#cabinet found image

[augment-techs]

[mickmathersartblog]

"Selfportrait of the Artist Reflected in A China Cabinet"

digital collage & digital painting by Mick Mather

(click image to view actual size)

[abbotjack]

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

“vickie!” eddie practically screams from his kitchen, rage coursing through him as he stares down at the tabloids spread out in front of him on the counter. “get in here! now!”

eddie’s had an issue with his rage lately. well. he’s had an issue with a lot of things, since he got famous, really. but that’s not his problem right now.

his problem is he’s looking down at image after image of himself on the covers of people and us weekly and entertainment tonight being dragged out of last night’s night club by his own security team with blood pouring from his nose. he looks angry. he looks crazed.

just then, a stranger walks into his kitchen.

“who the fuck are you?” he blurts out at the man, who’s wearing a dark green sweater vest over a white t-shirt and tortoise-shell glasses.

“i’m steve,” the weirdo stalker says, smiling brightly. he has surprisingly swoopy hair for an insane fan. “i’m your new assistant.”

“where’s vickie?” eddie asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his nose. thank god it’s not broken.

“you fired her,” steve tells him. “two days ago.”

“i fire her all the time.”

“ok, well… i guess this time it stuck,” steve shrugs. “chrissy hired me.”

“fucking chrissy,” eddie says under his breath, rolling his eyes. he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and speed dials chrissy. “chris, what the fuck?” he doesn’t even give her the chance to say hello.

“good morning, eddie. i’m doing really well, how are you?”

“not fucking well, that’s how i am!” eddie practically yells into the receiver. “what the fuck? did you see the pictures? and who the fuck is this guy in my house?”

“yes, eddie, i saw the pictures.” eddie can hear the eye roll in her voice. “we’re handling it. nancy’s already on it with the team. what was the other thing?”

eddie knows she’s fucking with him and that pisses him off even more. “who is this freak in my house wearing a goddamn sweater vest?!” he feels like a blood vessel in his eye is about to pop.

“hey,” steve protests softly from across the kitchen where he’s started to pull shit out of eddie’s fridge. he didn’t even know there was anything in that fridge.

“that’s not a very nice way to talk about your new assistant,” chrissy’s voice comes loud and clear through the phone.

“christina fucking cunningham, you know i have final say on all hiring decisions when it comes to my assistants.” he rubs at his sore nose again.

“you had final say on all hiring decisions until you fired vickie for the thirteenth time and she refused to come back, even with a three hundred percent raise. we’re going in a different direction now.” chrissy sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

“well, i fucking hate him,” eddie grumbles and watches steve to make sure he’s heard him. steve doesn’t even react, just continues doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with the frying pan he’d found in the cabinet.

“you don’t even know him, eddie. give him a chance. anyway, i have to go, i have brunch plans with my very beautiful, very intelligent, perfect fiancée,” chrissy tells him, gloating, before hanging up on him.

eddie wants desperately to throw his phone across the kitchen, but if he breaks this one that would be his fourth phone in three weeks and he couldn’t bear to have to ask this steve person to go buy him a new one. he settles for squeezing it in his hand until it creaks while taking several deep breaths through his nose.

“what are you doing?” he grits out.

“are you always this rude?” steve asks, ignoring his question.

“to weirdo freak strangers showing up in my house unannounced? yes.”

“it’s not unannounced, chrissy wrote it on your calendar.” steve gestures toward the paper calendar hanging on the side of the fridge where chrissy writes his major life events and which eddie mostly just ignores before sliding a plate full of food toward eddie.

“what is this?” eddie sneers.

“it’s an omelette with cheese and mushrooms,” steve replies, smiling. he’s always fucking smiling.

“i’m allergic to… omelettes,” eddie says, just to be a dick.

“no you’re not. you’re allergic to blueberries and dust.” steve doesn’t stop smiling pleasantly.

“did you get access to my medical records? that’s a violation of my… whatever rights.” eddie waves a hand through the air.

“no, i didn’t go look at your medical records, jesus. i’m not a stalker. chrissy told me when she hired me.”

“whatever. i still fucking hate you.”

“okay,” steve shrugs again. “eat your breakfast.”

eddie has every intention of leaving the kitchen, full plate of food and all, but. he is hungry.

so he eats.

and he’s pissed that it’s actually good.

~*~

eddie spends the rest of the day being a general nuisance to steve any time he tries to do his job. when steve answers the phone before handing it to eddie, eddie “accidentally” hangs up on whoever it is on the hand off & makes sure to blame his new assistant when the person finally calls back. when steve has to drive him to his meeting with nancy and the pr team, eddie tries to give him the wrong directions, but steve’s too smart for that. when steve has to do the grocery shopping, he makes steve go to the erewhon all the way across town during rush hour because the one down the street “just doesn’t have the same vibe, steve.”

and all the while, steve just does his job, still smiling, not getting angry at all even though it’s beyond obvious eddie’s being a little shit to him.

which honestly just pisses eddie off more than anything else today.

“here’s some aspirin,” steve says, placing two white pills on the coffee table in front of eddie, along with a mason jar of water. eddie, lounging on his big squishy couch, pulls the ice pack away from his nose, which has started throbbing again. “you didn’t have any glasses.” steve shrugs when he sees eddie’s arched eyebrow looking skeptically at the jar of water. “if you don’t need anything else, i’ll take off for the day.”

it’s past 8pm already, long after steve should have left for the day except that eddie had made him stay to organize his extensive tshirt collection by color, shade, and design before he could even think about going home. it was an emergency, after all.

“i’ll have to check the t-shirt closet first,” eddie replies, before swallowing the aspirin dry. steve shrugs again and rolls his eyes. eddie would say something about his blatant rudeness, but he’s too exhausted.

eddie pulls himself off the couch and makes his way down the hallway to his “t-shirt room.” it’s so stupid, but he has all this space and he’d started collecting the tshirts so long ago. they’re not worth anything, they’re just his wardrobe but… they remind him of wayne and the thrifting they used to do every saturday morning.

the organization eddie had been having steve do was entirely arbitrary. it’s not like eddie plans his outfits. he mostly just pulls whatever out of wherever, unless it’s an event and then he pays someone to do the deciding and dressing for him anyway.

but. steve’s organized the t-shirts by genre and subgenre and then by band alphabetically and finally color. more than eddie had even asked him to do.

eddie had come in here fully prepared to rip steve a new one, but even he can be shocked into appreciation.

steve notices eddie’s silence and grins.

“can i tell you something?” steve says pleasantly and then continues without even letting eddie respond to the question. “i know i look like a nice polite guy next door that moms totally love—it’s the sweater vests, i think.” steve plucks at his top. “and that’s true. i am a nice polite guy and moms do love me. i’m awesome.” his grin widens. “but i got kicked out of my parents house when i was 18 and i lived in my car for a while. i’ve been on my own for seven years. i made a life in LA out of nothing. so you can throw your little temper tantrums and tell me how much you hate me. you can make me go to the erewhon all the way across town and you can make me look incompetent to my colleagues. but i need this job. i’ve worked hard for this job. this job pays more than any other job i’ve ever had combined. and you’re hardly the biggest asshole i’ve ever met. so you can continue trying to make my life miserable—hell, i’ll even give you my dad’s number, you guys can swap ideas!” steve laughs at his own joke before turning serious for the first time all day. “but i’m not vickie. you won’t make me cry. you can’t fire me. i’m not going anywhere.” he claps his hands together. “anyway, i’m gonna take off, since i have plans with my actual friends. but hey, i’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” and he smiles again, giving eddie a small waggle of his fingers, before heading out through the door.

eddie’s still just standing there in the middle of his tshirt room when he hears the front door slam shut.

part two

[clockwayswrites]

Distracting Birb! Part 28

*throws this and runs* Masterpost

“So what did you find out?” Tim asked as he spun around. He was at the computer, of course, and looked most of the way to villainy backlit by the large screens.

(Dick loved his little brother, but villainy really wouldn’t be the most surprising outcome for Tim.)

“What makes you think we found anything?” Jason answered, just to be impertinent.

Tim rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t have called us all down to the Cave if you didn’t have anything.”

Jason scoffed. “You underestimate how willing I am to waste your time.”

“Boys,” Cass said calmly, ending the growing argument with just that word.

“Duke still out on patrol?” Dick asked as a distraction.

Tim glanced over his shoulder and back at the screen. “On his way back. He’ll be here in fifteenish.”

Best not to wait in case Danny woke, Dick decided. They’d be sure to fill him in. “Okay. Well, Danny was not lying, he has a lot of plants.”

“Dick managed to turn on the watering system. We’re all very proud of him,” Jason said flatly.

The siblings all golf clapped, which Dick took a dramatic bow to. “Thank you, thank you. Otherwise a pretty normal apartment. Comfortable, a little nerdy, and not fussy.”

Jason nodded. “There’s a hero—not sure if someone real or fictional—that we saw a few times. Someone called Phantom.”

Obliging, Dick sent the photo of the mug from the bathroom up onto one of the screens. Tim spun back to the computer and started searching.

“There were also a lot of medication in his cabinet; vitamins and several prescriptions also. Some of them had weird labels.”

“Damn, Dick, you couldn’t have gotten a clearer photo?” Tim asked as he squinted at the new set of images.

“As much as I hate to defend Dick,” Jason said as he added photos of his own to the screen, ‘that is a clear photo. Danny was writing in the same language along with English in a bedside notebook of his.”

“Are you in need of glasses, Drake?” Damian asked as he looked from the photos to Tim with a judgmental brow raised.

Tim flicked him off, which Dick considered telling Tim off for (Damian had enough bad habits), but was actually curious about this. “No. The text looks glitched out.’

“No,” Damian said slowly and with a scowl, “it is clear. Odd, but clear.”

“Cass?” Dick asked.

She moved a step closer to the television, head tilted. There was a long, quiet moment before she lifted her hand a gave a so-so motion.

Tim looked from her, to Damian, to the screens. “…Dick?”

“So that’s the thing, it looks wrong to me too. If I look at it too long it’s like it gives me a headache. Jason can read it though.”

Jason snorted. “That’s taking it a bit far. I feel like I should be able to read it. I can get a word here or there maybe.”

“Like it whispers,” Damian said, the quiet words oddly poetic for the youngest of them.

“…yeah, like it whispers,” Jason agreed, just as softly.

“Right, okay. Freaky language that only some of us can even see, much less read, and those who can have spent a lot of time in or around the league,” Tim said. “How concerned do we need to be able this? To we need to be concerned about this? I feel like we need to be concerned about this.”

None of them had an easy answer for Tim.

All of them were grateful for the roar of Duke’s bike interrupting the conversation as he pulled into the cave.

“What are you all looking some grim about?” Duke asked. He yanked his helmet off and took a deep breath, like he hadn’t been able to breath in hours.

It was a feeling they all got. Even a good patrol was draining and Duke had been actively on follow up over what had gone down today with the Mad Hatter. Dick tossed a towel Duke’s way and went to grab a drink for the other from the food safe fridge.

“Stuff from Danny’s place. Take a look at the screen,” Jason said.

“Danny? I thought that we liked the guy,” Duke said, accepting the drink with a grateful thank you. He drained half of it his the way to the screens. “Shit, that’s a lot of meds.”

“Take a closer look,” Jason said, though not unkindly.

Duke stepped closer to the screen.

And went alarmingly still.

Dick resisted the instinctual urge to reach out and grab him. “Duke?”

Duke gave an answering hum and turned his head, just slightly, towards Dick. His eyes never left the screen. Dick wasn’t sure if Duke had really heard him. It was Jason who ended up acting, ended up listening to that instinct. He stepped between Duke and the screen, blocking their newest brother’s view. Duke sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

“What?”

“Hey, come on, have a seat,” Jason said and guided Duke backwards into one of the chairs at the table.

Tim swiftly cleared the photos from the screen.

Duke shook his head. “Sorry, man, I don’t know what… that, huh. What did those look like to you all?”

“Magenta tinted pill bottles with different levels of medication in them,” Tim replied calmly. “Dick and I can’t read what’s printed on them. Damian, Jason, and maybe Cass can a little which means it might be League writing of some sort.”

Dick leaned against the table. “What did you see, Duke?”

“Magenta tinted pill bottles with something in them. Like whatever it was my powers were weird about it. I’d have to see them in person to know anything about why, I guess, but they were… I don’t know. But whatever that stuff was I don’t think it’s League because I don’t think it’s human. I don’t think it’s earthly.”

“Well, fuck,” Dick said with a sigh.

He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

[talon-the-hawk]

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

Previous Next

Chapter 4: Fatherless Behaviour

You were living in ignorant bliss.

Although your apartment wasn't in the nicest part of Gotham, it was still something you could call yours. Sure the ceiling had spots where it was leaking, and your neighbours were up at all hours of the night screaming at each other, but they weren't loud enough for your mic to pick up so you tried your best to just block it out.

Your apartment wasn't luxurious by any means. The carpeted floors were stained from the previous owners, and the provided bedframe creaked whenever you laid down. The kitchen cabinets never fully closed, and you would have to run your shoulder into the pantry door for the lock to catch.

But it was only temporary until you found a new place to live.

Or so you hoped.

As much as you loved the few friends you had made in Gotham, you knew you needed something more.

Metropolis, maybe? Star city? The options were endless, and the goal of getting as far away from your past seemed to be right in your reach.

"What are you wearing?" Damian asked, looking at the new hoodie Jon adorned himself with.

"Huh? Oh, the hoodie? It's the newest merch from that streamer I showed you! It even came signed by them!" Jon replied happily, showing off the signature.

How does Jon have signed merch before he did. It wasn't fair.

"I can see that. Why are you wearing it?" Damian asked, feeling an odd sense of jealously rising up in him. It didn't make sense to be jealous. Damian Wayne is above emotions like jealousy.

Jon just stared at him with an innocent look of confusion.

"Because I'm a fan, duh?"

Damian just stayed silent, lips pursed.

It was his own fault for mocking you. He can't be jealous when he was the one that drove you away. And yet...he longs to be the one in the hoodie; He longs to be the one that you go to for consults on merch designs. You knew how artistic he could be, he could help with your branding.

"Here, wanna watch the newest stream with me?" Jon hummed, waving his phone around. All Jon got in reply was a soft 'tch' and a nod.

"Alright, chat. Everyone's been asking for it, so here we go." You state, pulling up the little rank board on your monitor.

"Ranking people my chat has shipped me with."

You show off the small collection of little images at the bottom of your screen.

"I've scoured the deepest darkest corners of the internet...cough cough, reddit and tumblr, to see just who my chat think I'd be compatible with."

You pull up the first little image.

