#forever forever ever and ever and ever and ever. hand him over to me. hand him over. in my hands.n give.

[madamechrissy]

Jealousy, Jealousy

This was inspired by the Caleb art in the banner by @baobei-bu please love on ALL their art!! Their JJK/LADS art is PEAK

Pairings- Yandere! Caleb x F!reader

Warnings- PWP pretty much, a smut oneshot- HEAVY yandere Caleb, mating press, cum play, oral (f recieiving) tummy bulges, cervix hitting, panty stealing, fingering, overstim, he calls you pip squeak LMAO, JEALOUS obsessed Caleb

My first time for Caleb hehe, rbs/comments appreciated if you enjoyy

"Who is that, Pip squeak?" Caleb murmurs that question with a little smile, as you tense just a bit, feeling your cheeks heating up under his scrutiny, sipping on the straw of your milkshake, letting the sweetness hit your tongue. The two of you have been gaming the day away, taking just a little break in the kitchen now

"It's a... friend." That's what Xavier was really, your sweet friend, who is currently sending you heart emojis.

"Oh, a friend huh? Why so secretive then?" He teases, tapping your nose and just being far... far too close. You shouldn't think so many things about him like this, should you? But you can't help but like his cologne a little too much, like just how his brown locks were falling over his forehead just so, how you can see so much of his muscles flexing in what he wore.

"Just a friend." Your little smile drives him insane, he outwardly laughs, but he can't stop thinking of who's been with you while he's been away, has anyone touched you? When you're meant to be his.

"Let me see then." He yanks your phone high, dark violet eyes flashing for a moment, turning as you sputter and he scrolls through your last messages. "And who is Sylus... Rafael and... Dr. Zayne, I know him, and-"

"Give me my phone back, jerk!" You jump for it, but Caleb is stupid tall, holding it up and feigning a smile he really doesn't feel like giving right now, thoughts racing.

Were you with somebody?

That would never do.

Perhaps he's been gone too long, and you've found someone, but that wouldn't last long when you'd be his. Caleb hands you it finally, laughing a bit as he pats your head. "Relax, Pip Squeak, I was just messing with ya. So cute when you're angry."

"Oh, whatever. Back to the game?" He nods, watching as your bouncy ass sways in whatever excuse for a shorts those were, furious if anyone has ever gotten to see you like this.

You're sitting up on the couch now, legs spread so he sees just a hint of your perfect pussy that lace was hugging, his throat goes dry when you hand him the controller. He smiles with ease, sitting on the floor, hoisting your thighs around his shoulders then, and you pause, faltering just a bit, breath caught in your throat. It should be casual. You two have gamed close forever, but he's so close to your heat, your thighs brushing against his hot skin. Just a white tank top and your shorts separating you both.

"You blushed really hard when I mentioned Sylus huh?" He asks now, as he moves the controllers, and you gulp just a bit, fidgeting some.

"No... imagining things."

"You think he's hot."

You roll your eyes at him, shifting forward as you tilt the controller, slashing your sword and concentrating, the tips of your toes touching his lap. Just that is enough to make Caleb ache and throb, hard cock pulsing, he bites back a moan, you seem too entrapped in the game to notice what your foot is brushing on.

"He's hot, sure. Why, do you... find anyone hot?" Caleb glares down at the controller now.

"Just one girl." You bite your lip, concentrated fully, as he rests a head on your thigh. Hot breath against it making your leg twitch, cunt already soaking. You can't feel this way, you two are just too close... right? How can you be jealous?

"Oh?" Your weak voice just makes Caleb's cock leak precum, he can feel how hot you are behind his neck, he turns his head then, to catch you looking down at him.

"Do you care if I like someone Pip Squeak?"

"N-no..."

"Hmm... hah! Got you!" Caleb's killed your character, making you huff. Laying back some on the couch, you gasp when he turns around, face at level with your cunt, where he sees your damp spot right on your shorts. "Oh no, honey... did you spill something?"

"Huh?" You feel your body react, nipples pressing against your thin top at his proximity, vivid thoughts of far, far too many things working through your heated mind.

"Right here..." he brushes his thumb against the damp sticky arousal, eliciting a cry that makes him goddamn feral. "Can't answer me honey?"

"Caleb I'm... so sorry I..."

"This from me. Or from one of them?" His casual question is laced with something dark, pressing on the spot again, wondering just how many men he'd have to take out, so his sweet girl is all his. "Should I get these off you? Since you're making them so messy?"

"I.... y-you-" Caleb has slipped your shorts off your thighs, your tummy clenches when he clicks his tongue. Now he kisses your inner thigh, fingers running along your swollen lips, breath ghosting too close to your cunt.

"These are ruined too, tsk. Something wrong, pip squeak?" You shake your head, watching as Caleb peels those panties off you, and he has to tuck them in his pocket, thankful your eyes are shut, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. He needs a fresh pair anyway, you're too meticulous about your laundry and he doesn't get many.

The amount of times he's cum inhaling your panties, drunk off them is insane, even before he left you, when he'd visit on breaks he'd take them, licking any of you up. Sometimes he would jerk off inside them, imagining putting them on you. Making you wear them full of his load as punishment for making him so insane. But nothing prepared him for seeing your glistening cunt, clear trails breaking off, you're so wet you were stuck to those lacy panties clearly.

"Caleb-ah!" He laps you up now, just a stripe up your slit, making your hands entangle in sof thrown hair, as those deep violet eyes look up at you. Dilated, insane, a smirk on his lips.

"Tell me none of them tasted you. Had you."

"What do you mean-"

"Tell me no one touched what's mine."

"You've been gone a long time... you think I just what, wait here, touch myself?" You're shaking as you speak.

"Do you?" You hesitate. "Answer me. Maybe I'll let you cum."

"Let me?" He presses a kiss on your clit now parting your folds and groaning as arousal pools out of your little hole. "Mnh. Fuck... what are we..."

"Am I competing? I'm very competitive you know, pip squeak. I will have to make you forget anything but me then." That's when he spreads your pretty pussy, moaning, he's seen you of course before here and there, glimpses of you naked, but now your perfect cunt is right in his face. He's burying his face against you, nose hitting that clit as his tongue swipes in.

"Oh my god." You shouldn't be like this, you shouldn't be spreading your thighs wider, letting him fuck his tongue in and out of your slick, gummy walls, the noises of his soft whines and slurps echoing in your apartment. His taste buds explore every each that long tongue can reach, you're losing it every moment, those eyes so dark with lust they look black.

He'll make you forget anything.

"That's it, you wanna cum f'me, huh? Pretty girl, all mine." You're struggling to compute his words, to even function, eyes rolling back when he flicks the tip of his tongue on that clit, smile not hitting his insane yes. "Are you?"

"This is crazy, what are we doing... you... I... ngh!" Two fingers slip right inside your hole now, which flutters around the thick, long digits, making your whines even louder as he leans up, his other hand gripping you by your throat, lips so close.

How have you not kissed but he's devoured your pussy?

"You belong to me, only me, can you not see? All this time..." He's desperately scissoring fingers in and out, lashes low over his eyes as he breathes against your bitten lips. "Oh listen, she can talk for you I guess, so slutty for me. Just me, huh?"

You're just arching your hips, a sweet cry from your lips, ones he can imagine wrapped around his cock, while he squeezes your delicate neck harder, hand overtaking your throat. You can merely whimper in response, nodding just a bit, as you're closer and closer, only for him to yank his fingers out, making you whine, aching to be filled by them again.

"Caleb, please." You're crying now, tears running down your cheeks, making you look so fucking pretty to him, igniting something that snaps as he watches them fall glistening down your face.

"Please what, ya need something?" He's squeezing harder, fingers brushing around your soaking entrance, just barely pressing the tip of his finger inside, while you're pressed back against the couch, breasts heaving. "Tell me what you need, don't you know I'll take care of you?"

"In me. Please- ah!" You're getting fuzzy when he slips those long fingers back in your cunt, exhaling as he watches you, curling them just so with filthy squelching noises echoing. "Mnh!"

"This all f'me, huh? All me?" His demanding question barely resonates when you're cumming all over his fingers now, pulsing and gushing, while your own hand grips his thin white tank, pulling him closer. Your eyes roll back, he watches you avidly, every fucking expression while he feels you pulsing on his digits. "You didn't answer me, pretty, that won't do."

He pouts when he pulls his fingers out again, releasing your throat right before you nearly faint, cunt still pulsing. You try to gather yourself, when he's slipping those fingers in his mouth, moaning while he sucks all your arousal off them. He's ripped your top off, moaning as he sees your tits gently bounce out, his own dog tags dangling right between the two of them.

"Look who's right by your heart, hmm?" He presses the cool metal to your lips now, prompting you to kiss them, as he smiles so sweetly, like he hadn't just fucked your head up and tripped you. "Do you wear this every day?"

"Yes."

"Every night?"

"Yes." Your answer ends him, when he picks you up like you're nothing, dragging you right to the plush, soft rug beneath you both, hovering over you, his new tags dangling, as your fingers slip up over his strong chest, his eyes glinting with something you can't quite describe, the situation overwhelming your senses.

"I need to take better care of you, if you feel you need all these 'friends' then I'm not doing my job. I should be more than enough for you." He's leaned up, pulling up his shirt just a bit, revealing rippling abs that you've looked at far too often. "Is that it, I didn't take care of you good enough?"

"No, Caleb you always take care of me. I just... we..." Your thoughts trail off when he's slipped down his sweats, and you see his cock, so long and thick you're unsure you could take it, already oozing precum out of his reddened tip.

"Cat got your tongue, pip squeak? Keep talking, I'm listening, I always listen don't I?" He's leaned over you with one strong arm, yanking your thighs apart further, when you feel his length against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, precum sticking to you, as he cups your face so gently. "I'll listen to every moan, every whisper, so I learn everything your pretty, perfect body likes."

"Oh my god." He's brushing his tip against your engorged clit now, smiling down at you, at how pretty you are on this rug beneath him, your lashes fluttering.

"You work too hard, you need to be massaged everywhere. How could I not see this?" He's shoved his cock so deep inside you then you scream out, and he moans, feeling the stretch, of so many fucking inches. "Look how greedy, she's trying to take him all. Ahh, did you miss me this much?"

You're unable to respond to anything when he's shoved his cock so deep you're stuffed full, whimpering out as your walls struggle to stretch for him, and he's just a breath over you, lips drinking up yours then, finally kissing you after so long, before he is pulling back and shoving so deep he hits your cervix. You're sobbing it feels so fucking good, all while he can't rip his eyes off your face, the dark violet depths swirling.

"Waited so long for this, god don't you know?" He's mumbling now, lost in you, pulling back and smirking as he watches it, his lengthy cock getting sucked inside your too small hole, and the bulge in your tummy. "Look, I hit so fucking deep, don't I?" He grips your chin, shoving your head down so you see it, blushing furious.

"I... that's... s-so big I..." He's moaning as he watches it, his cock making that bulge as he goes achingly slow.

"Look at me fill you, fuck I should keep filling you too, until you can't even think. I need your brain shut off, and focused on me, yeah?" You're already fucked out and stupid, you can only stare at the bulge and blush, when he thrusts his hips with a snap, having you drooling all over his cock. "Can't think of other men now, can you?"

