but it was drowned out by the rush of warmth between you two.

“you’re impossible,” you said, but the words carried no real heat. there was no room for anger or frustration when he looked at you like that, eyes full of fondness and a quiet intensity that only he could muster.

“and you love it,” he said, a playful challenge in his voice.

you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your forehead to his. the noise of the world outside the kitchen seemed to fade into the background as you let yourself sink into this moment. the soft warmth of his breath mingled with yours, a simple comfort that filled the space between your ribs. he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, the touch gentle enough to make your chest ache.

“yeah,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “i do.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “good. ‘cause i’m not planning on going anywhere.”

the smoke detector was still blaring, but now it felt like a distant noise, a reminder of the chaos that had been and the peace that was now.

“well, we might need to deal with that,” you said, glancing at the beeping alarm.

“after dinner,” he said, leaning in again, his voice deep and inviting. “we’ve got time.”

you nodded, closing your eyes as he pressed his lips to yours, the world around you fading away until it was just the two of you, a promise, and a kitchen full of forgotten dishes and warm, tender moments.

🌀 logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun, @omen-keke, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd

@superlegend216, @mikaaki, @withasideofmeg, @samfunko, @aaronhotchnerlover

@qxuanii, @m1cky-y-y, @uncertified-doc, @cryingwta, @pvndomi

@marvelescvpe, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @misscrissfemmefatale, @ltristessedureratoujours, @meadow-field

@hazydespair, @stupid-little-birdie, @aoi_targaryen, @urlocallocachica, @person-005

@christinamadsen, @zaggprincess2, @lokixryss

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[calina-alda]

What habits could Albert and Leon adopt from each other?

These are just some of the small habits and behaviors that came to mind, mostly with rookie Leon and S.T.A.R.S. Wesker in mind.

Habits that Leon and Wesker adopt from each other

• Leon's terrible jokes

Every time Leon makes a pun or some ridiculous quip, Wesker gives him The Look. Arms crossed, brow arched, silence that screams, why am I in love with this idiot? Then the corners of Wesker’s mouth twitch. He turns away too quickly. Leon notices, every single time. Eventually, Wesker lets a laugh slip and then one day, even worse, Wesker joins in. Leon is so proud.

• Carrying an extra pen for Wesker

Leon notices Wesker always checks for his favorite pen before meetings. So Leon starts bringing a spare, acting like it’s no big deal, but Wesker always uses it.

• Softly mimicking Wesker’s phrases

Wesker has precise, formal wording. Leon starts slipping into it occasionally “That would be ideal,” or “understood” and it makes Wesker’s mouth twitch in amusement every time. (And Jill teases the shit out of Leon, when it slips out infront of her)

• Privat space

Wesker learns to relax. The first time Leon kicks off his shoes in the hallway or leaves a coffee mug on the nightstand, Wesker’s eye twitches. But he breathes through it. Slowly, he learns that not everything has to be perfect. If Leon’s coat ends up slung over the couch, Wesker folds it instead of snapping. Leon, in return, starts putting things away. He begins organizing his keys, folding laundry properly, even wiping down counters without being asked, because he knows Wesker prefers it that way. Together, they find a happy medium: the apartment is clean, cozy, full of personality (except Wesker’s alphabetically organized bookshelf that Leon has learned not to mess with the hard way)

• Tidying up when Wesker is stressed

Leon doesn’t say anything, just starts organizing papers, wiping down the surface. It’s his silent way of showing support.

• Carrying snacks Leon likes

Wesker starts keeping Leon’s favorite granola bars in his desk drawer, because he knows Leon tends to forget to eat. He also stocks up on candy at home because Leon often demands a 'sweet treat'

• Waiting for Leon before starting his coffee

Wesker used to drink alone. Now, he waits for Leon’s break so they can sit together, even if it’s only five minutes. It’s their quiet ritual.

• Genuine emotional expression

Wesker is controlled to a fault, but Leon's presence, his honesty, and how deeply he feels could teach Wesker the value of vulnerability in small, private moments. Maybe he starts letting his guard down, even just in quiet ways like saying "I missed you" or initiating physical affection without needing an excuse.

• Letting Leon pick the music in the car

Wesker usually drives in silence or with classical music, but he lets Leon queue up whatever he wants

• Work-life-balance

Both of them are chronic over-workers, but they absolutely refuse to let the other burn out. Wesker will snatch Leon’s reports right out of his hands at 2 a.m. like, “You’re done for tonight. Sleep, now.” Leon does the same when Wesker’s been glaring at data for six hours straight, dragging him to the couch and putting coffee out of reach. Over time, their routines shift and they start taking real evenings off.

• Smiling more

No one else sees it, but around Leon, Wesker's smiles are softer, a little crooked, completely real. Leon brings it out of him without even trying.

• Wesker making space for Leon

He lifts his arm when Leon walks into the room with zero hesitation, already expecting him to collapse into his side on the couch. It’s not even conscious, it’s just muscle memory now. Leon slides in, tucks under his arm, and neither of them says a word about it.

• Sleep positions

Wesker sleeps on his side just to hold Leon, even though it messes with his neck and he’s used to laying on his back like a statue. But Leon always sleeps better curled into his chest, so now it’s just what he does.

• Reading

Leon, who used to hate sitting still long enough to read, now keeps a book tucked under the couch or next to the bed, because Wesker reads, and he wanted something to do during those quiet evenings. Now he finds he actually likes it, especially when Wesker’s arm is draped across his legs and the room is silent except for pages turning.

• Leons terrible tast in movies

Wesker tolerates Leon’s objectively horrible taste in movies. He will sit through the cheesiest 90s action flick or the dumbest romcom without complaint, stoic and still, while Leon is laughing and quoting every line. He only ever smiles when Leon isn’t looking.

• Wesker’s Food Discipline

At first, Leon rebels. He complains every time Wesker sets a plate in front of him with greens on it. Wesker doesn’t respond, just raises a brow and watches until Leon eats it all anyway. Wesker’s mealtimes are sacred. Breakfast at 7. Lunch at 12:30. Dinner at 7. No negotiations. Leon starts to joke about it, calling him a walking calendar, but he also starts showing up right on time, every time. It sneaks up on Leon. One day at work, someone’s like “Let’s grab lunch later, maybe after one,” and Leon genuinely pauses, confused. “But... it’s 12:30? That’s lunch time.” His team just blinks at him while he realizes, he’s become Wesker.

• Wesker quietly plugs in Leon’s phone at night

Because Leon forgets it, all the time. There’s no comment. Just a charged phone on the nightstand in the morning.