"First up we've got.." You had to take a moment to breathe, barely containing your laughter.

"The penguin."

You watched the chat flood with different opinions on the ship, ranging from disgust to mocking jests.

"Yeah, this is going in the F tier. Chat, he's like 60. At that point you can't even make Daddy jokes...that's like grandpa type shit. Thanks, but no thanks."

You quickly drop the little image into the F tier slot moving onto the next one.

"Next up we've got Kid Flash...honestly, y'all. He pops in for a cameo on stream one time and suddenly there's fanart."

A little ping noise alerts you to a donation, and you look over.

Speedster098 donated $10: Happy to cameo again whenever you need me to ;)

You scoff, clicking your tongue as your chat reacts to the text to speech message.

"I thought I told you to stop donating, KF. I know you have like $13 total in your bank account." You state, quietly dragging the little image into the A tier space. You watch your chat go crazy with ship names and 'awwws', snorting.

"Yeah yeah, no comment. Those who know, know."

You repeat the process, listing off a couple more streamers until an image pops up that makes you grin.

"Red Arrow." You hum in amusement. Your mouse stutters for a moment, but then you slowly move the picture into the S tier space.

"Chat, hear me out." You begin, watching your fans blow up in reaction. A donation pinged, the text to speech bot reading out the little note that came with the money.

Areyoushore?345 donated $5: Robin hood junior? Really?

"Aye, aye...all Imma say is that he's an archer. That means he's good with his hands, no?"

You looked over your chat, a certain comment catching your eye and making you laugh.

" 'Fatherless behaviour'...oh, ToxicCreed. I hate to be the one to burst your bubble here mate, but that's kinda my thing. Fatherless, Motherless. The whole orphan shabang."

That was all Dick needed to hear to shut his laptop quickly.

Roy? And Wally?

He wasn't sure how to feel. His baby sibling was pining over one of his best friends, and they didn't even know it. This wasn't right. He knew both of the men you spoke of, and neither of them were good enough for you.

And this talk of fatherless behaviour? You have a father, a family. Why make jokes about things that aren't true? Don't you know how much Bruce cares?

Speaking of, why would Bruce have even approved of your leaving? Surely you spoke to your father before leaving, why wouldn't he have told the rest of them about your departure? How could he let you live in a dangerous city completely alone with no protection?

This just wouldn't do. This stream alone proved that he needed to see you. Making such comments are just opening you up to being exploited by the darkest corners of Gotham.

Don't even get him started on Wally's flirting with you. How could he- your big brother not know that one of his best friends had been hanging out with you behind his back? He would definitely have a talk with Wally, and soon.

All he's waiting for is the call from Jason confirming your location.

A/N:

Y'all I am so sorry, school has been whooping my ass so I haven't had a lot of time to write lately lol. Anyways hope you guys found this chapter satisfactory!

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato @icefox8155 @wizzerreblogs @darling-dearesttt @depressed--therapist @crazycaoticsimp @briceericeee @venomsvl @tulnukaz @deathbynarcisstick @cqerrz @sadeem575 @question-mark-v2 @b4tm4nn @mxvoid26 @eli-chris @wisefuncherryblossom @frank-vanderboom @atomicarose @sleeping-l0s3rs @lovebug-apple @jellystar-star @definitely-not-sammie @chi1lllb @peche4et3chocolat @agsggebhzgehkfisnx @zhentheraven @flightless-magpie @wpdarlingpan @wishiwaswritingrn @mysticalcollectionheartme @hai-there-how-are-you @godoreo22 @ive-made-so-many-mistakes @funtimekoda14 @ilovecoffe0 @estella-satn

[briseroyawritingsblog]

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

𝒐𝒍𝒅!𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝒇𝒆𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

• +18 minors do not interact. unprotected sex, cream pie, rough sex, innocence kink, large unspecified age gap, daddy kink, smoking, alcohol consumption etc. beware—

𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 / 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

dividers by @anitalenia 💓

-

The thick smoke clouds could be cut with a knife the moment you entered his house the doors were left partly open so no harm right? You searched for him in the kitchen but you found him sitting by the fireplace in the living area. Manspread..Book in hand adjusting his reading glasses, cigar lazily resting between his lips. There he was.. the man who made your core pulse. That was a secret though.. nobody could ever know that you’ve been crushing on him ever since you moved next door to his house. He was not married, and he knew that for sure because every woman who ever ended up going home with him? Left the next day— you didn’t judge that of course. Maybe he didn’t want anything serious. Most men… are like that. No?

“Erhm.. Mr Howlett? My father asked me if you could come over today afternoon. The material arrived for the renovations..” you stuttered softly. He looked up from his book giving you a soft nod. “Of course kid, tell your father I’ll be there later” you nodded and hurried out of his house touching your chest as you ran over to your house walking in through the backyard. Your cheeks flushed softly red– the images reappeared in your mind, the way he smokes his cigars.

“C’on” you heard a frustrated groan from the kitchen. You peeked your head inside only to see Mr Howlett in a white vest, biceps glistening with sweat taking measurements of the kitchen cabinets. “Come here kid” he rumbles softly. You nearly tripped approaching him “how can I help?” You whispered looking at the tools “specs, on the table please” he motioned with his large hand. You nodded taking his reading glasses from the table passing them over “thanks sweetheart. Whatcha doing here? Heard your mother left to do shopping” you sighed leaning against the kitchen counter “I know I was just busy with housework” Your eyes were on his flexed muscles. You swallowed when he stepped right in front of you to take measurements again your face practically meeting with his large chest. “Sorry..” you breathed closing your eyes. “S’alright” he smiled small. Hand on the cabinet above your head the older man met your gaze. There was something in them… darkness.. perhaps something very forbidden.. you cleared your throat the moment you heard your father on the phone outside in the garden slipping past Logan scrambling quickly upstairs to your room. It was a shame.. you know nothing about men. He made you so curious, that your thoughts made you open your laptop and search pictures. First you typed ‘kissing’ the images came up blurred so you switched off the adult content button and returned back on the pictures your eyes widened in curiosity. So many moving pictures which were called ‘gifs’ the way some of the men kissed the women. You moistened your lips by licking them feeling familiar heat in your belly and butterflies. You never watched porn or anything like that but you saved some of those ‘gifs’ of couples kissing and moved onto the search bar to type ‘sex’ images came up some of the black and white and you gasped looking at the various positions women were put. The way the men’s hips clashed against the woman’s butt and the moaning expressions on their faces– you shamelessly bit your lower lip and closed your laptop. You imagined kissing Mr Howlett so many times. Maybe you could ask him to kiss you and do things to you.. to teach you how things like that feel. You thought of so many ways… but you also didn’t want to come out as a desperate girl forcing herself on an older man. How could you only do this?

Mr Howlett stayed for dinner. You didn’t expect him to but your mother and father insisted so you were seated next to him. You were heaving some veggies and steak.. it was one of your favourites but you didn’t think of anything else but the ‘gifs’ you saved. The kissing ones. You watched Mr Howletts forearms as he cut into his steak before your mother interrupted you “y/n it’s rude to stare.” You looked down at your plate face covering your hair so Logan couldn’t see your face. Your cheeks heated momentarily— stuffing your face with veggies you then excused yourself needing a breather outside on the front porch. Stealing one of your father’s cigarettes you lit sitting on the steps. Hearing the door open you sighed “Mom I’ll be in soon” apologising you heard footsteps approaching you so you hid the cigarette. “You should go inside it’s not safe here bub” Logan slipped on his jacket walking down the steps turning to you. “I’m not a little girl Mr Howlett.. thank you for your concern” his expression turned into a scowling one the moment he saw the cigarette. “Give it to me” he put his hand out. “No.” You muttered softly. “Y/N..” he grumbled approaching you “Smoking is fucking bad for you.” He continued. “Don’t care” you took a hit in front of him that made him scowl even more. “Stop being a fucking brat and give it to me” he let out a sigh and you narrowed your eyes. “Why do you even fucking care?!” Logan shook his head a disappointed expression spread over his face. Rubbing his bearded cheek he shrugged it off. “I don’t fucking care I don’t need this.” With that he walked away. He didn’t care.. that hit your heart. Why would an older man like him care? Tears welled in your eyes, you stomped on the cigarette and walked back inside the house.

You didn’t know Logan’s urges.

You didn’t know the things you make him feel when you look at him and the times you wear skimpy little skirts riding a bike around the neighbourhood with your girlfriends. Summer holidays were his favourite because he got to see you more, you were not attending university. That’s what you told him– he loves the way you throw your head back laughing with your friends. He loves the way you walk, he even loves the way you leave your curtains open in your room so he can look at your young body when you apply lotion to your legs after shower. He knows your breath hitches when you two are close and he enjoys every moment of your tiny sufferings. He doesn’t want to be the man of your dreams. He doesn’t want to make you cry and suffer because he cannot be yours. He doesn’t want to ruin you but that tiny innocence in your eyes makes him want to do things to you. How could you know all these feelings when he’s nothing but stern with you. Drinking away his thoughts he poured himself a glass of whiskey sitting by his fireplace thinking he was harsh with you. Weren’t you just a fragile soul? He was afraid to hurt you.. his calloused touch could mark your skin.

A knock on his door disturbed his thinking, so he looked out the window only to see you standing in front of his door practically shivering in your pyjama shorts and an oversized sweatshirt he swore he loved on you. It made you look tiny.

“What are you doing here kid?” He sighed opening the door for you. “I wanted to apologise..” you whispered. “The way I acted towards you.. I just-” you stepped inside his much warmer home looking around to find a cigar burning in the ashtray a bottle of half empty whiskey and a glass right next to it. “I don’t need your apology” he cut you off walking back to his armchair sitting back down taking his cigar to smoke it. His eyes taking in your naked legs making you shiver. “I just.. I wanted to ask you something” you mumble on making him raise a brow. “It’s pretty late, you should go home” he answers you wanting nothing but you to stay but he knew he had to make you leave. He held back so much..trying to control himself around you. “Mr Howlett you’re a good man my family says.. I was just wondering if you could help me with something” you asked him scratching your arm nervously. Pressing your thighs together “I get lots of butterflies when I’m around you.. and and.. I was wondering how does kissing feel like?” The older man nearly asked you to repeat yourself. “I am not a man for you kid..” he warned you resting his cigar between his lips. “I know.. I just.. you’re older and experienced and I don’t get butterflies with anyone else” you confessed. His rugged expression turned softer. “Come here bub.. let me tell you all about it.” He patted his knee and you approached him sitting on his knee. His big hand rested on your lower back and the other put his cigar out letting it rest in the ashtray. “I don’t know much about the female body.. but I’m sure when you have butterflies in your belly your tiny girl part gets wet” you nod quickly. “Yes.. yes Mr Howlett it gets very wet.” Your response made his cock heavy. It twitched with want– “where does it get wet sweetheart?” He whispered and you slowly spread your thighs. “Down here..” you show him. His big hand slowly itches closer to your pulsing mound and you look at him wantonly.

“Don’t look at me like that..” he breathed face leaning closer to yours and you closed your eyes ready for his lips on yours only to feel him kissing your cheek his beard prickling your tender skin. His fingers tracing your warm centre between your legs and you bucked your hips towards his hand “eager little thing..” he whispered you could hear the drunk in his voice but your hand softly caressed his veiny forearm. “Mr Howlett please..” you begged. “I won’t tell.. please destroy me” when he heard those words coming out of your lips he kissed the side of your neck sliding his big hand inside your sweatshirt to fondle your breast. You moaned, it felt differently when a man was touching you. “Just gettin’ started honey..” he licked his way into your mouth kissing you pouring out his needs before pulling away to touch your face in his one hand gently squeezing your cheeks “pretty little mouth.. do you think I could fit my cock in there nice and snug sweetie?” you nodded needing nothing but him and it didn’t matter how. Cock straining against his pants he grunted grabbing a hold of your shorts and panties pulling them down your legs dropping them on the floor. His fingers locating your sensitive bud circling it. You moaned against his neck as you clung to his shoulders. “There we go honey..feeling you tense already” he smiled, prepping you. “Open..” he groaned forcing your lips open by his fingers sliding them in your mouth to moisten them. You sucked on his fingers meeting his eyes feeling hot all over. Your juices drooling out of your hole. He tsked “So wet already?” You looked at your pussy the way he caressed your folds with his fingers slowly rubbing them in circles before stuffing them in your mound. You cried out at the feeling something so large like his fingers entering you. When he curled his digits and did a pulling motion your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head the wet sounds of your core only caused his fingers to move in and out of you faster the heat in your belly rising and rising until you cried out against his chest cumming undone on his fingers. His thumb expertly rubbing your clit, the older man smiled at you. The first you saw him smile so softly. “There we go..” you choked his fingers in you even though they weren’t as deep as you wanted him to go in order to do that he’d have to take your virginity. “I never.. I never..” you babbled lost in post orgasm as you looked at him cheeks reddening with arousal. “You’ve never..what?” Very slowly pulling his fingers out of your heat he sniffed them before slowly tasting them. You blushed deeper at his doings. “Never had sex..” you whispered shyly. “Never?” Logan asks again caressing your plaint thighs. You shook your head “never.. mr howlett can you show me it feels?” He hummed in response looking at your lips before leaning down to attack your mouth in soft kisses until you parted your mouth for his tongue. You whispered to the butterflies returning and he gracefully carried you bridal style to his bedroom.