You can't think of a fucking thing, including what's happening, as Caleb begins fucking you harder, faster, delicately kissing your lips like he's making love, as his heavy balls slap your ass with every single filthy fucking thrust. He's whispering your name, until he's got you firm in a mating press, spitting down right on your clit and moaning at the sight.

Folded in half, god you feel so small under him, while his babbling hits your incoherent brain, the lewd slapping of his skin and how wet you are filling the living room. "Only me, I need it to only be me, me inside you, me everywhere."

"Caleb- you... f-fuck!" He's cupping your face as he folds you in that mating press, grinning feral, something unleashed that's damn near scary, but you just want more, nails pressing crescent moons against his biceps.

"Only me. Only me. Mine. Mine. Mine." He's huffing those words as you cum all around his cock, pausing him briefly, feeling your aftershocks grip him, your cunt so messy she's dripping down his balls, down to the rug, making the sounds even louder, the squishing and clicking. "I know, honey, I know, you want me to cum inside, huh?"

"Please. Please." He's smiling, you're being so good for him, and who is he to ever deny his pretty girl anything.

"I'll give you anythign you ask for, don't worry. I'll fill you so good, so, so good, yeah- ha fuck you- ah..." He's stuttering now, faster and harder, his eyes flashing then. "Only me, say it."

"Only y-you... ah- ngh!" You're screaming when he's fucking you so hard it hurts, leaned up to press the backs of your thighs.

"That's it, gonna forget them all, aren't you? Anyone."

"F-forget." Your weak response lets him lose his mind, big hands bruising, his dog tags swinging against your face when he pounds your cunt so hard, cumming so much, with his head thrown back, groaning so loud until it turns into a weak cry, as his hot gooey load coats your pussy everywhere.

"That's it, fuckin perfect pussy, God my good girl, aren't you? Taking me so well." He's murmuring, easing as you're cumming just from him coating your walls, he lets your thighs fall, moaning and kissing you, desperate and hungry. "You alright, pip squeak? Was it too much?"

"It was a lot I..." He's laughing now, softly, pulling back and out, watching the mess of creamy cum pouring down all over, groaning at the sight, you flush as you look down, seeing it all.

"You could have told me you needed more, don't you know how long I've waited for this? I wanted to be your first though, honey, tsk..." He's fingering the cum, making you jerk, so sensitive now, his lips quirking up. "Know how many times I've stroked it? Picturing just this, filling you up?"

"Y-you did?" He's shoving that cum deep, you grip his wrist, gasping now. "Caleb!"

"You're wasting it, that just won't do, I need you to be a good girl." His husky whisper along with those rough fingers makes you cry out.

"Sensitive!"

"You can take more, can't you?" He's shoving cum back in your eager whole, moaning at the sight, his cock already standing back at attention. "I think I know what I need to do, so you never call any of these 'friends' again."

"What?" Your eyes roll back when he's curling his fingers again, hovering over you and grinning, his toned body glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"I'll keep filling you, until you're dripping me constantly." Caleb's got you in your bed next, lapping his own cum right out of your cunt, taste buds dragging in every flavor of the two of you, having you cum over and over, until you're stupid. "Look, so fucked out, aww. You're drooling pip squeak, lemme get that."

He's swiping at your chin, before he's sucking your clit in his mouth again, and you're losing sense of everything, he's fucking you again, bent over, then again, on your stomach, so many loads inside you you're bloated and full, too full. You pass out on him soon, he sighs as he looks at you, so pretty as always in your sleep.

"Ah, pip squeak, we'll have to work on that stamina." He's cleaned you all up, putting your favorite pajamas on you, while you're lightly snoring, clearly he'd been a little too much.

Caleb had waited for years and years after all, for just this moment.

"Sweet dreams, my love. Future wife." He's laughing softly, you don't know just all his plans yet. He goes towards the kitchen to down some water, still naked in your apartment, cock gently swaying when he grabs his sweats, your panties still tucked in his pocket. He slips them on, frowning as he sees your phone light up, texts from Zayne and Sylus.

That just won't do.

He unlocks your phone with ease, it's his birthday of course, you love him even if you don't know how much yet. No worries. Caleb deletes every contact and message, keeping only him, because that's all you'll need now! You won't even be in this apartment soon, he can already picture you at his place, constantly having his babies.

He smiles as he holds you against him that night, but even after fucking you so deep, so much, just seeing you sleeping makes him hard again, and he has to stroke his aching cock just looking at you, waiting for you to wake up.

lmk if you want more Caleb and his freaky ass lol <3

tags- @ember-stars @luvleixo @sickleddreamer @ravenbc @honeymoonfleur @mcdepressed290 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @valleydoli perm- @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji  @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty

[jungwnies]

bf moments | oscar piastri

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!oscar x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : compilation of boyfriend oscar moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : in honor of oscar p1 !!!! so proud, literally redemption arc <3 also so so so sorry for the late post i kinda... forgot so rare 5am post i guessssss😭

boyfriend!oscar who pretends to be annoyed when you steal his hoodies, but never actually asks for them back.

boyfriend!oscar who quietly places your favorite snack next to you while you’re working, then pretends it wasn’t him.

boyfriend!oscar who holds your pinky instead of your whole hand when you're in public because he thinks it’s “less cheesy.”

boyfriend!oscar who texts you “come outside” and is standing there with a coffee and the most awkward grin.

boyfriend!oscar who doesn’t post much, but randomly uploads a blurry photo of you with the caption “<3” like it’s nothing.

boyfriend!oscar who absolutely roasts you during mario kart and then kisses your cheek mid-game like it’ll make up for it.

boyfriend!oscar who deadpan stares when you make a bad pun, but secretly writes it down to say later.

boyfriend!oscar who gets weirdly competitive during mini golf dates and demands a rematch if you win.

boyfriend!oscar who says “we should get groceries” but really just wants to walk through the aisles with you for no reason.

boyfriend!oscar who walks a little behind you so he can “watch his favorite view." which he denies ever saying.

boyfriend!oscar who mutes himself in a sim race just to say “i love you” real quick and then unmutes like nothing happened.

boyfriend!oscar who brings you random things from team merch drops and says “they accidentally gave me two” (they didn’t).

boyfriend!oscar who gently tilts your chin up to fix your necklace and pretends it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’s ever done.

boyfriend!oscar who steals your water bottle, hoodie, or charger and always says “finders keepers” like he’s five years old.

boyfriend!oscar who notices when you’re quiet and subtly reaches over to squeeze your knee in comfort.

boyfriend!oscar who never lets you carry your own backpack at the airport, even if it’s tiny.

boyfriend!oscar who always saves you the last fry, no matter how hungry he is, then acts like he didn’t.

boyfriend!oscar who sends you tiktoks with no caption, but they’re always ones that remind him of you.

boyfriend!oscar who looks at you like he’s already imagining forever, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[parfaitblogs]

astronomy ❀ s. reid x reader

in which nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: s10 spencer reid. maeve as a plot point. argument yay. spencer says some mean things (#needthat). all around unhappiness. stars and light and the sun. lack of communication. reader my avoidant attachment queen. i’m holding your hand throughout 🫂 word count: 2.7k a/n: a late happy mercury retrograde. sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth for a hot minute. here's how my brains been feeling. i don't really know what this is. it was written amidst a dissociative episode. hopefully future me figures it out.

"your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." (fyodor dostoevsky) 

A melodic hum of air whirs in this apartment. Keeping dust particles from settling on too many surfaces, swirling around your heads. Tiny, and unseen, but there. You familiarise yourself with the thought of them being there. They tickle your skin when you sit down in the armchair nobody ever really resides in now, and you find comfort in knowing there is more that exists invisibly than just your own feelings. 

He does not say anything to you as you tuck your feet beneath yourself, and it hurts, but a large part of you doesn't want him to anyways. He will only say things that will liquidise your brain into thinking he cares more than he does, and you have had too long of a day to act like he is not using bare palms to crush your heart. Too heavy of a week to let him bypass your walls once again. 

A foreign voice tells the air you need to talk, and you distantly recognise it as your own. You had rehearsed the very sentence in your car a thousand times. Once it got past your lips, this would all become easier to discuss. 

It isn't. 

You're focussed on the steam that lifts from a cup of coffee he had probably made seconds before you knocked on his door. An impromptu visit he did not ask you for, but you hope he understands your awful guest manners once this is all over. 

"Talk about what?" he answers the question you don't even remember asking, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him tense when a shuddering breath leaves your lips. 

You wonder if he's shocked when you tell him you want to end things. 

It's storming outside. The rain pelting against the window mirrors your heavy heart, but you aren't too naive to believe it is storming in your name. Though, there are few pleasures in life you still enjoy these days, and perhaps pretending the universe is centring around you for just this one night isn't selfish. 

"You want to end things," he repeats your words back to you. They don't sound right. Like a language Earth's never discovered. Two weeks ago you wouldn't have ever dreamed uttering these words. 

Two weeks ago, you were incandescent. Light bounced off your skin, the rays of sunlight creating a halo around you that would leave anyone breathless. Spencer Reid would never be an outlier in that demographic. 

You'd sat in a very similar position to how you are now, but your head was in the space between his jawline and his shoulder, and your hands were woven within his. Thumbs stroked the skin, and he'd bitten back a comment about how soft you felt. 

Unfinished — but definitely touched — Thai food sat atop the coffee table in front of your bodies, and the tenth Doctor Who episode in a row was playing on the television. He'd discovered your weakness for his widened eyes and hands-on coercion, and used and abused the power ever since. 

He stared down at you, and you could feel him without the need to look up. You should've. Perhaps, if you'd crawled out of the comfort being physically entwined with Spencer Reid on his living room couch provided, you would've noticed that beneath his intense gaze on the sunlight encircling your body, he was thinking about the dead. 

You didn't, though. You had laughed as he quoted lines as they were said of the episode he'd no doubt seen a thousand times, shoving his shoulder and calling him a nerd with the stupidest grin on your face, and the sweetest flutter of your heart. 

He said, "Nerd is a noun to describe someone who is an expert in one particular thing. I am an expert in a lot more than one."

And you replied, "Oh, of course. My mistake. What else are you an expert in, Spencer?"

Your skin would tingle, because he'd take the invitation for what it was, and his lips would brush against your ear as he whispered, "You, for starters."

And you'd get whiplash from how easy he was to go from the biggest dork on the planet to the very reason you researched early onset heart attacks. 

One week ago, you were cracking. 

Instead of the halo glow that settled around your body, it'd fractured. Sticks of light throwing out in every direction, but still reflecting back the hope you had for this crumbling relationship. 

Knives pelted into your edges with every new piece of information you learnt. 

A book you'd never paid mind to, now opened on the front page, a dedication to his name, accompanied by another name you'd only heard in passing whispers. The written down addresses of the nearest pay phones from his apartment, a phone number circled three times in the corner of the page. Written down for no reason. You knew he didn't need it, really. The slow withdrawals of telling you about his life the further into it he gets. Not mentioning more about a past relationship than that it'd ended tragically. 

The more dots you connected, the closer your personal implosion neared. 

You'd apologised to him, saying you didn't want him to relive anything that would return his mind somewhere darker than you can ever fathom. 

"I have you, now. I can't ever get there again even if I tried to," he said. You stupidly took his words with full intent, head reeling and heart racing all over again. 

You smiled, and kissed him. He tasted of coffee and content. He kissed you back with more force than you had left in you, and you'd gone down like a sinking ship. Falling back against his couch cushions, fingers entwined in his hair. 

Each new day was another loss to cut. Four days ago, it was his hands refusing to touch you intimately. Even when you'd moved them for him, pleading him with your own body. Three days ago, it was his honesty. You'd grown desperate. 

Questioning if he was okay and receiving a wordless hum in response. If he wanted to order food, and getting a disgruntled non-answer. Sitting with a foot between your two bodies this time, albeit with your feet in his lap, so maybe you were just as close as you were last week by principle. Finally, seeing if he actually wanted you there, with him, and him taking more than one second to give you his, 

"Yes. Obviously."

You lack energy when you are trying so desperately to stay alive, so you did not question why he had to think about his answer, unsure if you needed him to tell you, regardless. His mind was increasingly becoming preoccupied with the girl behind his book dedication. Behind the payphone addresses, and the thrice times circled phone number. He was disintegrating before your eyes, and your relationship was slipping through the cracks. 

"Why?" he asks you, and you're forced to stop reliving every single moment that brought you here. You will again tomorrow, anyways. The day after that, too. You will probably live through the end of this relationship a thousand times before you begin to heal. A thousand, to mirror every single shard of your heart lain out before him. 

Your voice hurts to use when you reply. "Because you don't love me, Spencer."

You're grateful he doesn't scramble to disprove your claims. You're sure it would hurt even more to hear him force a lie. 

He does, however, look confused. By you. Not your words, though. You know they register fully because the confusion doesn't come until you meet his eyes, and he really takes you in. For the first time since you met him, you see the truth behind his gaze. A disgusting reality that he is not staring at you with love, or even a hint of recognition. 

No, to him, you are a stranger. Somebody he does not know, sitting in his unused armchair across the living room, telling him words you don't really want to be saying. You don't get that luxury of choice, though. 

"Your silence is answer enough," you murmur, and you force your limbs to react to your brain's signals, feet pressed firmly on the floor as you stand. 

"Hey, wait," he stops you from moving without even a lick of firmness. You grow sick, knowing he will always have some subconscious hold on you that you'll never not respond to. "Why do you say that? Have I done something to make you feel that way?"

Yes, you want to scream. Yes, you have, and I'm begging you to tell me I'm wrong and that you do love me. Instead, you're jumping through hoops to turn this into an unnecessary conversation. 

However, "I'm just becoming... aware. Of certain things. That would mean us ending things is the best thing to do," is what you do say. 

"Like what?" he quips.

"Things."

Air blows out his nose, frustratedly. "That's not an answer."

Light bulbs burn out when the filament — the three wires in its centre — breaks down, and ceases to produce electricity. Burning out after an average of a thousand hours per lightbulb, because nothing can live forever. Nothing can live forever, for the sun will eventually burn out. Not in this lifetime, and definitely not in the next five, or ten, or twenty. The hydrogen will eventually deplete, and it will die the way fifty-two stars die each century. Nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate. 

"What does it matter, Spencer?" you whisper. A pathetic tone for response, but you think you'll choke on anything louder. 

"You matter," he argues. Words are bullets, and he seems to have perfect aim. 

"Not to you, I don't," you stumble over your feet as you try to head towards his door. You've said what you needed to say. You've ended things. You can go, and this can all be over. 

"Yes, you do," he's standing too. He got closer to you at some point. You don't really remember. 

"You don't even know me!"

You're crying, you think. Staring at him, and he's blurry, which must mean your eyes are full of water. Ridiculous, because he is very clearly not. Too emotional for this conversation to drag out any longer, and yet he has the power to keep you constrained to it like a prison as long as he keeps talking. 

"You're shutting me out as a form of defence for something," he says. The words are calm, but he's taken on a higher pitch in his voice, which tells you this is affecting him. Or maybe he's pretending. "I don't know what. You won't tell me. That's your prerogative, I guess."

"You don't love me," you repeat the words from earlier with less conviction. You believe them less, yes, but still trust your instincts enough for them to hurt. 

"I don't understand why you think that," he replies, a hand dragging down his face. "I don't. All the knowledge in the world, and I cannot think of any logical reason behind you believing that."

"Who's Maeve?"

The silence that follows is deafening. His head snaps up and his hands fall limp by his sides, your vision clearing in an instant. You know, deep down, who Maeve is. The tragic ending to an even more tragic relationship has her name printed all over it.

"That's why you think I don't love you." It isn't a question, and he almost sounds like he's ridiculing you for coming to such a conclusion. 

Your panic rises. "I saw the book, and the addresses, and the—"

"—Maeve is dead!" Your heart sinks, as, for the first time in your life, you see Spencer Reid exhibit anger. No, not anger. He is not angry. Not with you, at least. He's hurt. "I am never going to get over her because she is dead. I watched a bullet go into her head. I mourned her, and I told myself I would never let myself get that close to somebody again. Yet, here you stand."

You stay silent. You don't know if he's finished speaking. If he is, he doesn't let you know. He doesn't prompt you for a response. He continues before you even start to think of something to say back.

"I didn't plan on letting you into my life like this. When I met you, you were not supposed to be this important to me. Is that why you think I don't love you? Because you saw me and got attached at first sight, and had to work for me to give you attention?"  Your chest aches. "Was it because I distanced myself from you for weeks in the beginning? Every coffee date, more spread out than the last. Not letting you into my space until you were my girlfriend? No sex for months?"

"You're angry," you state the obvious, and his eyebrows shoot up. A deprecating laugh leaves his lips. Not to deprecate himself, though. No, you. 

"You somehow played a role in getting me out of the self-loathing pit I fell into after Maeve died, and now you're telling me I don't love you—Yes, I'm angry! We were fine two weeks ago. I loved you the same way I did two weeks ago as I do right now. I'm frustrated, because I don't understand how you can possibly believe my feelings for you have changed so drastically!"

"The books are new. And the addresses. And the phone number," you say, almost desperately.  

"No. They're not. I have had that copy of that book for two years. Those addresses have been printed in there for longer. Everything you are finding are results of you noticing more about my apartment, which happens when you are in a space often enough. You will pick up on things you didn't notice the first time you were here. Or the second. Or maybe even the tenth. I have not hidden the fact that I had a girlfriend two years ago from you. Just how it ended." You don't have any energy to fight back, despite how badly you want to. You suppose, deep down, you know you deserve this. His bulleted words and cold voice. Even his sarcasm, as he drawls, "I hope you can forgive me for not making you privy to my ex-girlfriend's death."

"Spencer," you take a step forward, and he stiffens, so you halt. 

Now, you feel stupid. Scrutinised under his gaze, knowing how ridiculous he probably now views you as. Starting an argument over something you should've just asked him about. Driving yourself crazy, letting every single element still fuelling your mind run dry, when you could've just said something. 

"Is this going to be a one time thing?" he asks you, carefully levelling his voice. To hide how he really feels, or to make you feel worse, you don't know. "Or should I live in fear of you jumping to conclusions every time something from my past gets brought up?" 

It isn't a nice assumption to make, but it's fair. You give him that. Still, your gut twists uncomfortably, each organ stuttering in their role of keeping you alive for only a second. Just enough for you to feel sick, and stumble backwards. 

"I... I don't know," you provide him with honesty. "I'm sorry," you add, quietly. A poor attempt at making this situation any better. A bandaid over a bullet hole. 

"I know," and you're sure he does. There's bound to be regret painted on your face, mixing wonderfully with fear of where this relationship is going to go now. 

You don't even want to ask him, but you're sure if he doesn't force you to, you'll start throwing up at his feet. "Do you want me to go?" 

A shuddering breath is his response. You take it for what it is, and nod your head with the most sincere smile you can conjure up. You barely have anything to collect before you leave. Just your ruined mind, and new astronomical statistics.

Fifty-two star deaths this century just became fifty-three.

your reblogs and replies are always welcome ♡

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 1

I previously posted a blurb/preview of a soulmate AU with Sylus and a Non MC Reader. Here is the full length fic. Hope you all enjoy because there's more fics to come with this man from me (he has me in a goddamn chokehold; I already have so many drafts 😭).

Length: 2.2k words

Not completely proofread.

🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹

You sit on Sylus' bed, restless despite the exhaustion that clings to your body. It’s like a noose with every second that goes by. Yet, you know rest will never come to you. Not for some time at least. So, you pass the time with tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Broken nails tap uselessly and frequently against the expensive sheets. No amount of this makes the ire in your blood burn any less.

"Sylus," you call out to the man in question, who merely hums your name in response. "Have I ever told you that you're the biggest fool I've met?"

Sylus stands in his bathroom, door wide open as always. He stopped showering or tending to his wounds with it closed long ago. You can't quite remember how long. It's just how it is. Has it made for some embarrassing moments where he teases you with a towel barely around his waist as you struggle to keep your eyes solely on his (and not his chest that you want to run your hands on or his neck you want to bury your face in as you drift to sleep)? Yes.

Would you want it any other way? No.

"Is that so, sweetie? I must've gone deaf the last few hours, and missed it. Mind repeating yourself so I can etch it into my mind for future reference?"

"You're the biggest fool I've ever met."

He chuckles. The rich laughter makes your heart flutter and you almost immediately march over to help him.

"May I remind you that you work for this fool? What does that make you?"

"What indeed…"

The pair of you sit in silence except for the sounds of Sylus digging into his own skin to remove a bullet that seems to be giving him particular trouble.

"Be a dear and help your boss out, sweetie."

Part of you wants to give in, as you've done so many times. Sylus' tone gives away that he knows that too. Even without seeing his face, you can imagine the smug smirk it has. Oh how you want to kiss that smirk away so badly.

And that's exactly why you can't comply with his request. You need to put your foot down. Maybe being belligerent will help quell these annoying feelings. Sylus isn't meant to be yours, after all.

"No thanks."

You stare at his thread of fate. It shimmers the same red that everyone else's does. That red used to alarm you as a child. Now, all you see is him. Him and his beautiful red you wish to burrow yourself in forever.

Now that red helps not give into him. Helps you remember that if you want him to meet his soulmate in one piece, you couldn't keep letting him do this.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. My foolish boss did this to himself, so he should pay the price."

"And what price is that?"

"The price of spending who knows how long digging bullets out of his skin."

"Of course. Whatever you say sweetie. A far better price than what… hmmm… what was his name? George? Jarold?"

He's teasing you again. The drawl in his voice told you as much. He didn't even bother to hide the slight chuckles he let out at your tired sigh.

"James," you reply.

"Yes, Jake," now he was just fucking with you. "The price he was demanding for such mediocre business was… appalling. I much prefer this."

You snort at your boss, "Just keep telling yourself that bossman."

"I will, sweetie."

Silence engulfs the pair of you. For you, it sits on your chest, swims in your blood, and chews on your skin. The quiet gnaws at you, a steady and annoying and repetitive peaking reminiscent of Mephisto.

You hate it. But you must maintain it. Even when Sylus glances over his shoulder at you. You're sure to avoid eye contact with him. One look is all it would take for you to storm over to him and tenderly take the bullets out of his skin.

Not this time. This time, you had to be firm.