Putting you down on your feet he helped you remove your sweatshirt leaving you naked. “I will teach you all about it sweetheart..lay down” the older man said softly and you climbed on his bed resting on your back spreading your legs for him. The sight of your glistening pussy had him growling. “Little girl hungry for old man’s cock.. that’s twisted..” he smirked teasing you watching your nipples go hard. You watched him remove his top, then undo his belt and jeans before taking them off along with his boxers. Cock bobbing, hard as a rock. The swollen tip drooling tears of pre cum. The colour of his cock made you tilt your head curiosity.. it was pink, looked swollen and hard. Just like on those pictures, your breath hitched in your chest “That’s going inside of you, bub..” he climbed on the bed nestling between your legs. You stared between your bodies as his warm swollen cock rested on your pussy. It was so big, thick.. veiny. “How.. how will it fit..?” You asked curiously hips bucking up to feel his cock even more. “Greedy little thing not know anything about cocks.. but is hungry for one..” he tsked lowering himself on top of you. You moaned at the feel of his chest, touching it with your hands. Logan groaned rubbing the tip of his cock between your folds “take a deep breath..” you did as you were told taking a deep breath before he sheated himself inside of you in one single push. “Shit..!” You cursed gasping and moaning the both of you at your unison. Your gasps were painful with discomfort because of your virginity but it faded away the moment he kissed you wrapping his arms around you. You felt so safe in his arms that you cuddled up to him pressing your lips to his shoulder arms curling around him keeping your legs open for him. You felt so full, so wet.. you felt your wetness drip forming a ring on the base of his cock. “Fuck.. ugh..” he buried his face against your neck pulling out of you leaving the tip inside before thrusting back in. Slow pace, but slowly increasing it leaving you whimpering and gasping for air “mr howlett.. it tingles, the butterflies.. Ughh ohhhh.. feels so good” you cried as he responded only in hungry growls grabbing your waist in his hands he snapped his hips into you fucking you. “Can’t hold back anymore..” he slurs peeking between your bodies watching his cock slide in and out of your ruined pussy and you cry out nodding “it’s okay daddy.. take what you need!!” logan moans under his breath eyes darkening something snapping in him hoisting your legs around his waist he grabs the pillows under your head pounding into you harder than before, more than before making your toes curl watching your pussy take all of his pounding before you claw his back “daddy.. it.. hurts.. but in a good way!! Need to cum” you breathe heavily your tits bouncing to his rapid trusts as he hovers above you breathing harshly too cock throbbing as he circles your clit “you gonna cum on my cock like a good fuckin’ girl” and you did, you screamed against his neck clinging to him nearly passing out as you did. Logan nestles your face against his neck as he snaps his hips into you growing into the pillow as his claws push out piercing the bed under you. “Fuck.. fuck.. fuck….!” He curses loudly shoving his cock deeply in you before cumming undone. The tip spurting hot streams of white in your womb breeding it full. You moan uncontrollably as you feel the warmness being released inside of you. His claws retreat moments later— using his hand to cradle your head finding your lips in a kiss. You both sweat so much feeling unbelievably tired. Logan pulls out of you, watching his cream pool out of you onto the sheets. “Let’s get you showered bub..” he whispers and you nod. He promised to take care of you. The way you called him daddy.. it repeated in his mind more than few nights..

-

liking, commenting, and reblogging means the world. please don’t hesitate to do so if you liked my fic.

(Apologies for any grammatical mistakes)

[hameesstuff]

“Marriage on Paper”

Title: “Marriage on Paper”

Pairing: Husband Doctor!Jaehyun x Wife CEO!Reader | Single dad! Jaehyun

Preview: Jaehyun hated her. Why does he need a wife when he's happy with his daughter? Another nuisance, just like his first wife. And she hated everything about him. But they clearly can't stay away.

Genre: Arranged marriage, Slow Burn, Single dad! Jaehyun | Enemies to Lovers | Humor | Domestic | Smut, Tension

Word Count: ~9.3k

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PART 1: THE MARRIAGE THAT LOOKED GOOD ON PAPER

Your lawyer had said it was a “mutually beneficial merger.”

You said nothing, mostly because you were too busy fixing your lipstick before the press conference that announced your arranged marriage to Seoul’s most annoyingly attractive surgeon—Dr. Jeong Jaehyun.

He, on the other hand, stood beside you like you were a mild inconvenience. Like he had better places to be—like an OR table or a luxury car headed away from this mess.

“Smile,” you hissed through your teeth as cameras clicked.

“I am,” he replied, deadpan.

You glanced sideways. “You look dead.”

He looked back. “That’s still a smile compared to you.”

The flashbulbs exploded. You two were golden. On paper, of course.

The marriage was arranged for reasons that made sense to your board of directors and his hospital’s board of trustees. Power couple image. Medical research grants. Business sponsorships. Tax benefits.

You? You were Seoul’s youngest and most intimidating CEO, known for firing underperformers in stilettos. You didn’t need a husband.

He? He was a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon with a God-complex, a tendency to ghost family events, and a four-year-old daughter named Jiyeon who looked like a doll and talked like a drill sergeant.

The man was cold. Distant. But unfortunately, stupidly good-looking. Which made it worse.

The wedding was private, clinical. A few papers signed. A few photos taken. Your designer dress was stunning, and so was his smug silence.

The next day, you moved into the penthouse apartment you were now legally required to share.

You saw the child before you saw him.

Jiyeon sat at the kitchen island, eating Cheerios from a pink bowl.

She looked up at you with big round eyes and said, “You’re the lady who married my Dad. ”

You blinked. “Yes.”

She nodded like a CEO. “Okay. I’m not allowed to watch horror movies. I like strawberries. And don’t touch Mr. Bubbles.”

“Mr. Bubbles?”

“My bear” she said, pointing to a stuffed animal on the counter.

Right then, Jaehyun walked in—hair messy from post-call exhaustion, in scrubs, rubbing his eyes.

He looked at you like the flu.

You looked back like antibiotics.

“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly.

“Afternoon,” you corrected. “It’s 2 p.m.”

He gave a faint smirk. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

You ignored him, turned to Jiyeon. “I brought you strawberry jam.”

She grinned. “Okay, nevermimd I like you now"

At work, you crushed negotiations and led meetings like a queen. At home, your mornings began with accidental run-ins and arguments about kitchen cabinets.

He liked silence. You liked music.

He liked Jiyeon’s toys in one corner. You let her play wherever she wanted.

He liked routine. You liked control.

You both hated each other.

But Jiyeon?

She made it hard to stay angry.

One night, you came home late from a board dinner, heels in hand, headache pounding—and found her asleep in your bed, Mr. Bubbles’ tucked beside her.

A sticky note on your pillow read:

“You looked sad this morning. I saved you a place. — Jiyeon”

You didn’t cry.

You just laid down beside her and let her tiny hand wrap around your finger.

And somewhere around night fourteen, Jaehyun came home early, leaned against the kitchen counter while you reheated soup.

“You work too late,” he muttered.

“You don’t say much.”

Silence.

Then he added, “She likes you.”

You turned, surprised. “She’s easy to like.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.

“She didn’t like my ex.”

You blinked. “Was she her mother?”

A long pause.

“No. Her mother left before Jiyeon turned two.”

A strange ache stirred in your chest.

And that was the first time Jaehyun ever told you something personal.

No sarcasm. No sharp wit. Just the truth.

Later that night, you passed each other in the hallway.

He didn’t say anything.

But his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

PART 2: TENSION BETWEEN WALLS

You’d thought it was easier—pretending.

Pretending the apartment wasn’t too quiet. That you didn’t hear Jiyeon’s tiny feet running to greet him. That your heart didn’t shift, uninvited, at the sight of Jaehyun brushing her hair back like he’d done it a thousand times.

You weren’t looking for softness.

But somehow, it kept slipping through the cracks he never meant to open.

He came home late that Tuesday.

Jiyeon was asleep on the couch, curled up with Mr Bubbles. You were in the kitchen, pacing, still wearing your pencil skirt, blazer flung over a chair.

Jaehyun entered silently, a gym bag over one shoulder, shirt clinging damp to his skin from a post-op workout.

You stared at him. “You forgot to text.”

He blinked. “Didn’t know I had to.”

“You didn’t. But Jiyeon waited by the door for two hours.”

That silenced him.

He exhaled, dropped the bag, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quieter than you expected. “There was a code blue. I couldn’t leave.”

Your jaw locked, arms crossed. “I’m not asking for explanations. I’m just—”

“Worried?” he cut in, gaze sharpening. “Or mad because it disrupted your schedule?”

You bit your cheek. “Do you always push away people who care?”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at you.

And for a second, neither of you breathed.

The tension in the room pulsed like a heartbeat. You could see it in his eyes—that restrained edge, that wall he kept up even when he wasn’t trying to.

Then he said, “She listens to you more than me.”

You blinked. “She’s four. She likes strawberry jam and picture books. That doesn’t make me her mother.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she smiles when you come home.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not love.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s the beginning of something.”

The next night, you found him asleep on the couch, Jiyeon curled against his chest. His arm wrapped protectively around her, lips parted slightly, brow relaxed. It was the only time he ever looked peaceful.

You brought him a blanket.

You didn’t wake him.

You just stood there for too long—watching the man who was supposed to be your husband feel like the stranger you were starting to understand.

At breakfast, he poured your coffee without asking.

“You drink it black,” he said, not looking up.

You stared. “How did you—?”

“You mutter in the mornings.”

You blinked again, flustered.

He finally looked at you, and it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded. It was… warm.

You looked away.

This wasn’t in the plan.

PART 3: FRACTURES AND FLAME

The event was meant to be formal—clinical, even.

Your company’s healthcare merger dinner, filled with glass clinks and conversations too polished to mean anything real. You wore navy silk backless, sharp heels, and a CEO’s smile. Controlled. Charming. Unshakable.

You hadn’t expected Jaehyun to come.

But there he was—tall, poised in black, medical charm polished with just enough distance to draw eyes without asking for them.

He stood out like a mistake you wanted to make twice.

Your assistant whispered, “Is that your husband?”

You gave a tight smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Jaehyun, on cue, raised a brow from across the room. Heard it.

You stood beside each other for the first half hour, exchanging polite pleasantries with investors. He only spoke when needed. Let you lead.

But his eyes?

They didn’t leave your face.

Not once.

Enter David Seo—your firm’s latest clinical advisor and an old college flirtation turned slightly unhinged admirer. Handsome. Wealthy. Dangerous in that loud, performative way Jaehyun never was.

David leaned too close as he spoke to you, fingertips brushing your lower bare back once. Twice.

Jaehyun’s glass tapped the table with a soft clink. Not loud. But pointed.

When David asked, “Are you happy, though?”—Jaehyun was no longer beside you.

He was behind you.

Shoulders squared.

Voice calm. “She is. But thanks for checking.”

David blinked. “Doctor Jung, I presume?”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I don’t recall you being relevant in her life.”

“Jaehyun —please.”

David scoffed and walked off with a muttered “territorial.”

You glared. “Was that necessary?”

Jaehyun’s gaze was hard. “He was touching you.”

“I can handle it.”

He stepped closer. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

That silenced you.

Because it was… sincere.

And it rattled you more than his jealousy.

Later, in the town car home, silence sat thick between you.

You looked out the window. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softly: “I’m not jealous.”

You turned to him.

He added, “I’m angry. That someone thinks he can touch you like you’re available.”

You scoffed. “I am available. Our marriage is fake, remember?”

His voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Don’t say that in past tense. Not when you look at me like that.”

You turned your head quickly.

But you didn’t deny it.

PART 4: FRACTURE

The hospital walls blurred around him.

All he heard was the voice on the phone.

“Dr. Jung, your daughter’s been in an accident—hit by a distracted driver near the school exit. She’s stable. But she’s asking for you.”

He didn’t remember how he got there.

He barely remembered throwing off his white coat, running through traffic, or leaving his car at the ER entrance with the keys still inside.

His chest cracked open the moment he saw the door labeled Pediatric Trauma – 407.

And then—

Her voice.

Soft. Frayed.

“Sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’m right here, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

He stepped in like the air wasn’t heavy with fear.

You sat on the bed beside Jiyeon, her tiny hand gripped in yours, your blouse torn at the shoulder, a gash on your forehead bleeding down the temple. Your blazer draped over her legs. You looked wrecked—but calm. Like you’d been crying for hours and were holding it in just for Jiyeon.

Jaehyun stopped in the doorway.

You turned.

And for the first time—there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just you. Holding his daughter like she was yours.

“She wanted ice cream..” you said softly. “The cab drove through a red light. I protected her the best I could Jaehyun. I'm sorry.”

His knees almost buckled.

He knelt beside the bed and brushed Jiyeon’s bandaged forehead. Her eyes fluttered.

“Dad…”

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Her fingers loosened from yours—and slowly found his. She fell back asleep.

Later that night, the nurse gave them clearance to leave.

But Jaehyun didn’t drive home.

He booked a nearby hotel. For Jiyeon’s comfort, he told himself. For rest.

But truthfully—it was because his hands were still shaking.

You stood by the window, changed into one of his spare shirts, hair damp from the hospital shower, bruised and tired and more beautiful than he ever remembered.

“You could’ve died,” he said, quietly.

You looked at him. “So could she.”

“She asked for you before me.”

“She was scared.”

“I’m scared.”

The confession was quiet. Raw. And terrifying.

You didn’t reply. Just walked over.

“I thought I lost her,” he murmured. “And then I saw you with her—and it hit me. She’s not the only one I’ve been afraid of losing.”

You looked up.

And in one moment, every wall shattered.

He stepped forward, cupped your face gently—brushed his thumb over the cut at your temple like it hurt him to see you hurt.

And then—

His lips found yours.

Not gently.

Not softly.

But like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

His breath hitched at that, and then he kissed you — slowly, reverently, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted in case this was all a dream.

He lifted you onto the counter gently, standing between your knees as he kissed you again, slower this time — not with urgency, but with weight. Your fingers slid into his hair, his hands resting on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you.

“I want you,” he whispered back. “But not just like this.”

“Then how?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Like I’ve finally found my home.”

Your eyes stung, but you smiled.

“I want you too,” you breathed. “Like that.”

The world faded around you as he lifted you from the counter and carried you, lips brushing your temple, your shoulder, your hand. He laid you down in bed like you were something fragile — not weak, but precious. His shirt fell away, yours followed. No rush. No tension. Just layers falling away until only skin and breath remained.

His touch was slow. He kissed down your collarbone, between your breasts, over your stomach — pausing at every place his fingers had once only brushed. He whispered soft praises, nothing crude, just tender confessions: You’re so soft. I’ve never wanted anyone this way. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you feel safe.

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t the stretch you noticed first — it was the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as he moved inside you with the kind of patience you didn’t know existed. Every roll of his hips felt like a promise. Every brush of his lips, a vow.

It built slowly — heat pooling low in your stomach, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes because it wasn’t just pleasure anymore. It was release. It was love.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And he whispered yours back like it was the answer to everything he’d been missing.

When you came, it was soft and trembling, your breath catching in his mouth as you kissed him through it. He followed, moaning low and deep into your neck, his arms tightening around you like he was terrified to let go.

But he didn’t move away after.

He stayed on top of you, inside you, his fingers tracing your face like he was trying to remember this version of you forever.

“I love you,” he finally whispered, voice breaking.

You touched his lips with your fingers.

“I know. I feel it.”

And in that bed — skin to skin, heart to heart — you weren’t just lovers, or husband and wife.

You were something softer. Something sacred.

You were his again.

And for the first time… he let you be.

Final Epilogue – “Moonlight & Laughter”

The birthday dinner had ended with cake crumbs on everyone’s clothes and frosting in Jiyeon’s hair, but none of you wanted to go home just yet.

So Jaehyun had driven the four of you to the quiet park near the hospital, the one that stayed open late — the one with the soft lanterns that hung from the trees like sleepy fireflies.

Now the air was crisp and cool, the sky navy and full of stars. And you sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the soft hush of grass beneath you, your newborn cradled against your chest.

Jiyeon was running in wild little circles nearby, her pink dress now stained with ice cream, her laughter rising into the trees like music.

“Dad! Look!” she shouted, pointing to the stroller where Jaehyun had tucked the baby’s diaper bag. “He smiled at me! Baby smiled!”

Jaehyun, sitting beside you, chuckled and called back, “That’s because you’re his favorite.”

“I know!”

She bent down and kissed her baby brother’s forehead — all sticky fingers and warm cheeks — and whispered, “You were my birthday wish”

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[binhourly]

[230425] — .ᐟ

word count: 1255 | member: lino

“I BLAME you for this,” you say to Hyunjin—or rather, to the kitchen countertop you’ve rested your forehead against—the hangover from last night’s partying making the sun filtering through the window feel like your brain is swelling past your skull.

The freshly buzz-cut boy sharply exhales through his nose, before continuing his reign of terror on your migraine by slamming the cabinet doors shut as hard as possible to grab your attention. “That’s sad,” he starts, waving off your scowl with an equally bratty lip scrunch and a single eyebrow raised. “With how much alcohol you were downing, I thought you’d be cool enough to at least brag about it.”

“No, I can’t,” you tell him, melting instantly at the sight of your favourite Snoopy mug being filled with freshly brewed coffee. So on brand for Hyunjin. One second he’s terrorising you, while simultaneously doing something so tooth-achingly sweet. “What I did yesterday was embarrassing and potentially fatal. And can I say it’s really annoying that I’m like this—" you motion vaguely at yourself—"and you’re just... fine!”

Hyunjin's smile tilts crookedly, leaning forward before splaying his very sleeveless arms out on the kitchen counter. “It’s the protein, baby. I’m so jacked up with it, it basically makes me bulletproof.” He gives you his best alpha-male impersonation, adding the obvious bicep flexing to piss you off further.

Despite your daily hatred for your best friend, Hyunjin still manages to pull the first laugh out of you that morning, before settling back into a peaceful cycle— you sipping your drink, him humming some song he’ll probably file away on his phone with all the other hidden gems.

“Do you even remember what you did after we got home?” the blonde boy questions, his dazed expression practically giving away his lack of paternal instincts last night–assuming that once he got the chance to shove his shoes off, one toe against the heel of the other at the entry door, Hyunjin basically called it quits and let you run wild in the apartment you shared with your other roommates until you tire yourself out. Naturally.

You squint at him, racking your memory folder. “I…” you trail off, snapping your fingers once a cohesive image starts forming behind your eyes. “I went to kiss the cats goodnight.”

“Dude, do you just choose to forget how much Minho hates it when you do that?” Hyunjin argues, never letting his irritation falter as he smooths a hand behind his back to stretch out the bed kinks in his shoulder. “Your lipstick stains their fur. Like, I’m sure it defeats the whole ‘animal cruelty’ aspect of the product.”

This was another reason why no one should ever advocate for a drink to be put in your hands. While alcohol seemed to settle some people, the sour bite of it ripped away every bit of confidence you carried during the day, leaving you flinging head first to affection as proof that people actually wanted you around.

It was partially the reason why you only went out drinking with Hyunjin. The man had been a constant reassurance in your life, so the overwhelming feeling barely crept up on you. Minho was different. He was an extension of Hyunjin (a close friend from his dance crew) which meant it was inevitable that your two worlds would collide, but somehow he never felt inclined to open up the same way Hyunjin could.

And it sucked more than you liked to admit. Soon, with enough accidental run-ins around the living room or squeezed bathroom times in the morning, you found yourself holding onto every small detail about the black-haired man. Until the practice of seeking acceptance wasn’t just a drunk habit—you were already doing it sober.

“But they’re so cute! If they don’t want to be loved, then they shouldn’t be the size of babies — it’s misleading,” you muse, swivelling the kitchen chair around, fingers protruding out in the ready position to coax a cat to come to you.

Right on time, the first cat, Dori, pads into the kitchen, his stomach smothering closer to the ground with clear signs of his future refusal of pick-ups or any form of affection. With his coat obviously dark, there’s no indication of your lipstick marks on him.

Then, a few beats later, Doongie trots in—the obnoxious white patch amongst his layering orange tint still fluffy and perfectly lipstick-free. Odd. Hyunjin rounds the corner, equally confused. “Huh? Maybe Soonie got the short end of the stick.”

You sit up straighter, flicking your gaze towards the long hallway where Minho’s bedroom occupied the first door. Soonie definitely was the victim. You didn’t like to vocalise this often, especially in front of the feline brothers, but he’d always been your favourite. And when the familiar orange-to-white ratio cat appears, you're almost celebratory—until you realise, tail high, strutting in insecure, maybe aware of the many eyes on his newly licked coat—that not a single smear of lipstick is on him either.

Nothing. Clean.

“What the fuck.” Hyunjin’s brows furrow, his increased stress levels making his hands find his hair, running them up and down against the short bristles. “Did you make out with the wall again?”

“No,” you start, smacking his side to shut him up, catching a sliver of skin from his deep-cut muscle tee. “I remember kissing something. It was really soft and it kept moving around—”

The door flings open, and the soft bare feet cushioning the cold floor makes you so flustered it almost stops your heart dead in your chest. “I’m not going to repeat myself again.” His voice is naturally sultry, like his speaking cords are meant to be washed with a glass of champagne rather than gargled water, and the shift wasn’t all the more subtle in the peakest of mornings where it drops so low. “I closed my door on purpose because the cats get hyper at night. I understand you guys were drinking, but fuck, maybe drink enough to abolish your fine motor skills.”

Hyunjin keeps cutting his eyes back and forth between Minho and you, like the answer might magically evolve itself in the space between. But you’re stuck staring at the man who plagued every part of your brain. And if this were a game of Spot the Difference, the version of him you kept tucked away in your mind just got a full rebrand.

The Minho in your head was clean-cut. Every edge is sharp and emotionally unavailable. But Minho standing in front of you now? He looked kissed within an inch of his life.

It starts at his T-zone, the close-knit shape that’s undoubtedly your mouth giving away just how desperate you were in taking him in—some marks deep and damning, others smudged like you’d lost focus halfway, paying close attention to the corners of his lips that were not salvaged in your reckoning. And following along his jawline, there’s a loving beeline down to the curve of his neck, the shape less puckering and more open-mouthed.

You were absolutely mortified. So the softness you recounted was really Minho’s skin, and the animalistic movement was just from Minho shimmying around in his sleep under you.

An incomprehensible noise escapes Hyunjin this time, which could best be categorised as something between a yell and a manic laugh. Either way, it’s obnoxious enough to yield Minho to stare at the wall mirror beside him, catching what was on the other end of the buzz-cut boy’s pointed finger.

“Oh… so, not a cat.”

[ note: ] wrote this under 10 minutes after being inspired by this meme. please know lino is unravelling lowkey in the best ways, he's just awkward with feelings.

[mariasont]

can you do aaron x wife reader who also works in the bau with him & on a case a police officer openly flirts with aaron in front of the team and reader so she stakes her claim on her husband && the team ( mostly derek & pen ) are teasing the two of them for it ??

Marked Territory - A.H

A/N: AHHHHH thinking ab claiming aaron hotchner as ur man has me giggling & kicking me feet

THANK you sooooo much for requesting angel <3 hope you like it!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

wk: 1.2k

pairings: aaron hotchner x wife!bau!fem!reader

warnings: heavy makeout, jealously

You stood a few feet away with a watchful gaze, arms locked across your chest. The consultant was laying it on thick, her eyelashes sweeping up and down in a practiced rhythm aimed at Aaron. It made you want to throw up. You couldn't help but let out a soft, almost inaudible scoff. The consultant's laughter pierced the quiet, an exaggerated display that felt out of place. Her hand rested on Aaron's arm a moment too long. Your glare could have set the room on fire, you were sure of it, and it only seemed to intensify when Aaron offered a polite, yet distant smile in return.

"Careful there, sugar," Derek joked, sliding into place beside you as he nudged your side. "You're about two seconds from turning this into a crime scene."

You offered a half-glance towards him, "I suppose I can't fault her taste," you said with a forced lightness, even as a twinge of jealously coiled tightly within you, your attention fixed on the hand that dared to claim familiarity with Aaron. "But good taste doesn't come with good sense, apparently."

Penelope swept in with a gasp that could rival a Greek chorus, her eyes wide with a feigned shock. "Wow, I could practically taste your fury from down the hall! Mrs. Hotchner, are we in strategy mode, or should I grab some popcorn?"

You rolled your eyes with a dismissive wave. "You two are ridiculous. What do you expect me to do? Drag her by her hair? Please, I trust Aaron," you stated firmly, because, well, you did. This, however, didn't stop the tiny spark of irritation that flickered within, unbidden and unwelcome, but you squashed it with a laugh. "Besides, if I started a catfight every time someone flirted with him, I'd need my own filing cabinet for all the assault charges."

A glance was all it took for Garcia and Morgan to share their amusement. "Sure, sure," Garcia drawled, her voice dripping in sarcasm.

Morgan's eyebrow arched in silent agreement as he smiled knowingly. "Of course, you're calm. But we both know if that bubble of anger pops, it's going to be one hell of a show."

You tried to ignore it; you really did. You buried your nose in your work, determined to keep your mind off that infuriating woman. You shuffled papers, dove into your case files, and tapped away at your computer with a vigor that doesn't go unnoticed by the team. Every time you caught a glimpse of Aaron, there she was--the consultant--hovering like a shadow. It's almost comical how she mirrored his every move, but you were not laughing.

You found reasons to be anywhere but where Aaron was, taking your coffee break when he's in the break room, opting for the stairs when he took the elevator. It's a dance of avoidance that has you mentally exhausted, but you're trying to channel your inner zen, and being around that woman is doing you no favors.

The office air is thick with tension, a tangible presence that envelops your desk, your focus splintering with every laugh and hushed conversation that drifts over from Aaron's direction. You're the very image of concentration until you see it--the consultant, her proximity invasive, her hand lingering on his shoulder with a familiarity that sears through your veneer of calm. It's the tripping point, the moment your restraint fractures.

You stand, a fluid motion that betrays her anger that charged the room with an energy that has the whole team's attention snapping to you. They recognize the signs--the firm line of your jaw, the fire in your eyes--a rare display that signals an unstoppable force is about to be set in motion.

"Hotch," the name is a clear, firm declaration across the room, a tone you usually reserved for the field. "Can I speak to you for a second?"

The room falls still, a collective breath held by the team as Aaron excuses himself and follows you into his office. The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving just the two of you. His gaze meets yours, a furrow of worry creasing his brow as he takes in the tempest swirling in your stance.

"Honey, are you alright?" he asks, the professional facade giving way to a soft undertone of worry, as he takes a deliberate step towards you, his eyes searching yours for signs of distress.

With a swift assurance of privacy, your eyes lock on the drawn blinds, and you waste no time diminishing the space between you, hands clasping up to his neck with an urgency that pulls him down to you. Your lips found his in a fervent collision, coaxing a surprised murmur from him. He softly pulled back, his chuckle deep and knowing, as his hands encircled your waist. 

"Honey--I, we're in the office."

His words may have carried a hint of reprimand, but the gentle exploration of his hands across your back drawing you nearer seemed to contradict him. An innocent smile graced your lips as your fingers wove through his hair, eliciting his head tilting back in contentment. "Just missed you is all."

An eyebrow lifted in amused acknowledgement. "Mm, is that so?"

Gently tugging his head closer, your lips crashed against his with a desperate intensity, your hands gripping him as if he were a lifeline.

With deliberate strokes, you raked your fingers through his hair, creating artful disarray. Your hands glided to his tie, tugging it just enough to break the perfect line, then across his jacket, crumpling the fabric with feigned carelessness. Each touch a strategic step in enhancing his unkempt image.

A gentle exhale escaped you as he pressed you back against the desk's edge, his hands forming a cage around you, both protective and possessive.  Your lips curved into a smirk, your teeth capturing his bottom lip and tugging with a teasing pressure, probably a little harder than you should have, causing him to pull back. "Christ, sweetheart."

Instinctively, your hand rose to trace his bottom lip, smoothing over the swollenness your teeth had caused. A soft smile graced your features as you took in the delightful disarray of his appearance. With a satisfied nod, you left a featherlight kiss on his cheek and glided towards the door. "I love you, Mr. Hotchner."

His eyebrows knit together in loving exasperation as he observed your retreat, his hand absentmindedly caressing his lip. God, you kept life interesting. "I love you more, Mrs. Hotchner."

Emerging from Hotch's office, your hair perfectly disordered, a small smirk etched on your lips. You watch as the consultant's eyes stretch wide, a flush of embarrassment covering her cheeks. With a sly wink tossed her way, you glide towards Penelope and Morgan.

"Well, well, well," Morgan drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face as he watched the scene unfold, arms folded confidently over his chest. "I had a feeling those claws were just waiting for the right moment to strike."

"That's our girl! Showing the world whose boss without breaking a sweat." Penelope chirped. "Well, I mean, maybe a little sweat. I'm seriously striving not to speculate about what you two were doing in there."

A playful smirk dances on your lips as you peer over your shoulder at Hotch's door. "Just wait for it," you tease, fingers poised for the dramatic reveal as you count down. "3, 2, 1.."

Right on cue, Hotch steps out, looking every bit as ruffled as you'd intended. His tie hangs crooked, his suit crumpled, and you didn't miss the dark red tint around his bottom lip. The sound of Morgan and Penelope's laughter filled the air as you offered a nonchalant shrug. 

"It's all in the day's work, besties. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."

[harrie-cc]

The Coastal Collection - Part Eight

It feels very strange to say, but here it is, the eigth and final part of the Coastal Collection 😭 Its been quite the journey that started all the way back in January! But with all great things it must come to an end. I'm very excited to move onto a new set of items that will take us all the way through into the new year and beyond. I'll have more information on that later this month.

This last part focuses in on the living room. I started off with the standout showpiece of the month, the piano. It was yet another labour of love, similar to the playhouse from part 2, but I'm really happy to have finally been able to add a new piano for you and your sims to enjoy. There wasn't a single inspiration image pinned to my board that didnt have built in cabinets next to the fireplace, so of course a full set of those were essential for this collection.

I hope you enjoy building with these new items along with the rest of the Coastal Collection. Always feel free to reach out and share your creations with me on any of my social platforms. My DMs are always open!