Your mind drifts back to the meeting. There wasn't anything special about this particular one. Hell, it wasn't even a weapons deal. Rather, James was apparently an old friend of Sherman's with a vinyl collection. The stupid man had gone off the rails recently.

Was it surprising that he did? Not in the least bit. It did make for a good laugh over diner one day though. About how this man thought he could take you two down. Sylus and his faithful companion with a silver tongue, one that seemed to speak to very depths of your soul.

Taking down Sherman wouldn't be difficult. Nothing ever was with you two being the well-oiled machine you are together. But, you never liked being unprepared. You're cautious to a fault. And Sylus wanted to easy your worrying, or nagging as he called it.

Enter James: a connection to Sherman you dug up. One with a pension for vintage music and antique jewelry. It should've been an easy deal. Especially once you saw his thread.

James' thread was a dim red. A red you hadn't seen for quite sometime. A red you didn't expect from someone like him.

A dead soulmate. You could hear the deceased man's faint screams. You could see their final hours together as illness wracked the poor boy. God, they must've been about 16; James had to be at least in his mid 30's now. He still clings to his soulmate all these years later, a simple tattoo over his heart to symbolize the love that was lost too early.

You pitied the man. He wasn't a good man, with countless lives lost at his hands and many loves cut too short because of his actions, but the loss of a soulmate is something no one recovers from. It's one of those things that immutable in this world.

So you used that to crack through his icy exterior. Peeled it back layer by layer until his soul danced in the palm of your hand. James was at your command. Until your boss shattered that.

"Why are you so mad at me, my sweet Gamayun?"

You can't help it: you look up and are immediately greeted by your boss' smug face. And you're angry at falling for his trick. For a moment.

Then you lock eyes. Deep, deep, crimson, so similar yet so unlike the threads of fate you see so often. His red is a good red. His red is the red of your love rather than everyone else's. Sometimes you wonder if his red eyes are your thread of fate, that they're your soulmate connection.

Any other day, you'd soak in the attention of that red. You can't right now. Because in a fraction of a second, you see it. You see the hurt he's trying to cover. You see in his soul how his wounds ache and how he wants your forgiveness, how he wants to make you smile (for some reason).

It's all you need to move from his bed and approach his back. He still looks at you, smirk gone and expression soft with something you can't place. You ignore it. He turns around so that his bare chest faces you. You struggle to not let yourself be flustered.

”It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's no big deal. You're just business partners and companions. Nothing else.”

"Gimme your gauze."

Your tone is sharp. Maybe because you hope to cover how weirdly intimate this feels: your boss basically naked and unguarded as you try to tend to his wounds.

You focus your eyes onto his hands. He holds his bandages in them. You reach for them, but he moves his hand away. You reach again, and Sylus raises his hand above his head, and raises an eyebrow at you.

You can't even be mad at him when he does.

"Why, Gamayun?"

There’s that nickname again. It carries so much. His trust, his affection, and his heart. Just not in the way you hope.

Gamayun carries false dreams, fantasies that haunt you as you sleep at night. Gamayun is a fake promise of a love you'll never have. But it was yours, so you gladly take ownership of it.

"You're pathetic…"

"Because my foolish Morana apparently can't clean up his own messes."

"Ah, but that's why I have you, my sweet, beautiful, and kind Gamayun."

Your hands tremble as you pull back on the roll of gauze. You think Sylus laughs at you, but you can't hear it over the pounding of your heart.

"Stop it," you want to tell him. "Stop giving me hope."

It doesn't take long for you to finish. You help Sylus dress, despite knowing he doesn't in any way, shape, or form need you help. He stopped you when you tried to leave after finishing his bandages, so you figure you wouldn't even bother for now.

"Sylus, what're you—"

"Sylus? Who's Sylus? Since when did you know a Sylus?"

You roll your eyes at him.

“Have you suddenly become a decrepit old man with my noticing?”

"No," he then lifts you into your arms and forces you to meet his eyes.

He stares into your eyes; you stare right back, praying that you give nothing away. He walks towards his bed, still looking at you.

"You must be really mad at me if you're calling me by my name right now."

"Don't be so dramatic you big baby. I called you by name earlier.”

Sylus pays no heed to words. In fact, he takes them in stride, placing you slowly onto his bed. His movements are slow, precise. Almost as if he's afraid to hurt you. But that’s ridiculous; he could never hurt you.

"Are his injuries still causing him problems?"

You keep that thought in mind in order to not trick yourself. In order to not gaslight yourself into believing that there's something more behind his actions. Sylus and you have always had an intimate relationship. Closer than most ever will be. Best friends. Partners in crime.

"This means nothing."

You try to get out of bed, to run away to wallow in your sorrows, but Sylus plops down next you and wraps an arm around you.

"Sleep. We'll discuss this later."

A protest builds up in your throat. It’s pushed back down when his arms tightens around you and his breathing evens out into soft puffs. He’s not asleep; you know that, and he knows you know that. But you play along anyway.

Turning in his arms to play with his hair, you think more about what happened earlier. At how Sylus kept trying to get between you and James when you guys got closer. At how Sylus seemed more passive aggressive with the man the more you two talked, forgetting that there was even someone else in the room. At how Sylus would subtly move you away from James when a crack in the man’s facade would appear at your words.

He got worse when you reciprocated. Of course, you always did on these missions; it’s a great way to build rapport. Today was different. Today was real. You really felt for James. You really wanted to reach him. As someone who also understands of the pain of being without a soulmate—soulless, as society would call you.

But you were different. You didn’t lose your soulmate. You never had one. All you could do was watch as others loved and lost, doomed to never experience the same.

Things exploded when James asked if he could see you again. A normal request from clients and prospective/current business partners alike. But you never quite clicked with them the same way you had with James, a man whose heart was so hurt, much like your own. You hope the poor man is still alive.

Sleep begins to creep up on you as you remember the vigor in Sylus protest. Honestly, it was kind of hot; you rarely get to see him lose composure. Even less so during business exchanges. You burrow into his embrace at the thought. Of the way his face contorted with rage. At the way his Evol thrashed out at those around you.

You use that to cover what you truly remember: the gentle way that same power carried you to safety (he was always weirdly protective of you because of your lack of Evol; strange, considering what you’re capable of). The worried way he asked if you were alright. The kind way he treated you despite your anger.

But, why were you angry? Why are you still angry? Because he once again used violence when it wasn’t needed? Because he didn’t listen when you told him to back off? Because he got himself hurting protecting you? Because this showed that deep down he doesn’t trust you?

No. Never.

Sylus trusts you with everything. And you, in turn, trust him with everything. Well, except one thing: your heart. Maybe that was why you were mad at him. Because when he does things like that, it makes it so hard to let him go.

🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹 🥀 🌹

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[slutoru1207]

I love you, but I need boundaries

Jealous!Reader x Protective!Mark

Boundaries & Reassurance | Soft but Firm Conversation

It takes Mark exactly one second to notice something’s wrong.

The way you lean away when he reaches for your hand. The forced smile. The quiet, distant way you say, "Yeah, I’m fine, just tired."

He’s not buying it.

So, the moment you're alone, he corners you.

Not in an aggressive way, but in a Mark way—close, warm, protective, concerned. His hands settle on your arms, brows furrowed as he studies your face.

"Talk to me, sweetheart."

You hesitate. You don’t want to start a fight. You know you shouldn’t feel this way. But—

"Is there something between you and Eve?"

The words slip out before you can stop them. Your stomach drops, guilt clawing at your chest—but Mark?

Mark looks absolutely wrecked.

"What?" His voice is barely above a whisper. "Baby, no. God, no."

You exhale sharply, looking down. "Then why does it feel like she understands you better than I do?"

Mark takes a step closer, voice urgent. "She doesn’t. She never could. Just because we’ve known each other forever doesn’t mean she knows me like you do."

You swallow hard. "I don’t want to be that person, Mark. I don’t want to tell you who you can and can’t be friends with. But I also can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt when you’re always with her, always laughing with her, always—" You shake your head, voice cracking. "I need to know I’m enough for you."

His expression shatters.

"You are." His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize you. "You’re everything to me. And if I’ve made you feel any different, that’s on me. I’m sorry, baby."

You take a shaky breath. "I need boundaries, Mark."

"Okay." His response is immediate. "Tell me what you need."

You steady yourself. "I need you to be mindful of how close you are with her. I need you to stop letting her touch you like that."

"Done."

"I need to know that when we’re all together, you’re still focused on us, not just her."

"I hear you. I’ll do better."

"And if I ever feel uncomfortable, I need you to listen and not just brush it off."

Mark nods firmly. "You have my word. You’re my priority. Not her. Never her."

Your chest tightens with emotion. "Okay."

Mark pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. "No more pulling away from me, alright? If something’s wrong, you tell me. We fix it together."

You nod against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. "Okay."

And this time, when he kisses you, you don’t hesitate to kiss him back.

Because this? This is what love feels like.

[aeribbon]

hello, could you do bf!Lando Norris headcanons x childhood bestfriend!reader? Thank you!!

bf!lando x childhood bestfriend!reader headcanons

warning; english isn't my first language + 2nd proof reading will be done soon

an; thank you so much for this request, i enjoyed making it !! requests are open !

navigation / masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who will always starts conversations with you by "omg remember when…" and proceeds to tell lies like when he used to "beat” you at mario kart but in reality you were the one winning everytime.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who is always himself when he’s with you, never embarrassed to show his personality as you’ve known him since forever.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who never remembers when you guys actually started dating as the transition from best friends to lovers is blurry for both of you ! especially as everyone around you always assumed you were together since forever.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who always expresses his gratitude towards you for being here and being his biggest supporter since the start, even before your kart days together as you were racing along side him.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who you sometimes still see as the little boy from bristol, the guy who is always ashamed after a bad race, the guy who hugs his mom the second he gets home, the guy who you would always trust your life to.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who was your first kiss and you were his too.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who has the biggest collection of photos of you, either embarrassing photos or the prettiest pictures ever taken of you. he has put up with taking your photos for years and has mastered the perfect angles, lights,…

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO always knew you were going to be his endgame, he wrote it in his journal when he was 12 and ever since, has never left your side.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who was jealous of your boyfriend during high school but never said anything because at the end of the day he knew you would always chose him over your boyfriend.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who still wears the matching bracelet you made him when you were 8 years old and has refused to throw it away for years. but as you saw how faded away and ugly it has gotten you made him a new one last year. now he wears both !

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who has never changed the sleepovers routine, even after you started dating. he would constantly steals the snacks you have chosen after he said he didn’t want them and yet you still share them with him. or him falling asleep first and snoring like crazy.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who still calls your mum "mum" as she’s basically his second mother. he randomly sends her pictures, updates her about your life, asks her for recipe so that he can cook for you.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who has a picture of you guys as children in his wallet just beside his favorite polaroid he took of you, the same goes for you.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who will tell you stories from back in the days whenever you feel a bit down, he even recounts his embarrassing stories when you ridiculously beat him in sports during middle school. he knows how to make your smile come back.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who confesses at random times that he knew you were the one such as when he’s washing the dishes or when you are brushing your teeth. "i’ve always wanted this, i’ve dreamt of this".