Set items include:

Sofa

Loveseat

Armchair

Built in (Tall, medium, short & TV unit)

Pouf Coffee Table

Fireplace

Upright Piano

Leaning Artwork Frames

Roman Blinds (made to fit the 1, 2 & 3 tile Coastal windows)

All items are Base Game Compatible and can be found by searching COASTAL in the build/buy catalogue search bar.

Patreon Early Access Now Available

Public Release: 3rd October

[ruinix]

Thinking about Quinn losing his shit after you surprise him with a tattoo of his number on your hip

Hello, lovely… I tried, of course. Let me preface this, let’s imagine the tattoo healed for exactly 2 weeks (google says: the minimum healing time of the (surface) skin is about 2-4 weeks, deeper layers heal for approx. 3-4 months)...so yes. What i wanna say is: Be safe. Hope you enjoy 😌 [Disclaimer: I made Q drink tea here when he doesn't drink tea or coffee 😔]

Breakfast & Tattoos

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Unprotected sex (use protection, silly), Tattoo healing inaccuracy (let it heal pls), Quinn being a literal Horny one

Count: 3544 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You have that grin. A silly and mischievous grin. Quinn cautiously takes a sip of tea you brewed for him—you might’ve put something in it—but it’s just tea.

He greets you, receiving an immediate response. The grin never wavers even as he cooks you two breakfast. You’re…suspicious. Pretty with your comfy pajama shorts and—his—hoodie but suspicious.

He tries to let you be. Maybe you’ll drop it. Maybe you’ll just outright tease him for his bedhead, because his waves are all over the place from sleeping like dead after a two-week road trip. Maybe you just want to tell him something silly. Maybe. You always tend to do those things. He likes that.

He wants to ask, but you move to the sofa with your iPad, humming a tune. You’re on your back with your legs up an arm rest, feet covered with fluffy socks with strawberries. Still, you throw glances at him, grinning whenever he meets your gaze. He hears the upbeat sound of a game. You definitely found another game. That must be it. You love your games especially on that specific iPad—that was his, now yours—with those stickers of him.

Stickers. They’re cute, but he can’t help the blush on his face whenever he sees them. You’ve never stopped buying stickers from Etsy or from artists on different social media. Of him. It doesn’t matter if it’s memes or little cute cartoons. It’s just him. He knows your little hoarding box where you put your spares which also got their own spares—spare of a spare, you describe them.

It’s adorable but the way he looks so haunted in some of them... He can’t help it. It’s his face.

It’s funny and a bit embarrassing—in a good way

But he never feels bad about it. Not when you cherish every sticker. Not when you are so giddy and filled with excitement every time you buy one. Not when he catches you just gazing at them before hugging it so tightly.

Quinn has to turn away. His cheeks are burning. You make him feel good even through cute little stickers.

Sighing, Quinn finishes up with breakfast. He takes the plates to the coffee table, jumping when you suddenly sit up. You give him a fat smooch on the cheek before you mutter about getting him more tea and your coffee. But, fuck, his cheek burns from your touch. The kiss is soft and quick, but it seeps down to his bones, down to his… It’s way too early to be horny.

Quinn shakes his head, trying his best to clear it. However, he catches your shorts glide up your thighs when you bend over to get something from the lower cabinets. Oh, he’s fucked. It’s not helping how he notices your lace panties imprinting through your shorts.

Somebody, help him.

He looks away, counting down from ten to one, up from one to ten. He’s hard. It’s fucking eight in the morning. What the fuck is wrong with him? He closes his eyes for a second, thinking about hockey, practice, and literally anything else. He fails. His mind keeps showing him the image your ass, grinding against him as he fucked you—

“I think I want some orange juice right now,” he forces out, planting one foot up to hide his erection. He needs something to cool him down.

“mm’kay!” Your sweet voice just made him painfully harder.

“Thanks,” he coughs out. “Maybe a couple of ice?”

“Anything for my Quinny,” you say in a singsong voice, then you start humming a tune, moving your hips with it.

Fuck.

Quinn might need to lock himself in the bathroom at this point. You’re not letting him catch a break. How can he not get turned on after not having his fill of you for two weeks? He can see the jiggle of your ass. He can see your pebbled nipples through your thin and cropped shirt, because you just got rid of your hoodie. Why did you get rid of it? The air conditioning is literally on.

Thank fuck he’s wearing his boxer and his black sweatpants. There would be a dark patch there, because he’s leaking pre-cum. He might even come right there if you don’t stop—

“You want the one with pulp?” you ask, weight in one leg, while holding two orange juice cartons.

“Any,” he barely says, catching a glimpse of something peeking out the waistband of your shorts—what exactly is it, he doesn’t know—but you quickly turn away, bending over again which distracts him. “You slept good when I wasn’t here?” Quin pathetically asks, trying to shake away his hard-on away by pure will—it’s not working.

“Yep,” you gleefully say, finally finishing your instant coffee.

Quinn makes a mental note to make your usual brewed coffee later. He can’t just let you with a cup of instant coffee throughout the day. That’s not okay. His sweet girl deserves the best after all.

Well, after he cools the fuck down.

He settles on the floor, snatching the fleece blanket from the couch to cover himself. He swallows a groan when you slide into the same blanket, leaning against him. Your heat only seeps down his cock more than his shoulder. You are killing him.

He stiffly drinks his juice, shuddering when you kiss his cheek again. He almost doesn’t kiss your cheek too, because he’s a hair away from losing control. But he still does. He gives your cheek a peck. He wishes to kiss you deeper, bend you over the coffee table and just fuck you. He knows you’ll agree if he asks. He knows you’ll let him have his way with you.

He knows.

But he hears your tummy rumble.

He can’t fuck you when you’re hungry. You’ll need energy. Besides, it’s fucking 8AM. He’s so close to punching himself as a reprimand. No one should be this horny this early. That sounds hypocritic, because he remembers several times where he waited for you to wake up so he could fuck you sideways, kissing you through your just-woken-up haze.

Someone needs to bash his head until he gets amnesia.

He’s digging himself a deeper grave. Seriously.

Quinn focuses on breakfast. He loves breakfast with you. He loves it when your weight is partially on him. When you take sips of your coffee, urging him to drink his own beverage. When you talk about what you’ll be doing for work or for your day offs.  When you snatch some of his eggs and replace with potatoes or the other way around, because wanting more of one depends on the day. Today, you are doing the latter. All while, you grin at him with so many things brewing in your eyes.

He finally says, when you two are almost done with breakfast, “Okay, you are acting suspicious.” He narrows his eyes just a tad. “What are you planning?”

You turn and hug him from his side.

Quinn expertly holds you without you getting on his cock. It’s so hard. Especially when you shimmy to get more comfortable over his thigh. He almost starts pleading for you to move and get off him, because you’re so near.

“I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise? He blinks, repeating the word over and over in his head. For him? You have a surprise for him? Excitement courses through his body, temporarily distracting him from his aching member. He likes your gifts. He feels special whenever you give him something. It doesn’t matter what it is. Cookies, shirts, chocolates, a piece of candy. Even if it’s a kiss. Especially if it is. Speaking of a kiss, he wants to kiss you right now.

And he’s back to being a horny fucker.

He can’t help it. Your lips look so delicious, so damn kissable. When you run your tongue over your lower lip, biting it after, he’s done. He kisses you. Languidly. Unhurried in any way. The best thing about kissing you is you kissing back with the same intensity. When he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding past your lips, you are ready for him. You taste like your coffee and it’s perfect.

He missed this while he was away. He doesn’t know how he survived last night with a simple kiss to your forehead. He’s a fucking idiot. He missed out. Not that kissing your forehead is less than your kiss. No. Never. Just kissing your skin makes his heart ache. Just feeling your warmth is enough.

However, kissing your lips while breathing in your exhales, your moans, and your groans, that’s one way to live. If only he can exist with your air. If he can only kiss you every second of his life. If only.

When he parts from you, he feels your chasing lips as his. You two want so much more than a kiss. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Still, he must know what your surprise is. He needs it.

“A surprise, huh?” he murmurs, getting distracted by the flush on your cheeks. Wow. Just…wow. “Surprise for what?”

“I don’t need a reason to surprise my boyfriend.” Your nose scrunches, clearly and teasingly dissatisfied with his stupid question.

He can’t help but grab your cheeks, chuckling when you pout for good measure. When he caresses his thumbs over your skin, it makes you relax further into him. Your lips are red from the kiss. So plump. So wet from each other’s saliva. If he kisses you again, right now, he might end up just coming in his pants. Later. In a bit.

He coaxes, “What is it?”

You’ve hypnotized him when you drag your nail over his jaw and kiss along it. He can only cling to your waist. A whine left his lips when you let go. Where the fuck are you going? You can’t just leave him—

“Close your eyes,” you say, putting a halt to his thoughts. There’s that devilish gleam again, yet you add, “Please?”

You don’t need to say please. Quinn closes his eyes, immediately hearing the clatter of dishes and mugs being taken away. His hands curl into fists, turning irritated. You don’t need to clean up for him. He can do it, but he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to betray your wishes. You are surprising him. He’ll be an idiot if he tries to sour the mood. But he dislikes it. If you’re going to do the dishes, he’ll do it with you. He doesn’t like not doing things with you, especially when it’s the regular season. He’s always away. It’s exhausting but you make it better.

One moment he’s horny. The next he’s acting pathetic.

“You’re overthinking, Quinn.” Your gentle voice hums, easing his troubled soul.

He feels and hears you sit down in front of him. On the coffee table. He fucking shivers when your feet brush the outside of his thighs. No blanket can mask your warmth, your touch. He can feel your eyes running all over him. His face. His neck. His hair. His chest. His cock. He really, really, really might fucking come.

He can hear your shaky inhale. You finally notice. Your voice turns higher, “Come closer.”

He does it. It’s more of moving the low table rather than scooting closer. Oh, the tiny squeak that you let out is adorable. You always forget that he’s strong. You’ve admitted that to him, that he looks small on ice, that he’s cute. He couldn’t blame you. He is just 5-foot-10 around people who are 6-feet and taller. You told him he looked like he wouldn’t be able to lift you. So, Quinn learned to remind you that he can lift you and more.

Now, his mind pesters with image of you against the wall, legs around his waist while he fucks you hard. That’s his favorite way to prove it—Can he fucking stop? Seriously?

He feels your touch over his shoulders, thumb rubbing into his muscles, up his neck, up his jaw. Soon, you have your forehead against his. Quinn’s trying to feel the table any clues about your surprise. So far, he hasn’t found any. He’s so curious. Just what is it?

“Open your eyes for me, handsome.”

Quinn does. He instantly gets mesmerized by your eyes, the eyelashes delicately framing them, your blinks. You’re just beautiful. He won’t have any complaints if this is your surprise. A simple eye-to-eye contact minute with you. Now that’s an amazing gift. Because now, he sees the details of your eyes—the darker and lighter specks of your color and the impossibly wide pupils.

“I love it,” he says with satisfaction.

You laugh, blushing so hard. “You’re silly.” You kiss the tip of his nose, taking his hands to plant it around your waist. “Look down…”

Again, he does. He gazes at every inch of you like he hasn’t. He can’t help but feel your breasts, thumb swirling over your nipples that were begging to be seen and touched and freed from your shirt. After hearing you moan and making your back arch into his touch, he moves on, smirking when you grumble about your need. Later.

He teases your skin, your navel. He’s so lost seeing how you tremble, hips slightly moving and trying to create friction. He bet you’re soaking through your pretty panties—

Quinn stills the moment he catches something on your skin. On your hipbone. What the fuck. What the fuck is that?

His heart hammers against his chest as he hooks a thumb into your shorts and tugs down.

Holy shit.

No matter how much he blinks it doesn’t change.

A tattoo. A fucking tattoo on your left hip.

‘QH43’, it says.

Quinn is literally felt his stomach flutter with fucking butterflies, thumb subbing over it, trying to see if it’s temporary, but it doesn’t have a shine nor does it crack.

He should be worried. It must’ve fucking hurt. It’s over a bone. He should shake you and ask if you got caught up in a dare. He should be livid you kept this from him. Tattoos are big decisions. You always confide in him for big decisions. You didn’t have this when he left for the road trip. It looks healed. He should’ve been with you and helped you take care of it. Damn it.

Yet, the more he looks at it, the more desire courses through his veins. It melts his worries.

It’s just ink in your skin. Ink in your blood. His fucking initials and numbers on you. Permanently. Forever.

QH43. Just four characters in a normal script. So simple yet it’s enough to get him all shaken up.

“Why?” He asks, taking a hand into his cock. He looks up to your eyes, except you aren’t looking at him. You’re staring at what he’s doing with a blush on your face like you haven’t seen him jerk off, haven’t seen his dick in your pussy. You’re cute.

“Because I want it.”

“It’s bad to have your boyfriend’s name tattooed on your person.” Quinn wants to smack himself for saying that, because he likes it.

“Good thing it’s his number.” You crossed your arms, smirking and unfazed. “Besides, my boyfriend will never leave me. He promised me all the time.”

“Yes. I will never leave you.” He nods, moaning when you put a hand over his cheek. “’m so turned on.”

“I can see that.” Your nails scratch over his jaw again.

He’s losing it. “Did it hurt?”

“It stung but not too much. Want help?”

Quinn shakes his head. He needs an initial relief. His hand will do. For now. He can’t help but preen as you snatch away the blanket. Sweat starts to bead on his skin as he nudges his pants down, tightly gripping and working his cock. Fuck.

“Wanna cum on it?” You ask, your voice shaking as you pant. You lean back, planting your hands on the table, spreading your thighs wide, showing him the wet patch over your thin shorts. You’re evil for that.

Quinn doesn’t know he can get any harder, but he does. Especially when he can basically smell you, taste you through it. He missed this so much. An ache forms in his chest for missing out, for not being with you.

“Is that safe?” Quinn moans, swiping a thumb over his slit, shivering as his pre-cum dribbles down his length. Totally forgetting how he was rubbing it a minute ago, he gasps, “Don’t want it to hurt.”

“It’s healed,” you reassure. “Ugh, I hate my panties. They’re so wet.”

See, you’re really complaining. The annoyance is clear on your face, but it’s cute as fuck. You shimmy your shorts and panties down, shivering when your arousal creates a string from the lace to your pussy. You still sit at the table, waiting for him to come on you.

“You’re killing me, my Love.” Quinn crawls up to his knees. “All wet for me?”

“Yeah.” Then you slide one hand over your pussy, parting it for him, making him see you quivering hole. “You really like my tattoo?”

Quinn can only nod. There’s a lump in his throat. He’s panting as he chases his relief. The way your pussy drip is getting to his head. Fuck, why is he still jerking off when your pussy is right there? He scoots closer, sliding his cock along your pussy. Both of you groan. You feel so good and he’s not even inside.

“Quinn,” you gulp, hands coming up his shoulder. “Maybe. You can jerk off later? I’m right here. I need you, handsome.”

He feels your pain and he feels the same. He presses his dick in your entrance. He warns, “I’m going to come soon.”

“Yes, please.”

Something snaps.

It’s his control.

You really know how to make him lose it. Those two fucking words. It might as well be a prophecy. He will listen and make it happen rather than wait for it to come true.

One smooth movement, he’s inside. His eyes nearly roll up as your pussy squeezes around him, seemingly determined to milk his cum out. By some miracle, he doesn’t come right away. He doesn’t it matters he did. He fucks you with urgency.

You feel divine. Your pussy. Your heated skin. Your arms that slot over his shoulders, urging him to fuck you faster. Your long nails dragging red stripes down his nape and back. Pain and pleasure sears down his soul.

“Quinn,” you call, tugging at his hair.

He moans your name like a prayer just for you. For his Love eternal. Fuck, he deeply loves you so much that it. More than anything in this world. You are the light of his life. Light, not a flame that would burn him. A light makes everything clear and visible. He’ll never get lost with you by his side. Lost in you, now, that’s a different topic.

He catches sight of a sweat dripping down from your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your neck, to your collarbones. He’s there, licking it up from its destination and up your jaw. Fuck, your taste—the saltiness, your scent on his tongue—is alluring.

Your moans mix with his, drowning out the buzz of the air-conditioning, the slight creaking of the coffee table, the ringing of his fucking phone. Who the fuck is calling him this early in the morning? It doesn’t matter. Not important right now. No.

Your hands cling to his arms, nails digging deep crescents into his skin. When his thumb circles your clit, he feels your pussy walls contract and pulse, making him come deep inside you. One spurt. Two. Three. Then he pulls out, so he spills right over your tattoo. You both pant, watching his cum make a mess on your skin, watching the cum dripping down your used pussy.

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing him fucking dry, making sure every drop is on your skin, your hips, and your thighs. He can’t help but gasp, forehead resting against yours.

He can’t believe he got you to come before him when he was so close to the edge.

So happy that you did.

So fucking ecstatic that he starts rubbing his cum into your skin, swiping its thickness into your damn tattoo, making sure it’s thoroughly coated. This is what you wanted. He also fucking wants it. His other hand travels to your pussy to push his cum back in. Your thighs quiver, shaking. Your moans and whines are loud and clear in his ears.

Fuck, he’s still so hard.

And you know it. How can you not? You’re holding him. It’s so evident that he’s ready for more.

You meet his eyes as you pant. Your lips are so red from being bitten. Quinn reaches up, taking his pushing his thumb slicked with his cum in your lips. When you immediately lick and suck on it, he can’t stop himself from grinding on your pussy. You’re just as greedy as him.

He loves that and he needs to fuck you again.

“Another?” he pleads.

“Yes,” you murmur, kissing his thumb. “Please.”

You don’t need to say anything else.

[moomuzan]

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊 𝖏𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖊

ᴛᴡ

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ they find out about your eating disorder

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ chuuya , dazai , akutagawa

The red-haired had always admired your strength. Carrying yourself like a quiet fire that seemed impervious to the storms of life, unyielding under the weight of the underworld’s chaos. You were his protégé, the one he poured himself into, the one who embodied everything he once longed to be but couldn’t. His pride. His light. The proof that even in the darkest corners of the world, something radiant could exist. But even the brightest flames can flicker, and it was in the faint tremors of your hands, the tight smiles, and the hollow laugh that he began to notice cracks in the armor you wore so well.

When you were alone, the emptiness gnawed at you. It was a beast you couldn’t tame, one that whispered lies into your ear about control, about worth, about the ugly truths buried in your reflection. Those nights, after the world fell silent and your facade could finally shatter, you found yourself in the kitchen, hands trembling as you pulled open cabinets, rifling through anything you could find. Bread, chips, sweets, anything to fill the void, anything to quiet the roaring need that felt like a punishment and a salvation all at once. You ate until you couldn’t breathe, until your stomach screamed in protest, until shame curdled in your veins like poison. Then came the guilt—a black wave that crashed over you, suffocating, pulling you under. And so, you purged, desperate to rid yourself of the weight, of the regret, of the proof of your failure. It was a ritual of suffering, one you endured in silence, hiding it from the world because no one could ever understand.

Therefore, food had always been the battlefield. Chuuya had no words for how your face tightened whenever a meal was placed in front of you, how your laugh sounded strained when he joked about how little you ate. At first, he thought it was preference, something trivial. But then came the patterns. The way you’d push food around your plate, the careful excuses that masked avoidance, the too-frequent trips to the bathroom after meals. He dismissed it, once, twice, too many times, unwilling to shatter the image he had of you—unbreakable, invincible, beyond fragility.

Until one day, he couldn’t.

Upon a quiet night, after a grueling mission, the two of you were eating together. He had cooked, something rare, almost celebratory. He wanted to see you smile, to hear your laugh ring genuine, unguarded. But the moment was stolen by the slight twitch in your brow, the way you forced yourself through each bite like it was a penance. And then you were gone, chair scraping against the floor as you muttered some excuse about needing the bathroom.

The mafia executive wasn’t sure why he followed. Perhaps it was the gnawing pit in his stomach, the accumulation of every unease he’d ever felt about you but hadn’t wanted to name. Or perhaps it was the way you hadn’t looked at him when you stood, the way your eyes seemed fixed on something far, far away. Whatever it was, it pulled him from his seat, silent, careful, until he stood outside the bathroom door.

A choked sob, raw and jagged, as if your chest was being ripped apart—the sound hit him. Then came the gagging, the frantic, broken attempts to purge what little you’d eaten. His heart clenched at the sound, a violent, suffocating force that left him frozen for a moment too long. When the retching stopped, there was silence, and then another sound—one that would haunt him far longer than any gunfire or scream. You were crying, but it wasn’t the kind of crying he could soothe. It was feral, unrestrained, the sound of someone drowning in their own skin.

He pushed the door open, and the sight gutted him.

You were on the floor, knees pressed to your chest, fists clenched so tightly your knuckles were white. Tears streaked your face, mixing with the remnants of your futile attempts to purge. Your shoulders shook violently, your breaths ragged and shallow, as if the weight of existence itself was pressing down on you. too lost in whatever storm was tearing you apart from the inside, you didn’t even notice him at first.

As he called your name, his voice broke, soft but weighted, you flinched as though struck. Your head snapped up, eyes wide and wild, filled with a mixture of shame, fear, and something he couldn’t name.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” you choked out, your voice shattered, hands scrambling to shield yourself from his gaze as though his presence alone was enough to destroy you.

But he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. How could he, when the person he cherished most in the world was falling apart in front of him? When the strength he admired so fiercely had been a mask for a torment so profound it left you hollow? His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling—not with anger, but with helplessness. Chuuya Nakahara, the Port Mafia’s finest, a man who had survived horrors most couldn’t fathom, didn’t know how to fix this.

And yet, he moved. Slow, deliberate, he crossed the space between you and knelt down, ignoring the mess, ignoring everything but you. He didn’t speak. What words could possibly touch the depth of what he felt? What comfort could ease the anguish that had been festering in your soul long before he’d ever noticed? Instead, he reached out, his gloved hand trembling as it brushed against yours.

Although you tried to pull away, he held on, firm but gentle, grounding. Your protests were weak, broken, crumbling under the weight of his quiet persistence. Eventually, you stopped fighting, your hand going limp in his as the sobs wracked your body anew. He pulled you into his arms then, holding you like you might shatter, like the world itself would crumble if he let go.

Heavy and suffocating a silence followed. Though in it, there was an unspoken promise. A vow etched not in words but in the way he held you, in the way his gloved fingers gently stroked your hair, in the way his own shoulders shook with the weight of what he’d just realized. You weren’t invincible. You weren’t unbreakable. But you didn’t have to be. Not with him.

Truthfully, chuuya didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know how to help you, how to fix the cracks in your foundation. But he did know one thing: he would never let you face this alone again. You were his pride, his light, the fire he’d chased his entire life. And no matter how fragile that flame might be, he would protect it with everything he had—even from yourself.

,

Dazai had always known how fragile you were, even when you didn’t realize it yourself. It wasn’t just your body, though the sharp lines of your frame had always seemed on the verge of disappearing, as if you weren’t fully of this world. No, it was something deeper—a fragility that resided in the quiet spaces between your laughter, in the way your eyes lingered on the edges of mirrors as though you feared what might look back at you. He had been drawn to it, at first. That strange contradiction of strength and delicacy, the way you carried yourself like a wisp of smoke in a room full of storms.

But even smoke can suffocate.

It began so subtly that Dazai almost missed it. The way you picked at your food with a practiced indifference, your careful avoidance of meals disguised as nonchalance. He watched you fold excuses into your routines like origami, delicate and precise—“I already ate,” “I’m not hungry,” “I’ll grab something later.” Lies so thin they barely held their shape, but he let them pass because he thought he understood you. You were his quiet escape from the chaos, a tether to the normality he so desperately sought. But now, as the days turned into weeks, and your sharp edges grew sharper still, he realized your fragility wasn’t simply a part of you—it was consuming you.

The obsession, your obsession, was was unsettled him the most. The way you clung to control, as if it were the only thing keeping you alive. He saw it in the numbers you counted in your head, the mental calculations that flickered behind your eyes whenever food was near. You moved constantly, restless and relentless, as though standing still would unravel you. And yet, despite your need to escape the shape of your own body, he saw how you lingered in front of mirrors, tracing the lines of your collarbones and ribs with trembling fingers. You hated what you saw, yet in that hatred, you found power. A twisted kind of triumph.

Dazai, for all his sharpness, didn’t know how to confront it. How could he, when you had built your cage so carefully, so intricately, that he feared any wrong move might trap you further? He watched in silence, a ghost hovering at the edges of your pain, his own heart growing heavier with every meal you skipped, every lie you told, every step that carried you further away from him. Naturally, you didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much he had come to love you—not in fragments, not as something fleeting, but entirely. Utterly. You thought you were a passing indulgence, something temporary to fill the void in his life, but you were so much more than that.

Fighting demons, he waited until the night he couldn’t stay silent anymore.

You’d spent the day evading food with a grace that was almost artful, your avoidance so practiced it might have been rehearsed. By the time evening came, you were a shadow of yourself, moving through the room like a ghost. Dazai sat at the edge of your shared space, watching as you ran your hands over your arms, up and down, like you were trying to prove to yourself that you were still there. Your fingers brushed against the sharp jut of your bones, and for the briefest moment, your expression flickered—triumph, control, and then disgust, so fleeting he might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he said, his voice soft but resolute.

Hands lingering in the air before it dropped to your side, you froze “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmured, the lie falling from your lips like ash.

He stood then, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. There was no anger in him, only a sorrow so deep it felt like drowning. “You do,” he said simply. “You’ve known all along. You’ve been counting every bite, every step, every ounce of control, but you can’t see what it’s doing to you.”

While your chest tightened your eyes darted away from his, searching for an escape. “I’m fine,” you whispered, but the words rang hollow, as brittle as your frame.

“No, you’re not.” His hand reached out, but he stopped just short of touching you, as though afraid you might break beneath the weight of his concern. “You think this is control, don’t you? That if you can keep shrinking, you’ll finally be enough. But you’re already disappearing. You’re fading, and I…” Being the first sign of the turmoil raging beneath his calm facade, his voice cracked, “I can’t lose you to this.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, spilling over as the dam finally broke. “I don’t know how to stop,” you confessed, your voice trembling with the weight of your admission. “I don’t know how to be enough for you, for anyone, for myself.”

Closing the distance between you then, his arms reached around your trembling frame. You felt impossibly small against him, as though you might dissolve entirely if he held you too tightly. “You’ve always been enough,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low, raw. “I didn’t fall in love with you because of how you look, or because of the shape of your body. I love you because you make me want to live. Don’t you see? You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive, and I can’t lose that—not to this, not to anything.”

Then you collapsed against him, your sobs muffled against his chest as his words sank into the hollow spaces inside you. For the first time, the control you clung to felt less like power and more like a chain, one you weren’t sure you could break alone. But in Dazai’s arms, in the steadiness of his voice, there was a flicker of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

And for a moment, in the fragile quiet of that night, you allowed yourself to believe it.

,

When you came back from the hospital, Akutagawa thought you were better. Not whole—he knew better than to believe anyone could walk out of that kind of war unscathed—but better. You were quieter, more restrained than before, but he chalked it up to the aftershocks of what you’d endured. He wasn’t one for excessive concern or sentimentality, so he gave you space, trusting that your resilience would guide you forward.

Working alongside him, just as you always had, you carried out the ruthless tasks of the Mafia with precision and poise. But there was something in your movements that had changed—something more deliberate, almost rigid, as though you were holding yourself together through sheer will alone. At first, he dismissed it as adjustment. You’d been through a storm, after all, and even the strongest took time to rebuild.

What he didn’t see was how the storm had followed you.

In the dead hours of the night, when you were alone in your quarters, the thoughts crept back in—quiet at first, like whispers. You’re too much. You’ll fall apart if you let go. Control is the only way. They slithered into your mind, wrapping themselves around the fragile progress you’d made, and you welcomed them like old friends. You told yourself you’d stop before it went too far, that it was just temporary, just a way to feel steady again. But control was a ravenous thing, never satisfied with half-measures.

Like an old, repeating pattern, you began skipping meals—not all at once, but enough to convince yourself it wasn’t dangerous. A missed breakfast here, a lighter dinner there. You avoided eating in front of Akutagawa whenever possible, claiming you weren’t hungry or were too busy. When you couldn’t avoid it, you picked at your food, calculating every bite, every calorie, with a precision that bordered on obsession.

Of course, you thought you were hiding it well. Learning to wear looser clothing to disguise the weight you were losing, staying late in the training rooms, pushing your body until exhaustion numbed the gnawing hunger, you told yourself this was strength, that the growing sharpness of your cheekbones and the hollows beneath your collarbone were proof of your control. But the truth was, you were spiraling, and you were too afraid to stop.

Akutagawa, on the other hand, didn’t notice at first. He was consumed with his own duties, his own battles, and you were careful to keep your mask intact around him. But as the weeks passed, he began to see the cracks. The way your energy faltered during missions, the unsteady tremor in your hands when you thought no one was watching. He noticed how your voice grew quieter, how your laughter—rare as it was—disappeared altogether. And then there was the weight.