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who constantly sends old pictures of you guys, whether it’s 3am or moments before a race. he always thinks of you, when he sees a tiktok that might make you laugh, when he knows you would like this kind of outfit or he would see a post about a movie that you would probably love. he never hesitates to send them to you with the little text "this reminded me of you 🩷".

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who had both of your initials in a small corner of his helmet since his karting days and never removed them since.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who draws heart in the inside of you palm whenever you guys are holding hands. he has this habit since forever.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who would always remember you to do that little pre-race tradition that you have since he started racing cars. it’s just a little good luck from you and big big hug but it means a lot for him.

✮⋆˙ BF!LANDO who made you start a “one day" jar where you’ve put notes of things you’ve wanted to do with the other since your teenage years. he once wrote "travel the world with you when i’ll be in f1" while you would write things like "do pancakes without burning them". finally he just recently put the latest note behind your back "marry her".

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[mangooes]

A Future, with you in it

The night was quiet, the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Sylus and his wife lay side by side on the balcony of their estate, a blanket draped over them as the cool breeze danced through the air.

From their vantage point, the city below flickered like a sea of fireflies, but neither of them were watching.

(Name) leaned against Sylus’s chest, tracing absent patterns over the back of his hand. His warmth seeped into her, steady and grounding, like an anchor tying her to the present.

“Sylus,” she murmured, her voice soft, thoughtful.

“Hm?” His fingers lazily played with her curls, his other arm wrapped securely around her waist.

She hesitated for a moment before exhaling a small laugh. “Have you ever thought about the future?”

Sylus paused, his hand stilling for a fraction of a second before resuming its slow strokes. “The future?” he echoed.

“Yeah.” She tilted her head up to look at him. “Like… years from now. Us. Where we’ll be.”

Sylus considered her for a long moment. He had spent so much time ensuring that she stayed by his side now, never allowing himself to think too far ahead. Because deep down, he had always feared what the future could take from him.

But here she was, so certain. So unafraid to imagine a life with him for years to come.

“I want to grow old with you,” She continued, shifting so she could properly face him. “Not just as some distant dream, but as something real.”

Sylus’s throat tightened, his crimson eyes darkening with emotion. “Sweetie…”

She smiled, curling her fingers around his. “I want us to wake up every morning to the sound of birds instead of gunfire.” Her thumb traced over his palm, as if sketching the image into existence. “I want to live somewhere quiet, away from all this uncertainty.”

Her voice was soft, wistful. “Maybe somewhere near the mountains. Somewhere peaceful.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “Imagine it—waking up to crisp morning air, the scent of flowers drifting in through the windows. A house with big windows, where the sunlight pours in…”

Sylus listened in silence, captivated by the picture she was painting.

“And outside,” she added, her lips curving slightly, “a field of datura flowers.”

Sylus blinked. “Datura?”

She nodded. “They’re beautiful. They only bloom at the late of afternoon, did you know that?” She smiled. “They remind me of you.”

Something in his chest twisted, warmth seeping through his very bones.

She turned her gaze skyward, a dreamy look in her eyes. “And maybe one day, we’ll have grandkids. We’d sit on the porch and watch them run through the fields, laughing. You’d probably be the overprotective grandpa.”

Sylus let out a small huff. “Who do you think I am kitten?"

She chuckled, squeezing his hand. “I want that, Sylus.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, as if afraid saying it too loud would shatter the dream. “A lifetime with you. Until our hair turns gray, until our hands are wrinkled, until we’ve spent every second we possibly can together.”

Sylus stared at her, his expression unreadable, yet his grip on her tightened. “…You’re serious about all this?”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and cupped his face between her hands. “I love you, Sylus,” she whispered. “Not just for today, or tomorrow, but for every single day after that. I want all of it—with you in every lifetime.”

His breath hitched.

For a man who had spent lifetimes losing the things he loved, who had lived in fear of history repeating itself, this—her—was the most precious, terrifying thing of all.

A future.

A real future.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. His voice, rough and heavy with emotion, murmured against her skin:

“Then I’ll give you that future, sweetie. No matter what.”

And in that quiet moment, with only the stars as their witnesses, the promise of forever bloomed between them.

HEY IS THIS ANGST?? ASKJDNASKJDNAK IM NOT SURE buttt i decided to try making a more serious scenarios, but ofc! The fluff funny ones are still here :))

[vinnyvamppp]

Hey love you are a great writer so much so i had to request you to write a fic This story idea is super toxic This would never be a real scenario But I'm twisted so here's how it goes sinister mark or whom ever you choose is trying to study and girlfriend is just trying to get his attention kissing him, loving on him taking pictures with him and his snaps and accidentally hit her. He doesn't think that she will fight back though turning into this toxic love hate f$ck

You would be doing a great service (to me mostly😩)

Attention Hungry

NOTE: The person requested and the people have agreed! Typing this on my phone in staples while they fix my computer made me lose brain cells. Sorry in advance! Didn’t stray too far from the request. @nefertiti2003

Warnings: Rough Sex, Accidental Assault, Mild Choking, Mutual Orgasm, Hate Fucking, Power Imbalance, Pussy Eating, Dom!Invincible Variant, Power Bottom!Reader, Biting, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Love/Hate Relationship, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Sinister!Mark x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,072

Mark is at his desk, the glow of his tablet screen reflecting against the sharp angles of his face. His brows are furrowed in concentration, scanning lines of text faster than any normal person could. The lamp above casts long shadows, stretching across his strong frame, making him look even more unapproachable than usual. You should know better than to bother him when he’s like this. Focused. Distant. Untouchable.

But you never listen.

You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest against his back. His body is warm—too warm, like a furnace barely contained beneath his skin. A normal person would melt under the heat of him. You just take it as an invitation. “Mark,” you murmur against his ear, letting your lips brush against the skin just below it. He doesn’t react. Not at first.

You tighten your arms, fingers splaying over the solid muscle of his chest. “You’ve been sitting here forever.”

Nothing.

You try again, trailing your fingers up his neck, into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. His jaw tenses. Progress. A smirk tugs at your lips. “You’re really gonna ignore me?” Still nothing.

Alright then.

You grab his phone from the desk and spin away before he can snatch it back. “Smile,” you tease, pointing the camera at him. He doesn’t even glance up, still reading, as if you’re nothing but background noise. So you step closer, angling yourself into the shot, pressing against his arm. Click. The flash goes off, illuminating his sharp features, and his unreadable eyes. Blinding you in the process. That gets his attention.

It happens fast. Too fast.

A blur of movement—his hand shoots out. A hard impact. Your head jerks to the side. The sharp sting spreads across your cheek before you even register what happened. For a second, everything stops. Your breath catches. Your heart slams against your ribs. Mark’s hand hovers in the air where your face used to be, fingers still curled slightly from the slap.

You gasp. He blinks.

Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, something unreadable flashing behind those crimson-tinted eyes. A mistake? No, he doesn’t make those. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but you don’t give him the chance.

Your hand flies before you even think about it, striking him across the face just as fast. The crack of skin-on-skin reverberates through the room. His head barely moves. Your palm burns from the impact. It didn’t hurt, but he felt it. He shouldn’t have felt it, that means he was getting weak, it meant he had to show who was stronger, better in every way. And he would.

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

Slowly—too slowly—Mark turns his head back toward you. His tongue swipes over his lip, testing for blood. And then he grins. “Really?” His voice is low, amused. Dark. Your heart pounds, but you don’t step back. You can’t. The air between you is electric, suffocating, dangerous. His fingers flex, then relax. His eyes roam over you, slow and deliberate. He shifts in his chair, the movement lazy—like a predator just now deciding whether the thing in front of him is prey or something worth playing with first.

Then, with one hand, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down onto his lap. "Now you have my attention."

He seemed amused, if anything.

With a short huff, your wrist curled against his firm grip, yanking with all your might. Nothing. His fingers barely budged, the strength in his hold effortless, as if he wasn’t even trying to restrain you, just reminding you that he could. Your jaw clenched. “Let go.” Mark tilted his head, eyes glinting under the dim light. “Why?”

Your skin burned where he touched you. Not from pain—from frustration. From the way he always did this. Letting you squirm, watching you fight, like you were nothing but a passing entertainment. Like you didn’t even matter. “You don’t even care,” you snapped, struggling again. “I don’t know why I—” He cut you off with a low chuckle. “Why you what?” His grip loosened, but only enough for his fingers to slide down your forearm, keeping you anchored in place. “Keep coming back? Keep trying to get my attention?”

Your breath hitched, but you covered it up with a scowl. “You never bother with me, Mark.” Something flickered in his expression—brief, perhaps sympathetic, but it was gone. “You’re always off somewhere else,” you continued, voice sharper now. “Thinking, planning, doing whatever the hell you do. You don’t talk to me, you don’t look at me, unless I force you to. Like I’m a distraction.”

Mark sighed, as if this entire conversation was beneath him. “You are a distraction.” The words stung more than you wanted to admit. Your nails dug into his wrist. “Then why the hell are you still holding onto me?” His fingers flexed around your arm. A quiet, drawn-out moment passed before he leaned in, just slightly, breath warm against your skin. “Because,” he murmured, “you’re not boring.”

Your stomach twisted. You hated the way your body reacted to him—to this. With a sharp inhale, you pushed against his chest. “I should leave.” Mark didn’t stop you. Didn’t tighten his grip. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms dropping to his sides, leaving you free. Daring you. His eyes met yours, calm, knowing. “Then do it.” The room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. Your muscles tensed. He watched and waited.

Seconds passed. Your heart pounded. You should leave. You should turn around, walk out the door, and never look back. But you didn’t move. Mark smirked. “That’s what I thought.” Your fingers curled into fists. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, dragging his gaze over you, slow, deliberate. “Funny. I hate you too.” Your chest rose and fell, breath shaky with something you refused to name. “Then let me go.” He exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh, before reaching out. His fingers traced your jaw, gentle, too gentle before gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. “I don’t think you want that,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “And I know I don’t.”

And just like that, you were pulled right back into his orbit.

You moved first, tilting your chin up, daring him, challenging him. His lips met yours in an instant, not gentle, not sweet—hungry. It was all heat and dominance, a battle for control that neither of you wanted to lose. His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your skin, grounding you against him. Every touch, every movement was deliberate, meant to remind you exactly who he was—who you were dealing with.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Still think you hate me?" You exhaled shakily. "More than ever." Mark’s grin was sharp, almost cocky. "Good."

He stood up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. With a firm grip on your hips, he lifted you effortlessly, tossing you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. You yelped in surprise, the breath momentarily knocked out of you. You managed to gasp out as he carried you across the room, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He ignored your weak protested mumbles, his hand resting heavily on your ass as if to remind you of his dominance.

The bedsprings creaked as he threw you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing from the impact. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he was on top of you, his weight pinning you down. Your hands scrabbled at his chest, but he easily overpowered you, gripping your wrists and shoving them above your head.

His other hand found your throat, fingers curling around your slender neck. He applied just enough pressure to make you gasp, to remind you who was in control. His red eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a dark, feral hunger.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Fuck, yes. Now give it to me." He released your wrists, only to grab the collar of your shirt. With a sharp tug, he tore the fabric open, sending buttons flying across the room. Your breasts bounced free, the cool air pebbling your nipples.

He wasted no time, ducking his head to inhale your sweet scent as his tongue teased your collarbones. He sucked hard, his teeth scraping against the sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pain and pleasure straight to your core. His hand roughly traced the curves of your figure, squeezing what he could. You arched into him, a moan escaping your lips. But he was already moving, trailing kisses down your stomach, pausing to flick his tongue against your navel. Lower and lower he went until his face was nestled between your thighs.

He breathed hotly against your core, the damp fabric of your panties the only barrier between you. With a low growl, he tugged them aside, exposing you to his hungry gaze. Without warning, he licked a long stripe up your slit, from entrance to clit, the wet heat of his tongue making you shudder. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pushing him closer, silently begging for more. He obliged, sealing his lips around your clit and sucking hard. At the same time, he slid two fingers into your dripping cunt, pumping them in and out, giving you little time to adjust.

Your hips bucked against his face, fucking yourself on his tongue and fingers. But he didn't let up, his grip on your thighs holding you in place as he feasted on your pussy like a starving man. "Jesus, Mark," you gasped, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "Don't. Fucking. Stop..."

You doomed yourself, his eyes meeting yours

But just as you were about to tumble over the edge, he delivered a harsh teething and pulled away, leaving you empty and aching. You groaned at the loss, but it was quickly silenced as he covered your mouth with his, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

You could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressing against your thigh. He ground against you, seeking friction, and you knew he was just as desperate as you were. With a snarl, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach. He yanked your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees. You barely had time to steady yourself before he was inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You cried out at the sudden invasion, your walls stretching around his thick length. But he didn't give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall. Each thrust was harder than the last, his hips slapping against your ass as he pounded into you. The obscene sound of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with your muffled moans and his grunts of pleasure.

His hand found your hair, fisting the strands and pulling your head back. He leaned over you, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear. Both of too far gone in the haze of pleasure to form coherent words. He seemed to take that as a yes, his thrusts becoming even more brutal.

You felt the pressure building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each snap of his hips. Your legs began to tremble, your arms threatening to give out beneath you. "Come for me," he demanded, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. "Let me feel you come all over my cock." This time coming as a more of a plea.

And with that final command, you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clamped down around him, fluttering and squeezing as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you. Behind you, Mark let out a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep one last time, spilling his release inside you with a shuddering groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both struggling to catch your breath. Finally, Mark slipped out of you, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. “We’re… not done yet, you fuck.” You sneered, and he obliged with a toothy grin. The tip of his cock rubbed gingerly against your lips as he parted the soft flesh. This is so dramatically written LMFAO.

[shaiyasstuff]

just give me your forever | zayne

synopsis : Zayne has loved you, from the day he met you in high school when he was seventeen, all the way to the present where he finds that you are still the person he silently fell for through stolen glances in the hallway, and laughter between study sessions.

content : FLUFF, zayne x non-mc!reader, non-cannon!au, just fluff, and fluff, and more fluff, maybe sprinkle of comedic elements.

writer’s note : i was listening to zack tabudlo the entire time i wrote this, i recommend listening while you read :))

inspired by : “I want you to know, I love you the most, I’ll always be there right by your side.” - Zack Tabudlo, Give Me Your Forever

It was a quiet winter night, the kind that made the city lights shimmer a little softer and the world feel a little slower.

You were walking ahead with your friends, bundled in your coat, laughter spilling from your lips like music carried by the cold wind.

You looked happy—unguarded, bright, alive.

He trailed behind his own group, just a few paces back, fresh from a dinner reunion with familiar faces from years past.

But it was you he saw—really saw—glowing beneath the streetlamp, laughter like delicate wind chimes, drawing something dormant in him to stir again.

“Hey,” his friend leaned in with a knowing grin, nudging his elbow. “Didn’t you used to have a massive crush on her back in high school?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, more in surprise than annoyance, but he masked it with a half-hearted glare.

“Relax,” his friend chuckled, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying—she’s single now. If you ever thought about trying…”

He hesitated.

The idea lingered longer than he expected, curling around his ribs like warmth against the winter air.

But then he exhaled softly, almost wistfully. “She wouldn’t feel the same.”

His friend gave him a look, brow lifting. “Never try, never know.” He shrugged, casual as anything, then added with a sly smile, “Besides, pretty sure everyone knew she liked you too.”

That made him stop.

His eyes snapped to his friend, disbelief written all over his face.

His friend only laughed, clapping him on the back. “Why do you think she always ended up in your classes? Come on, man. You really never noticed?”

And suddenly, the past didn’t feel so distant anymore.

The way you’d glance his way when you thought he wasn’t looking.

The way you always sat just close enough.

The way you smiled like you were waiting for him to say something he never did.

He looked down, lips parted slightly, the cold forgotten as something warm flickered to life inside him.

Maybe, just maybe it hadn’t been one-sided after all.

His friend nudged him again—sharper this time, a not-so-subtle push that nearly sent him stumbling forward. “Go, before you regret it. She’s leaving for Switzerland soon.”

He froze. “She’s leaving?” The words came out too quickly, too startled.

His friend only shrugged, hands deep in his coat pockets. “Said something about studying.”

And just like that, the air around him shifted.

He didn’t think anymore.

Didn’t weigh the what-ifs or brace for rejection.

His legs moved before his heart could catch up.

He jogged toward you, each step punctuated by the sound of snow crunching beneath his boots and the echo of your laughter lingering in the cold.

He hesitated when he reached you, just for a moment, trying to decide how to say everything he’d left unsaid for years.

Then he reached out—lightly, carefully—and tapped your shoulder.

You turned, confusion flitting across your face at first. But then recognition sank in, softening your features.

Your lips curved.

“Zayne…” you said, voice tender, smile warmer than the night deserved.

His name had never sounded like that before. It slipped from your mouth like it belonged to you. Like maybe it always had.

“I—” he began, but the words tangled in his throat.

Your brows pulled together, concern rising in your eyes. “Is everything okay?”

He swallowed, gathering the courage that had always felt just out of reach. “I’d like to take you out, before you leave.”

The air held still between you.

Your eyes widened just a little. Behind you, your friends were trying, and failing miserably, to stifle their giggles, but you didn’t turn to them.

You were looking only at him.

“I…” A smile bloomed on your lips, hesitant, lovely. “Sure.”

He stared for a heartbeat longer, trying to commit the moment to memory—how the cold had flushed your cheeks, how the snow dusted your hair like stardust, how you looked like something out of a dream he used to have in high school.

“Then, I’ll see you next week,” he said, voice a little breathless, “at the café we used to study in.”

You laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’ll see you.”

And with that, you turned back to your friends, their laughter wrapping around yours as you walked off.

Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced over your shoulder and gave him one last smile—quiet, knowing, enough to make him feel like he was seventeen again.

“See, told you,” his friend’s voice rang out behind him, smug as ever.

Zayne didn’t even bother to look back.

He just shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the place where you’d been.

“She’s still breathtaking.” He mutters to himself.

—•

Saturday arrived slowly, each hour dragging like wet leaves on pavement. Zayne sat at the edge of his chair, thumb pressed to his lips in a nervous habit he hadn’t indulged in years.

His phone rested beside him on the table, the screen lighting up every so often—not with a message, not with your name, but with the time.

Mocking him.

He checked it again. Then again ten minutes later.

Just to make sure the date was right.

Just to reassure himself he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

He exhaled hard through his nose, running a hand over his face.

This is ridiculous, he thought. You’re a surgeon. You perform open-heart operations. You speak at conferences. And now you’re here, pacing like a teenager waiting for a crush to call?

Still, the nerves didn’t ease.

Because this wasn’t just any Saturday.

It was the Saturday.

The one where, for once, he let himself believe in something fragile.

A second chance. A maybe.

The possibility of something that could’ve happened ten years ago if he had just reached out instead of staying silent.

Now he stood outside the café, the one that had once been filled with textbooks and quiet glances across coffee cups.

The wind was sharp, tugging at the edges of his coat, but he barely noticed.

His eyes swept the street again, slow and deliberate—though he wouldn’t admit how desperately he was searching for a glimpse of you.

He shifted his weight, glancing at his phone once more before slipping it back into his pocket.

The café buzzed quietly behind him, couples drifting in and out, laughter trailing through the door each time it opened.

Still no sign of you.

His heart thudded a little louder in his chest.

She wouldn’t have bailed… right?

As if right on cue, you appeared.

You crossed the street with a careful grace, your minidress peeking out beneath a coat that stopped just above your knees. Black leg warmers disappeared into winter boots, and a soft white scarf curled around your neck like a whispered promise of warmth. Snowflakes clung to your hair, glittering under the muted afternoon light.

And just like that—Zayne forgot how to breathe.

For a moment, the years folded in on themselves.

Gone was the surgeon, the calm professional, the man who spent his days in operating rooms and sterile halls.

In his place stood the boy who had once looked across a high school corridor and saw someone who made the world feel quieter, softer.

He stared, transfixed.

You hadn’t even noticed him yet, but his heart had already started racing, his thoughts scattered like pages caught in the wind.

It was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Hey!” you called out, your smile blooming the moment your eyes met his.

Zayne froze for half a second, breath catching as you jogged toward him with a kind of eager warmth that made the cold blur into nothing.

There was something so you about the way you moved—unthinking, open, like the world hadn’t ever taught you to hold back.

Your scarf trailed behind you, hair dancing in the breeze, cheeks kissed pink from the chill.

And as you drew closer, he felt it—the sudden, unmistakable pull in his chest.

You were radiant. Familiar.

A little different, a little older, but still you.

And in that moment, watching you rush toward him like you’d never hesitated, he felt seventeen again.

Awestruck.

Wordless.

Like you were the first girl he’d ever fallen for—because maybe you were.

You stopped just in front of him, cheeks flushed from the cold, smile still as dazzling as ever. It hit him like a wave—how little had changed, and yet how much more breathtaking you looked up close.

“Did you wait for long?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Zayne blinked, lips parted, but no words came out. He was too busy taking you in—the way your breath curled in the air, the sparkle in your eyes, the softness of your voice.

Everything about you felt surreal, like a memory he wasn’t ready for but never wanted to forget.

You squinted, amused, and waved your hand in front of his face. “Zayne?”

He startled slightly, blinking out of the haze.

“I—sorry,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “No, I just got here a while ago.”

You giggled, light and effortless—and somehow, it sounded like summer. Like sunlit afternoons and open windows in a classroom, the kind of laughter that once echoed down high school hallways and made him turn his head without thinking.

Even now, surrounded by snow and frost-kissed air, you brought warmth with you.

And Zayne swore he could feel it bloom in his chest.

He cleared his throat softly, trying to steady the storm inside him, and stepped forward to open the door to the café.

The warm scent of roasted coffee and something sweet drifted out into the cold, but it was nothing compared to the warmth you brought with you.

You smiled as you passed him, the corners of your eyes crinkling slightly. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, softer—just for him.

As you moved past, the faint scent of dandelions clung to the air around you. It hit him instantly—nostalgic, familiar.

The memory was immediate.

Golden fields, textbooks open under the sun, your laughter drifting through the breeze while you lay beside him, feet bare and hearts still untouched by time.

And just like that, he was undone again.

You both found a quiet corner by the window, the kind of seat that invited slow conversations and lingering glances.