Now you looked fragile, as though a strong wind might shatter you. He told himself it was stress, that you were still recovering, that if it were serious, you would tell him. You had promised him once, after all, that you wouldn’t keep him in the dark again.

But you didn’t tell him.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, he caught you lingering in the shadows of the Mafia’s base. You were leaning against the wall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as though trying to hold yourself together. He approached silently, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the gauntness of your face, the dark circles beneath your eyes.

“You haven’t been eating,” he said bluntly, his voice low and steady.

Stiffening, you didn’t turn to face him. “I’m fine,” you replied, your tone carefully controlled.

“No, you’re not.”

Heavy and unrelenting, his words hung in the air. Slowly, you turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment, he saw the truth in your eyes—the fear, the shame, the desperation you’d been trying so hard to hide. But just as quickly, you looked away, your mask snapping back into place.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, your voice sharper this time. “I don’t need you to worry about me.”

He stepped closer, his presence as unyielding as his gaze. “This isn’t about need,” he said. “It’s about what I see. And what I see is you killing yourself.”

As your hands clenched at your sides, your nails were digging into your palms. “You don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking despite your efforts to keep it steady.

“Then make me understand.”

For a moment, the room was filled with silence, heavy and suffocating. And then, like a dam breaking, the words spilled out of you.

“I thought I could handle it,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I thought I was past it, that I could stop whenever I wanted. But it’s always there, Akutagawa. The need to control, the fear of letting go. It’s… it’s like drowning, but I’m the one holding myself underwater.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand resting gently on your shoulder. “You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly. “You never have to be.”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “But what if I can’t stop? What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not too late,” he said firmly. “And even if it takes everything I have, I’ll make sure you remember that.”

There was no grand gesture, no dramatic declaration. Just the quiet promise of someone who refused to let you fall. And for the first time in weeks, the walls you had built around yourself began to crack.

a/n: i‘d like to leave a few words actually, i got this request around midnight but i wrote it on sitting and got pretty emotional (yikes) i never wrote something like this so it might come off as stiff. i had anorexia myself, and am now still dealing with bulimia. help. i spent all my teenage years counting calories. i still do , sometimes. this disorder leaves you with nothing but despair. i don’t mean to romanticise it so i tried making it realistic — though it probably sucks. well whatever. if anyone is struggling with this, please get help—even if it’s just online, reaching out won’t make it disappear but easier. love you all so much!

[gfguren]

pro hero!bakugou x fem!reader | fluff, suggestive, husband!katsuki, katsuki implied as being taller than reader, implied age (~late 20's, early 30s~), light-hearted bickering, an excuse to write more domestic!kats, 1.8k | cw: cursing, suggestive

-your husband comes home late, soaking wet and a little bit handsy-

Katsuki is late; you hope traffic isn't too bad. Outside your window the sky is overcast, steely shades of grey over a slate canvas. The roads are dyed an inky charcoal, pooling at the surface where rain drip-drip-pours in endless streams.

You've taken up residence in the foyer, between the linen closet at the end of the hall, and the umbrella Katsuki left by the front door this morning. The very same one you reminded him to take with him at breakfast, and twice again before he left in the evening. If you loved him a little bit less, he might listen to you one day.

But you do—love him—right down to his bad habits and stubborn disposition.

So you wait for him the same way you have for years; perched at the breakfast nook in the corner with a warm cup of tea and a paperback that's been gathering dust for half-a-year now at least. The bar table is worn at the edges, legs wobble if you lean too far forward—frankly, you should have gotten rid of it years ago—but it was the first belonging that wasn't yours, or Katsuki's, but ours; a piece you thrifted when you were both still twenty-something and broke.

The years have changed a lot—our table, our bed, our house, our life. Your Katsuki.

—His wife.

The band around your finger is white gold; it clinks when you put the mug to your lips. Honey, ginger. Sweet. Rain hits the window and falls; two trails meet at the middle, and stick to each other like glue. Katsuki would laugh if he found you right now, smiling into your tea like a lovestruck fool.

You let the ceramic rest, turn to page thirty-or-something of a book that you totally-intend-to-finish. An hour passes before you hear the telltale rumble of an engine.

You spot his headlights first, misty pools of sunlight spilling onto the pavement when he pulls into the driveway. It's well past midnight now; Katsuki is a shadow against the porchlight, long strides and a hand over his crown. You have half a mind to bring the umbrella to him, but he's quicker, ascends the four steps to the veranda in two big leaps; you barely register the rustle of keys before he's stepping into the house, pooling rainwater at the welcome mat.

He's soaked at the shoulders, a grumble in his throat when he kneels to unlace his shoes—black leather, designer and sharp, same as the suit jacket around his shoulders. Tailored to fit him just right.

Katsuki's always been handsome, even as a hero in training renting hand-me-down suits from the little mom-and-pop shop down the street. But it really strikes you just how beautiful he is when you look at him now, dressed to the nines. All the years of hard work paying off in more ways than one.

You go a little fuzzy when he lifts his head to catch you staring; red eyes kindling the air and making it hard to breathe. He's the spitting image of a number two hero, just returned from a long night at some fancy-pants gala; sometimes you forget that's exactly what he is. Even more dumbfounded that, somehow, he's yours.

"I know," he grumbles, moving his shoes to the cabinet and meticulously hanging his jacket over the chair to dry. He briefly eyes the umbrella. "I f'rgot, kay?"

So have you, suddenly.

There's a pause and—"I didn't say anything."

He meets you at the table, one hand at the surface and the other at the knot of his tie. "Y've got that look."

You tip you chin to glare at him playfully. "And what 'look' is that, Bakugou Katsuki?"

"Like y'r about t'chew me up." He pulls the fabric strip from around his neck in one fell swoop, pops the first button of his dress shirt with his thumb. Your eyes fall for only a moment—barely a second—but Katsuki grins with the self-awareness of a man who's known you half his life. "Or about t'jump my bones, hah?"

He looks entirely impish in his revelation, ego flaring to rest in his cheeks; you have half a mind to nip at them like candy floss, instead you reach for the cuffs of his button-up, tidy the sleeves one fold over the other until the rainwater and well-kept muscles catch at the seams. You feign a sigh when his stare becomes too insistent to ignore, hand falling to rest at the peaks of his knuckles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah." A spark of firelight flashes in his eyes, deep carmine and coy; teasing him was so much easier a decade ago. "I'd let'cha."

You roll your eyes. "You're so unsexy, y'know that?"

"Hah," he barks with all the disbelief in the world. "What? Want me t'do that dirty talkin' shit instead? Jump y'r bones right here at the table? D'n think she'll hold up, baby."

He lets a fraction of his weight fall against the corner and the old wood immediately cries out, splintering oak and creaking hinges and the real, immediate threat that the poor thing might actually collapse at your feet.

You spring up defensively. "Katsuki!"

A once neatly-folded towel tumbles from your lap to land at your toes. His gaze falls; grin widens.

"Said y're gonna make me 'deal with it' next time I forgot the stinkin' umbrella, didn't'cha?" His fingers pinch the fat of your cheeks teasingly. "Love me that much, hah?" Your eyes narrow, fingers dive with intent for the space beneath his ribcage. He's quicker, wraps five fingers around your wrist and pulls you in with a hand at the back of your neck. He breathes, warm against the top of your head—"Missed y'tonight."

You hum against his chest, damp fabric sticking to your cheeks, flush and warm with surprise. You can count the number of times he's been this blunt with his affection on one hand; at least twice being in the presence of an empty champagne glass, or five. "Did you drink?" He gruffs at that—the only indication that he heard you at all. "Katsuki?"

"Come with me next time."

You tilt your chin, brow creasing. His head dips at the sight of the first wrinkle, the way it always does when he's trying to change the subject, or sweeten you up, or get his way in any way, really—a habit you must have taught him because you let him get away with it every single time. It's probably why he looks so offended when you pull back suddenly with a click of your tongue.

"That's not an answer."

"Not a drop," he finally says—huffs—with an almost boyish scowl.

You find yourself stifling a laugh, hand over mouth, and he glares, even as you step away to rustle through the linen closet. His eyes are red hot, brow downturned, downright grumpy, only cooling to a simmer when you're toe to toe once more, fresh towel in hand and lightly waving him down to your level. His spine bows, head dips until you're massaging the soft cotton through his hair; you would have had to fight him on this once—years ago—before time weathered his sharp edges, doused the wildfire raging in his heart until he became the man he is now—irritable, arrogant, stubborn, still, but willing—to make amends for who he was before, to extend a hand where he's able, to let you offer him one in return.

"Chose this one on purpose, didn't'cha?" Katsuki's voice is lukewarm, a tepid grumble at the back of his throat, an almost purr when you dip your fingertips against his nape.

"No idea what you're talking about."—but you do. The towel in question, he means, is from the left side of the closet, your side, all soft cotton and fluff; the same ones he refuses to use, for those very same reasons. "Said they 'd'n dry a damn thing' but-" you drape the supposed 'overrated, overpriced pile'a'fluff' around his shoulders to ruffle his bangs, more wily than usual, and barely damp. "Would y'look at that?"

He snorts, hand falling to the small of your back. "Don't get smart."

"Or what?" you keen up at him, at the balls of your feet, tip toes and still barely nose to nose; they bump once on accident, and twice on purpose. "Huh?"

Warm, exasperated breath fans across your cheeks. "Tryna start somethin' t'night, are ya?"

You bat your lashes, head tilting and fingers splaying across the 'v' of his neckline. "Me? Start something?" Your grin betrays your facade. "And what if I am?"

He pulls you in at the waist, holds you steady with one, strong arm, warm lips at your jaw and low, deep voice in your ear. "Better be ready t'finish it, then."

His right hand comes to rest at the back of your thigh, teases the skin right where your skirt ends; gooseflesh blooms all the way up your spine and you shiver. "Who's jumping bones now, huh?" you bark—yap, like a scaredy-pup with it's tail between it's legs—bite lost somewhere between the callouses on Katuski's fingertips and the press of his hips against your own.

You straighten your shoulders to get a good look at the ego washing over his face like miles of trumpet vine. All consuming, a force to be reckoned with. And devastatingly pretty.

"That'd be me, pretty lady," he says, all kinds of smug and annoying.

You hold him with your stare for an entire second—two, just so you can get a real good look at his stupid, handsome face—and then you're pulling him in by the collar, wrinkling the shirt he'll spend too much on dry-cleaning tomorrow. Not that he seems to mind when your tongue meets his, honey mingling with the mint on his breath and making his head swim, all but forgotten when a hand comes to rest at your waist, heated fingertips beneath your sweater, licking softly at your skin.

He walks you back 'til your thighs hit the table—(it rocks, precariously); one of your hands fall against the surface, the other to his heart that thump-thump-jumps when thunder rumbles through the house, and stills. You smile, soft against his lips, thumb tracing the precipice of his collarbone until your fingers can curl around his spine. The next kiss against his mouth is featherlight, barely there; you sigh, contentedly—"I love you."

Katsuki goes a little hazy, eyes the color of early Autumn; the blazing summer sun reduced to a tealight candle, flickering in the palms of your hands. "Yeah," he chokes. And you know just what he means.

You kiss him then, once more, a little more playful this time; mischievous and coy with a cheeky, "—even though you're totally unsexy."

"So help me, y/n, I will howitzer this table."

[gf2bellamy]

i luvvv what u did with my last req!!

i had a dream abt this one and i NEED it written.

.. but could i request maybe Garcia finding fem!reader's old highschool/college pictures (alone & w friends) and showing them to the team and spencer is just awestruck and intrigued bcuz he cant comprehend how reader has always been so pretty & charismatic.... idk do with that what u will (or nothing at all)

THANK YEW !!!!!!!!!

pictures — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think ? a/n: i'm so glad you liked your last request !! <333 this is such a fun request <3 hope you like this

You carefully placed the last glass into the kitchen cabinet, pushing it neatly into place before reaching for the next one. The soft clinking of dishes and the occasional scrape of cardboard against the floor filled the room as you settled into your new apartment.

From downstairs, you could hear Derek’s voice carrying up the stairs, teasing Garcia about something as she dramatically huffed in response. Their banter made you smile.

You were grateful they’d all volunteered to help.

Footsteps approached, and you turned just in time to see Spencer walk into the kitchen, his long arms wrapped around a large cardboard box. He adjusted his grip slightly.

“Where do you want this one?” he asked, his voice slightly strained from the weight of the box.

You dusted your hands off on your jeans before stepping closer, opening the flaps just enough to peek inside. A small smile crossed your lips.

“Oh, these are my books,” you mused, scanning the spines that peeked through the neatly packed stack. “You can put those in my bedroom—it’s just down the hall, first door on the right.”

Spencer nodded, shifting the box slightly in his arms. “Got it.”

As he turned to leave, you caught his sleeve lightly between your fingers, stopping him for just a second.

“Thanks, Spence,” you said warmly, offering him a smile.

He hesitated for half a beat before giving you a small, almost shy smile in return. “Of course.”

Spencer walked into your room, nudging the door open with his foot before carefully setting the heavy box down on the floor. He straightened up, pushing his hair out of his face as he took a moment to glance around.

The room was still pure chaos—half-unpacked boxes stacked haphazardly, clothes draped over a chair, and a tangled mess of cords near the nightstand—but small details caught his eye.

Trinkets lined your shelves, a few stuffed into open boxes, and a stack of well-worn books rested on the floor beside your bed. His lips twitched slightly, a soft smile forming as he took it all in.

It was so… you.

Before he could linger any longer, a sudden burst of excited chatter from the other room pulled him back to reality.

“Ooooh, now this is gold!” Garcia’s voice rang out, unmistakably thrilled.

Spencer furrowed his brows and stepped out of the room, following the sound of her excitement.

As he entered the living room, he found her perched on the couch, a pile of scattered photographs spread across her lap. Derek was lounging beside her, smirking as he flipped through the pictures, clearly amused by whatever they had found.

The apartment was still mostly bare, the only real piece of furniture being the couch they occupied. Boxes were everywhere, some opened, others still taped shut, waiting for their contents to be unpacked.

“Reid, you have to see this,” Derek said, waving a photo in the air before handing it to him.

Spencer hesitated before reaching for it, his curiosity piqued. As soon as his eyes landed on the image, he felt his breath hitch slightly.

It was a picture of you.

You were younger—maybe early college—dressed in a way that reflected the era, standing with a group of friends, all mid-laugh. Your smile was bright, genuine, and effortlessly captivating.

Spencer couldn’t look away.

He swallowed, flipping through the other pictures Garcia eagerly passed him. Some were solo shots—one of you at what looked like a dance, another of you studying in the library surrounded by books. Others were with friends, arms slung around shoulders.

“You were always a social butterfly, huh?” Derek teased, glancing at you as he held up another photo of you grinning at the camera, surrounded by people.

You, who had just walked into the room, immediately groaned. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Garcia corrected, wiggling her eyebrows. “How is it fair that you were this pretty and effortlessly cool even back then?”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating up as you reached to snatch the pictures from Spencer’s hands, but he instinctively held them out of reach for just a moment longer, still completely entranced.

He finally looked up at you, studying you as if he were seeing you in an entirely new light.

“You’ve always been like this?” he asked softly, his voice almost distant, like he couldn’t quite process it.

“Like what?” you asked hesitantly.

Spencer blinked, as if realizing he had spoken out loud. He hesitated before answering, looking down at the photos once more before meeting your gaze again.

“Just… so pretty”

You bit your lip, trying to fight back the bashful grin threatening to take over your face. The heat in your cheeks spread all the way to your ears as Spencer’s words replayed in your head.

Just… so pretty.

Garcia was practically vibrating with excitement at this point, clutching a handful of your old photos to her chest like this was the best rom-com she’d ever seen play out in real life.

“Oh, this is delicious,” she cooed, wiggling her brows at you.

Derek smirked, shaking his head in amusement as he clapped Spencer on the back. “Man, I gotta say, I didn’t think you had game, but that? That was smooth.”

Spencer, meanwhile, was completely frozen, his mind short-circuiting as he realized what he had just said—out loud.

“I—uh—” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at you, wide-eyed, as if hoping you would rescue him from his own accidental confession.

But you didn’t. Instead, you just smiled—flustered.

“Well,” you started, shifting your weight on your feet, “thank you, Spencer.”

And that made him even more nervous. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he tried to compose himself. “I—um. It’s just an observation. A fact, really.” He rambled quickly, clearly floundering. “Statistically speaking, attractiveness is a combination of facial symmetry, social confidence, and personal charisma, which you seem to have had from a young age, based on these pictures and—”

“Reid.” Derek cut him off, shaking his head. “Stop while you’re ahead.”

Spencer shut his mouth immediately, ears still burning bright red.

Garcia leaned in toward you with a sly grin, whispering just loud enough for the room to hear, “Oh honey, I think you broke him.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, covering your mouth as you glanced back at Spencer, who still looked like his brain had yet to restart. He was gripping the photos so tightly now, they were starting to bend in his hands.

You reached out and gently pried the pictures from his fingers. His hands twitched at the loss of contact, but he didn’t stop you.

“I’ll take those back now, Doctor Reid,” you teased softly.

The sound of your voice seemed to pull him back to reality. He blinked, mouth opening slightly before he let out a quiet, breathy laugh—part disbelief, part amusement. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

You stepped back, giving him one last, lingering look before turning to Garcia, who still looked absolutely giddy.

“Alright, that’s enough of my embarrassing past for today,” you announced, gathering up the remaining pictures from her lap. “You guys are supposed to be helping me move, not dig into my past.”

Derek chuckled. “You brought that on yourself, kid.”

You shot him a playful glare before turning back to Spencer. He was still looking at you—studying you.

You held his gaze for just a second longer before looking away, tucking the photos safely into a box.

Spencer Reid was still completely, utterly dazed.

[moomine]

backwash II | daisuke

author's note: totally awesome people should check out part one as well ⍢ also, if you want to be part of a taglist for future updates feel free to reply or dm me! (cover image credit)

summary: (daisuke x f!reader) It's been a little over a month since the Tulpar departed on its 382-day long haul. Anya takes the reader aside to perform her monthly psych eval, where she discusses her experiences with her peers and life on the ship so far. After she's clear to go, she runs into Daisuke who's drawing in the lounge.

word count: 2,291

warnings: mild language? all characters are 18+

now playing: Radiohead - "Motion Picture Soundtrack"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

EMPLOYEE STATEMENT 028—

I’m starting to feel more and more homesick. I miss my mom’s roast chicken. I miss swimming pools and the feeling of the breeze. I miss burning incense. I miss my friends. It hasn’t been that long since we left Earth, but I guess I just never considered how still outer space would be. How lonely I’d feel. The others have been nice, yeah. Especially Anya. And Daisuke. I get the feeling that Captain Curly is still warming up to me. I wonder if he’s ever taken on another apprentice before. I don’t know about Swansea, or Jimmy. They seem to tolerate me at best. But then again, those two kind of just tolerate everyone, except for maybe Captain Curly. It’s only been almost a month. I just have to keep my head. 

If mom were here she’d say: “Everything gets easier with time. Time and patience.”

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN—

“Everything okay, [Name]?” Anya asked in a gentle tone, gingerly placing a hand on the table in front of you.

Your shoulders tensed at the sound of her voice as it filled the otherwise silent lounge. You looked up at her, feeling the tension seemingly wash away by the sight of her face. She offered you an understanding smile, her tired features softened as she looked down at you.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Just lost in thought, I guess,” you responded. 

You raised a hand to rub your eyes. It had been difficult to find sleep lately. The groaning of the ship was almost haunting at night. Laying in your bed, staring at the ceiling, you spent the few hours allotted for sleep thinking about Earth, about what laid just beyond the door to your room, about the ceaseless whining of steel and steam. About the next three hundred and fifty four days.

Anya nodded sympathetically, moving her hand from the table top to your shoulder blade. “It gets easier. I promise,” she paused as Jimmy and Curly entered the room, their voices loud and booming. “Are you ready for your psych eval?”

You nearly didn’t hear her over the sound of the other two. They were reminiscing, shouting stories back and forth of college parties, bar fights, and past lovers.

“As I’ll ever be,” you said with a timid grin. 

Anya nodded once more, motioning toward the door just past the kitchen space. You came to your feet and followed her until the two of you made it to her domain. The medical bay had become a safe haven for you. Over the past month, you gravitated toward Anya the most. She had been kind to you from the very beginning, almost sisterly. When there was no more work to be done, you often found yourself walking straight through the lounge and into her office. Anya didn’t mind. In fact, she had grown to rather enjoy the company.

She walked around the desk before taking a seat in her chair. Behind her was a wall of white shelves and cabinets with glass doors. Inside they held assorted medical supplies and books on psychology and basic clinical practice. To the right of her was a bulletin board, cluttered with posters, a calendar, pictures of her hometown, and notes and reminders. A number of Daisuke’s doodles had made it up as well, namely ‘Yimpy’, a rather horrible caricature of Jimmy. It was pretty realistic.

You sat across from her with your hands interlocked in a tight ball. “Same as last time, right?”

Anya grinned as she organized your file. “Yep, same as last time. Since it’s only your second evaluation, I’m going to go over it one more time. Is that okay with you?”

You nodded.

“Lovely,” she said with a soft hum. Tapping the papers into a neat pile against the desk, Anya glanced at you once more. Her eyes flickered from the page to you, you to the page as she read aloud. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions about your experience, relationships, and general well being during your time under contract with Pony Express. It is your responsibility to answer as truthfully as you feel comfortable and/or deem necessary. Your answers remain confidential unless you give reason to believe you are at risk of harming yourself or others. Do you have any questions?”

“No questions here,” you replied with a shake of your head.

“Perfect. Let’s get started. On a scale of one to ten, how confident do you feel in your capability to complete your work and responsibilities on a day to day basis?” Anya read.

“Maybe eight? I’m still getting a hold of some of the more technical aspects. The Tulpar is an older ship… I wasn’t exactly trained on her special quirks in school,” you said with a nervous laugh.

“You’ll catch on fast. You already have,” she reassured, jotting down your response with that sweet smile still on her face. “Okay, next question. You mentioned last time that you’ve been having difficulty sleeping, is that still a relevant cause for concern?”

“I don’t know if it’s that concerning. I think I’m just having a hard time getting used to the new environment. It’s been getting easier to fall asleep though,” you responded. A little, white lie.

“I’m happy to hear that, [Name]. Your rest is important. I remember not being able to sleep at all during my first haul. I spent all night just tossing and turning, reading my books if I could focus on them long enough. It’s normal, but from the sound of it, you’re doing a great job adjusting.” Her gaze softened as she spoke. It was clear that she had grown to care for you quite quickly, and you did the same for her. “Only a couple more left to go…”

Anya listened intently while you answered each of her questions, taking the time to write down key details of your responses. Between questions, the sound of her pen etching against the paper filled the room. As Anya wrapped up the second to last question, your eyes wandered to the evening window screen. The warm orange and reds of the artificial sunset made the room look like it was on fire. You looked back to your hands, reaching up to take a piece of your hair and twist it between two fingers.

“All right,” Anya spoke up. “Last but not least, how do you feel about your relationships with the rest of the crew? Is there anything I should know about in particular?”

“No, I don’t think so. Everyone has treated me fine enough. Other than you, I’m still trying to get to know everyone better,” you said, still focused on your hair.

Another sympathetic smile graced Anya’s lips as she looked over at you. She knew how it felt to feel slightly out of place. “Look, I’m technically not supposed to tell you this, so you have to keep it a secret. Okay?” Anya let out a quiet laugh as you nodded quickly. She watched amused as you dropped your strand of hair and leaned in closer. “Daisuke mentioned during his eval that he wanted to get to know you more. Maybe you could try talking to him? You two have more in common than you might think.”

You looked down at your lap again, biting at the inside of your cheek. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I will.”

“Well, you’re all set. You’re free to go.” Anya closed the file and tucked it away alongside the others in her desk. “Thank you for your time, [Name]. I assume I’ll see you here tomorrow. Same time as usual?”

“Same time as usual,” you echoed, beaming as you got out of your chair and left the room.

From the hallway leading to the medical bay, you could tell that the lounge was quiet now. Curly and Jimmy must have wandered off elsewhere. It would have been completely silent if it weren’t for the subtle sound of pencil scratching coming from deeper within. As you entered the room you noticed Daisuke, hunched over the table as he sketched something in his sketchbook. Completely oblivious. You leaned against the doorway and watched from a distance for a moment, admiring as he tucked a tuft of fried brown hair behind his ear. 

“What are you drawing?” you questioned.

Daisuke jumped in his seat like a cat that had been snuck up on. His eyes shot to you, the surprise he felt immediately quelling into a tenuous excitement. He hastily closed his sketchbook —almost like he was hiding something— and smoothed out his hair. His mouth broke out into a wide, infectious smile, the gap in his two front teeth a thin ravine and the dimples on either side of his mouth tiny sinkholes.

“Me? Oh, y’know, just doodling,” he said, leaning back in his chair as if trying to act casual. “Where ya been? I couldn’t find- I mean, I didn’t see you back in the cockpit.”

“Psych eval.” You pointed over your shoulder with your thumb as you pushed yourself from the doorframe. “Can I see it?” you asked, walking up to the table and taking the seat across from him.

“Uhh… see what?” Daisuke asked in turn, voice coy and simultaneously flustered.

“Your doodles,” you responded with a laugh. “Only if you’re okay with that, obviously.”

“Oh! I mean, yeah. That’s like, totally fine. But, fair warning, they’re not that incredible or anything.” Reluctantly, Daisuke passed you his sketchbook. He looked rather bashful, cheeks slightly flushed and smile wavering.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I’ve seen your stuff on Anya’s corkboard. You’re really good.” You took the sketchbook in your hands, looking down at the cover of it. It was absolutely littered in a random assortment of stickers. Only through the few and far between gaps could you see that it was once a pure black. It looked much cooler now decorated with the various games, bands, and whatever else Daisuke liked. “Are you sure you don’t mind me looking? Again, it’s perfectly fine if you changed your mind.”

“Nah, it’s all good. Just don’t expect too much, ‘kay?” he replied, running a hand through his hair.

“No expectations,” you agreed.

You turned over the cover, revealing the first page. In red ink you read ‘if found please return to Daisuke, thank youuuuuu’, alongside it was a doodle of himself looking particularly grateful. Or maybe he was pleading. You chuckled under your breath and began flipping through the rest of the pages. Each one was filled with sketches and those increasingly familiar doodles of predominantly other people. Friends, maybe family, and characters from the different games he liked. His work wasn’t quite realistic, but not the most stylized either. Rather, it seemed to be a perfect mix of the two. Something entirely unique to him. To Daisuke.

The deeper you got into the book you started to spy familiar faces. Captain Curly, Swansea, Anya, even Jimmy, but mostly you. You glanced up at him, seeing that he was seemingly avoiding eye contact with you all together. His hand was still tangled within his hair, head turned to the side, and lips knitted into a fine line. That mole —high on his left cheek— stared at you more than his own eyes.

When you finally got to the last page you realized he hadn’t been doodling at all. Instead, there before you, in soft pencil sketching, was a portrait of you that Daisuke had drawn from memory. It wasn’t perfect, but it was incredibly detailed nevertheless. You held up the book, taking in the details with a look of awe on your face. He captured all of your little imperfections —the tilt of your eyes, the quirk in your smile, all of it. 

“Daisuke, these are actually so good!” you exclaimed, setting the book down and passing it back to him.

“You… you really think so?” He let out a breath of relief, finally looking at you again. “Man, I thought you would find them totally weird. I’ve been too scared to show anyone else but Anya.”

“Why would I think they’re weird?” you asked.

“Shit, I dunno…” Daisuke trailed off.

You shook your head. “You’re really talented.”

“I- Thank you,” he breathed. Daisuke’s face softened as you looked at him from across the table. The flush in his cheeks was barely noticeable, a fair pink dusting the peaks of his features. “Hey, I noticed you brought a Walkman on board with you. I never thought I’d actually see one of those things in the flesh.”

“Oh, yeah,” you laughed lightly. “It was a gift from my mom. It’s outdated as hell, but I’ve got a bunch of custom tapes back in my room. We should totally listen to them sometime.”

“Are you kidding? Dude, I’d love to-”

“Daisuke!” Swansea called from down the hall, cutting him off. He rounded the corner, sticking his head into the lounge with a sweaty brow. “There you are. Get your ass up, break time’s over. We’ve got work to finish up before dinner.”

Daisuke looked noticeably disappointed at the sight of Swansea. “But I-”

“No ‘buts’. C’mon now, I don’t have all day,” Swansea said with a huff before he turned around, walking back toward the utility room.

“Coming,” Daisuke sighed. He stood up, tucking his sketchbook under his arm with a slight frown. “Guess I’ll see ya later, [Name].”

“Yeah! I’ve got to show you some of my mixes, remember?” you responded sweetly, smiling up at him.

Daisuke nodded enthusiastically. As he left the room, he adopted a pep in his step. A smile was glued to his face as he beamed down the hall. The human embodiment of sunshine in that moment.

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