The server took your orders—two coffees, something sweet to share—and drifted away, leaving you in the soft hum of the café’s warmth.

You shrugged off your coat and unwound your scarf, sighing contentedly as the heat settled into your bones.

The cold still clung to your cheeks, but your eyes were bright—twinkling like they used to when you’d catch him staring during study breaks under the sun.

You looked at him with that same familiar curiosity, the kind that made it feel like no time had passed at all.

“How’ve you been?” you asked, your voice light but sincere. “We didn’t get to talk much that night, did we?”

He swallowed, shifting in his seat slightly.

No, you hadn’t.

He’d been seated a few chairs down, close enough to hear your laughter but too far to do anything about the ache it brought.

The whole evening, he’d watched you—just like old times—while his friend tried, and again, failed to suppress his laughter beside him while he sat there in silent, wide-eyed longing.

Now, you were sitting right across from him.

And this time, you were looking back.

“Yes, you were having fun, I didn’t want to disturb,” he replied coolly, leaning back just slightly in his seat, fingers wrapped around the warmth of his cup.

His tone was steady, smooth—even casual—but inside, his heart was thudding loud enough to drown out the soft clatter of cutlery and quiet music around them. You smiled at him, clearly unconvinced by the calm exterior he wore like a tailored suit.

There was a glint in your eyes now, teasing and familiar, like you could hear the truth behind the quiet restraint in his voice.

“I heard you went to medical school right after we graduated,” you said, your fingers wrapping around your cup as the waitress gently placed your orders down in front of you. You gave a polite thank you, then turned your full attention back to him.

Zayne nodded, lifting his coffee, using the motion to buy himself a second of composure. “Yeah,” he said, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the cup. “Didn’t leave much room for anything else.”

There was a quiet weight to the words—one he didn’t mean to let slip. But with you, it felt impossible to hide behind half-truths and polite smiles.

Especially when you looked at him like that.

Like you saw him.

Like maybe you always had.

You nodded, a soft, understanding expression settling over your features.

“I’m heading to Switzerland to finish my nursing course,” you said, your voice gentle, but steady.

Then you smiled—small, almost shy, but proud too. It lit up your face in that quiet way he remembered. A smile not meant to dazzle, but to share something of yourself.

Zayne stared for a beat too long, something warm tugging at the edges of his chest.

Of course you were still the kind of person who wanted to care for others.

Of course you were still chasing something meaningful.

“When you come back, maybe I’ll recommend you to my hospital,” he said—too quickly, too eagerly. The words tumbled out before he could rein them in.

His eyes flicked away for the briefest second, as if embarrassed by the suddenness of it, the way it betrayed how much he wanted you to come back. Not just to the country.

To him.

But you only laughed, soft and surprised, a smile curling at your lips as you tilted your head.

“Is that your way of saying you want me to come back?” you teased gently, eyes glinting with mischief.

Zayne let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe it is.”

You laughed, the sound warmer now, bubbling up as if his words had stirred something soft in you.

“Well, thank you,” you said between small chuckles, eyes crinkling with amusement. “For the recommendation.”

Zayne smiled—really smiled this time—unable to look away. You always did that. Took the tension right out of the air, replaced it with something lighter, something brighter.

And just for a moment, sitting there with you in that quiet café, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t temporary. If you weren’t leaving. If this was only the beginning.

“When are you leaving?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

You took a sip of your coffee, then hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm… in about a month.”

A month.

Zayne nodded slowly, trying to mask the way that timeframe settled in his chest like a ticking clock. Thirty days. Four weekends. Not long—but maybe long enough.

Long enough to see you again.

Long enough to try.

Long enough to wonder what might happen if you stayed.

Then—almost too eagerly, before he could stop himself—he leaned in just slightly, the words escaping like a breath he’d been holding too long.

“Would you mind if…”

His eyes searched yours, hopeful, unsure.

“…if I spent your remaining time?”

The moment hung between you, suspended in the quiet hum of the café. He looked at you not as the boy from ten years ago, but as the man who had waited too long to say something, hoping it still wasn’t too late.

Your fingers paused around your cup, and for a second, you just looked at him—really looked at him.

And then you smiled.

When you nodded, that smile still playing gently on your lips, you said, “I’d love that.”

Simple. Sincere. No hesitation.

And just like that, Zayne felt his heart soar—swift and sudden, like something inside him had finally broken free.

The noise of the café faded into the background.

All he could see was you.

All he could hear was those three quiet words echoing through his chest, anchoring him in something that felt dangerously close to hope.

The conversation drifted easily between you, weaving through memories of awkward high school presentations, cafeteria disasters, and long-forgotten inside jokes.

You were laughing—really laughing—head tilted back slightly, your eyes glowing with nostalgia.

Zayne listened, adding in a comment here and there, but mostly he just watched you.

The way your expressions shifted with every story, how your hands moved animatedly when you got excited, how your smile lingered even in the quiet moments between words.

He sat there, a soft smile tugging at his lips, his coffee long forgotten.

To anyone else, he might’ve seemed distant—but inside, he was entirely present, caught in the gentle pull of a memory made real.

You were here, across from him.

Laughing like you used to. Smiling like maybe, just maybe, you still remembered the boy who had once loved you in silence.

—•

He walked you home afterward, the two of you moving slowly through the quiet streets, the snow crunching softly beneath your feet.

The sky was painted in hues of gold and rose, the last light of day casting a warm, mellow glow over the world. It wasn’t cold enough to rush, and neither of you wanted to. The sunset stretched the moment out, like time itself was taking a breath.

You walked close, shoulders occasionally brushing, boots leaving twin trails behind you.

There was something tender in the silence between words, something that didn’t need to be filled.

The city was hushed beneath the falling dusk, and Zayne found himself stealing glances at you—how the fading sunlight kissed your skin, how your eyes caught the glow, how your smile still lingered even without a word spoken.

He didn’t want the walk to end.

Didn’t want this to end.

So when you reached your apartment and turned to him with that soft, familiar smile—one corner of your mouth tilted just so—and said, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

Zayne felt his heart skip.

He nodded, carefully, calmly. “Sure.” His voice was steady, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him.

Internally, though? He was a storm of quiet excitement, doing everything he could to keep it from showing on his face. Because even though he was older now—composed, polished, practiced—somehow, with you, it still felt like the first time.

And the thought of one more moment with you—just one—was enough to make the world feel a little more alive.

He stepped inside, the warmth of your apartment wrapping around him instantly. It smelled faintly of vanilla and something floral—something soft.

Something you.

His eyes roamed the space slowly, taking it all in. The cozy scatter of books on the coffee table, the plants thriving by the window, the mismatched throw pillows, the delicate string lights draped along the wall.

It was intimate, lived-in, quiet in the way a safe place should be.

So undeniably you.

His lips tugged into a small, almost wistful smile as a memory flickered to life—your younger self, hands waving excitedly in the air, eyes sparkling as you told him about your dream home.

“I’m going to have a window seat, right there,” you’d said once, pointing to nothing in particular. “Lots of books, soft lights, a kettle always on. It’ll feel like peace.”

And looking around now, he could see it. You’d done it. You’d built it.

“You really got it done,” he said softly, still smiling. “Just like you always said you would.”

You smiled at him from behind the kitchen counter, your fingers tugging off your gloves, then unwrapping the scarf from around your neck. The setting sun filtered through the window behind you, casting a golden halo around your figure.

“Yep,” you said, with a proud little grin. “Took me a while, but months of savings can be miracles.”

Zayne watched you, a flicker of admiration softening his gaze. There was something deeply endearing in your honesty—in the way you didn’t boast, just quietly celebrated what you built with your own two hands.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, and murmured, “Worth every second, I’d say.”

And he wasn’t just talking about the apartment.

Later, with tea warming your hands and the quiet of the apartment settling around you, the two of you drifted to the couch. You sat close, but not quite close enough to touch—just enough space to feel the gravity pulling softly between you.

The window let in the last traces of sunset, casting long shadows across the floor. You spoke here and there, laughter low, voices softer now, like the world had grown too still for anything loud.

Zayne stared into his cup for a moment, then glanced at you, something shifting in his expression. A memory had crept in—one he hadn’t thought about in years.

You, outside the school building, shoulders curled in, your body shaking while your friend held you tightly. He hadn’t known what to do then. He’d stood frozen, heart caught in his throat, wishing he had the courage to go to you.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“What happened that day?” he asked.

You blinked, the question catching you off guard—not invasive, just gentle. Honest. A piece of a past he never got to understand.

He wasn’t asking out of curiosity.

He was asking because, even now, he still cared.

You gave a sheepish little smile, eyes lowering to your tea. “It was nothing… I was so young.”

Zayne watched you, quiet, patient—he could tell it wasn’t nothing, not to you, not back then.

You turned to him gently, your voice softer now, laced with a quiet kind of nostalgia. “The guy I had a crush on didn’t like me back. Or… so I thought.”

Your gaze drifted then, not quite meeting his, as if the memory still held a weight you hadn’t fully let go of.

There was something knowing in the way your voice trailed, something that brushed the edge of truth—and left it hanging delicately between you.

Zayne’s breath caught, just a little.

And for the first time, he wondered if all those years ago, you had been crying for him.

You let out a quiet chuckle, the sound wistful. “Thinking back,” you said, swirling the tea in your cup, “maybe if I were a little bit braver, I would’ve told him.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and this time, they didn’t waver. There was a quiet intensity behind them, a softness laced with something unspoken—as though the words you didn’t say carried more weight than the ones you did.

It wasn’t just a memory.

It was a question.

One you didn’t ask aloud, but Zayne could feel it—settling between you like the final piece of a puzzle long forgotten.

And for a moment, the air between you shifted—gentle, expectant, and full of things that had never been said.

His brows knit together slightly, subtle but unmistakable. Not in confusion—more like hesitation, like the weight of your words had landed somewhere he wasn’t expecting.

Zayne looked at you, really looked, as if searching your face for some kind of confirmation. His fingers tightened slightly around the mug in his hands, the warmth grounding him while his thoughts spun in quiet circles.

He didn’t speak right away.

There was something vulnerable in your voice, in your gaze, and he could feel it—how close the truth was now, how easily everything could shift with just a few words.

But instead, he just sat there, caught in the stillness of the moment, not quite ready to let it fall one way or the other.

Soon, the conversation shifted—naturally, gently—drifting toward lighter things. You both let it, neither of you acknowledging the delicate line you’d just tiptoed along.

The moment settled into the quiet like snow on branches, untouched but felt.

Eventually, Zayne glanced at the clock, his expression tightening just slightly.

“I should head out,” he said, his voice low, reluctant. “It’s getting late.”

You nodded, trying not to show your disappointment. “Of course. Long day tomorrow?”

He gave a small smile, standing and slipping his coat back on. “Always.”

But as he looked at you—framed in warm light, tea still cradled in your hands—he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was leaving with more than he came with. And a part of him already missed the quiet between you.

You waved lightly as he left the apartment.

A small smile played at your lips at the encounter.

—•

The next weekend came quicker than expected, and as promised, Zayne took you out again. This time, it was to a bookstore tucked between a flower shop and a tiny café—one you had once mentioned in passing, your voice laced with quiet excitement.

He remembered. Of course he did.

The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that made colors pop, and the faint chill in the air gave the moment a kind of softness, like the world had slowed just for the two of you.

When you arrived, your eyes lit up the way he hoped they would.

The storefront was quaint, lined with old wooden shelves visible through the window, books stacked in uneven towers like little secrets waiting to be found.

“You remembered,” you said, turning to him with a smile that made his chest tighten.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way his lips curved betrayed him. “Of course I did.”

And as the bell above the door chimed and you both stepped inside, it felt less like a second outing—and more like the start of something.

He bought you your favorite books without hesitation, slipping them onto the counter before you could protest. You turned to him with wide eyes, a mix of surprise and delight lighting up your face.

“Zayne,” you said, laughing, “you didn’t have to—”

But he was already smiling, that rare, quiet kind of smile—the one that softened all his sharp edges.

“I know,” he said simply, watching the way your fingers clutched the bag to your chest, like it was something precious.

You thanked him excitedly, almost shyly, and he couldn’t help but admire how something as small as a book could light you up so effortlessly.

Then the two of you stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cold brushing gently against your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to notice.

The world around you moved on, busy and distant, while the two of you fell into a familiar silence—one that didn’t need to be filled.

Just walking side by side, hearts a little fuller than before.

“Y/N,” he said suddenly, your name slipping from his lips with a quiet urgency.

His footsteps slowed, and instinctively, so did yours. You turned to look at him, mid-sentence—something about love, marriage, the kind of life you wanted someday.

But the way he said your name—it stilled everything.

There was a shift in the air, subtle but undeniable. A sudden surge of confidence burned in Zayne’s chest, unexpected and unshakable.

Maybe it was the way you looked at him, eyes so open, so trusting.

Maybe it was the fading light casting soft gold along your cheek.

Or maybe it was simply that he’d waited too long already.

You blinked up at him, curious. “Yeah?”

He hesitated only for a moment—just long enough to remember the weight of every word he didn’t say back then.

“I’d like to be that person,” he breathes, the words soft, almost carried away by the wind.

He steps closer—slowly, deliberately—until you’re just a breath apart. His eyes meet yours then, fully, without hesitation, and for the first time in a long time, he isn’t hiding behind silence or timing or fear.

“That person who loves you like in the books,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper, but certain. His smile is small, gentle, and achingly sincere—like he’s offering you something sacred.

Not a confession.

A promise.

Your lips lifted into a gentle, almost bashful smile, eyes softening as you looked at him—truly looked at him.

A breath of laughter escaped you as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, almost instinctive.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for too long,” you said, voice quiet but steady, laced with something real—something that had waited years to be spoken aloud.

And just like that, Zayne felt the world shift around him. The past, the waiting, the almosts… all folding into this. Into now.

He reached out, slowly, and took your hand in his—his touch warm, steady, reverent. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was grounding himself in the moment, in you.

“I want you to know,” he began, voice low and earnest, “I’ll always be there, right by your side.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something far deeper.

“I want to be the person who kneels before you,” he continued, stepping just a little closer, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly.

“And whisper confessions and words of comfort,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now—raw, sincere, every word a piece of his heart laid bare.

Like he wasn’t just speaking of love.

He was offering it.

“I know you’re going away soon,” he said, the words catching slightly in his throat.

He paused, looking at you—really looking—eyes searching yours for something steady to hold onto. Then he took a breath, quiet but certain, like he was anchoring himself in this one fragile truth.

“But as long as you promise me… forever,” his voice softened, thick with feeling,

“I’ll wait for you.”

There was no desperation in it, no demand—just devotion. A quiet vow offered beneath a winter sky, his heart in your hands, and not a single part of him afraid.

You smiled—softly, slowly—like the weight of his words had settled into your chest and made something warm bloom there.

Your eyes never left his as you gave the smallest of nods, but it said everything.

“I’d love that very much,” you whispered, voice laced with emotion, steady and sure.

And in that moment, with your hand in his and the promise of forever hanging gently between you, time seemed to pause—just long enough for two hearts to find their way back to where they’d always belonged.

—•

The day of your departure arrived, quiet and gray, the kind of morning that felt suspended in time.

Zayne stood at the airport, just beyond the glass, watching as you disappeared slowly into the terminal. His hand lifted in a small wave—soft, a little sad—but steady.

His eyes didn’t leave you, not even as the crowd began to swallow you whole.

The final weekends had been filled with everything but goodbyes. The two of you had spent them in laughter and stillness—racing each other at the arcade, sprawled across your living room floor with board games half-finished, sharing stories under the dim light of late evening.

There were no heavy words, no teary promises. Just presence. Just you and him, savoring what you had before the flight, before the months apart.

And now, as he stood there, alone but not lonely, Zayne didn’t feel fear.

He felt sure.

Because you had smiled and said “I’ll come back,”

And he knew—without doubt or hesitation.

That you would.

[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter four

draw me after you

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 3.4k

content: i ended up splitting this chapter because i think this amount of fluff needs room to breathe (and reader deserves good things and happy feelings). please enjoy because next chapter will not be nearly as happy and soft as this!

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

your garden feels wild in the evening. leaves spill over a stone pathway as vines climb the trellises, threading through gaps like they want to swallow them whole.

you’re in the grass, legs folded beneath you, hands resting in your lap. satoru found you out here not too long ago and sat across from you, his back pressed against the trunk of a tree, limbs sprawled out and occupying as much space as possible.

“what’s your favorite time of day?” he asks, breaking the quiet.

you glance at him, hesitant, but his expression is expectant. “late at night.”

he quirks a brow in amusement. “didn’t take you for a troublemaker.”

you shake your head lightly. “i just like when everything’s quiet.”

there’s a pause, and then he says, “your turn,” with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i asked you a question, now you get to ask me one.”

you hesitate. you certainly have questions, but you’re not sure they fit in this conversation. so you go with the safest one you can find.

“your favorite time of day?”

“sunrise.”

that surprises you. “why?”

he shrugs, still playing with the earth. “feels like i have the whole world to myself.”

you try to picture him that way—alone at dawn, the world still sleeping. maybe it suits him. an hour or two at peace before anyone can demand anything of him.

“i think we’re opposites, then,” you say. “you like the start of things, i like the end.”

his expression softens. “guess that just means we have the whole day covered.”

you smile at that, and the conversation drifts from there. favorite snacks. the worst places you’ve slept. things you could live without forever, and the things you never want to lose.

you don’t know when it happens, but you stop measuring your words. the hesitation is still there, but it’s smaller.

“what’s something you’ve always wanted to try?” he asks.

“travel. i’ve never been anywhere.”

his brows furrow. “not even once?”

“never.”

he hums, thoughtful. “well, we have to change that.”

you glance at him, trying to gauge if he’s joking. but he’s watching you with that same softness, the words hovering like he’s offered you an invitation you’re not sure you can reach for.

“maybe.” your voice is quieter now. “what about you?” you ask.

“scuba diving.”

the response is so immediate and so unexpected that you can’t help but smile. “you don’t seem like a scuba diver.”

he grins, feigning offense. “i can’t be adventurous?”

“i think you might be enough trouble on land.”

his laugh spills out, rich and unrestrained, making your own smile widen.

the conversation shifts again, like neither of you want to linger on anything that requires too much thought. you find yourself telling him about your family. descriptions come slowly, like you’re not even sure what you’re trying to say.

your father, strict but steadfast. a leader in the only way he knew how. discipline over affection, standards over kindness. his love was earned.

your mother, obedient and devoted. loving in the way she was taught to be. her affection was careful, measured—delivered only when you met expectations and rationed to avoid spoiling you.

their approval was the closest thing to love you’ve ever really felt, and you became very good at earning it. good at keeping yourself small and quiet, at doing what you were told, at following rules so well they’d never have to doubt you.

you don’t realize how much you’re saying until you realize how much satoru is listening. it’s almost unnerving, the way he just lets you speak without steering the conversation where he wants it to go. like he’s content to let you lead, to study your words.

“i miss it, sometimes,” you admit quietly. the words feel like they’ll shatter if you say them too loud.

he doesn’t respond right away, but you can feel his attention locked onto you.

“and the parts you don’t miss?”

you go silent.

you’ve never considered it before. never even thought to split your memories into good and bad, wanted and unwanted. you don’t have an answer because you’ve never looked for one.

satoru doesn’t press. he just watches, waiting to see if you’ll find the words or if you still need time to understand it.

“i don’t think i could’ve survived in your house.” he shifts, stretching his arms behind his head. “i used to get in trouble all the time.”

“not surprising,” you reply.

he grins. “i would skip classes with my friends. sneak off, cause way too much destruction on missions—oh, and pissing off the old guys in charge. that was my specialty.”

“sounds irresponsible.”

“that was the point.”

you think he sounds kind of sad. the way he talks about it, all reckless charm and nostalgia, feels unfinished—like he’s trying not to remember something he didn’t mean to miss.

you unfold your legs, stretching them out in front of you. the air is cooling now, and you listen to the sound of the trees, let it fill the silence where words go. satoru’s gaze slides over you, something almost careful in the way he’s watching. like he’s trying to take you in without crowding you.

you swallow. “do you… miss them? your friends?”

the question feels fragile. out of place. he considers you for a moment, and you can’t tell if you’ve overstepped. but he lifts his brows like you’ve just asked him something fascinating. he’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either.

“yeah. sometimes.” the answer is casual, but there’s rawness there. “one of them still works at the school. maybe you can meet her sometime.”

it’s quiet for a while. he shifts, his leg resting near yours. “what about you?” he asks. “what’s something you miss?”

he’s watching you now, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you feel like the truth is the only acceptable answer.

“i—” your sentence falters as you sort through the increasingly tangled mess in your head. “i miss… feeling sure of myself.”

it feels wrong when you say it. wrong but true, scraping against something raw, bleeding from some unidentified wound.

“i always knew what was expected of me,” you continue. “i knew what i was supposed to be. even if it wasn’t… easy, it made sense.”

“and now?” it’s quiet, not demanding. an invitation to admit something you’ve been trying not to acknowledge. it makes you want to keep talking.

“now…” you draw in a slow breath. “now i don’t know if i’m doing anything right.”

he’s silent for a moment. not because he doesn’t care, but because the admission hits something in him that he can’t understand.

it feels wrong to him that you’re questioning yourself at all. like you’ve been taught to doubt yourself so deeply that the smallest gesture of ease feels like rebellion. it makes him want to fix it, somehow.

“i think you’re doing fine,” he says eventually. the words are so casual, but they leave a warmth in your chest. “more than fine, actually.”

it’s not the kind of reassurance you’re used to. you glance at him, something small and shy curling in your chest. it’s not a compliment, not really. it’s just the way he says it. like a simple, sudden truth.

the coolness of the night settles in as the sky darkens. you feel more aware of the ground beneath you, the roughness of the grass, the warmth that radiates off of satoru.

“what was your favorite part of being a kid?” he asks, his voice lightening again, a lifeline out of the heaviness.

it feels safe, easier than his other questions. your fingers trace absent shapes against your lap, the motion soothing. “being outside. my mother kept a garden, and i would help her sometimes. picking herbs, planting new seeds.”

“your mother taught you to garden?” he asks.

“sort of.” you pause, the memory slipping free. “she taught me to do things properly. but i liked the parts where she wasn’t paying attention. when i could just do everything how i wanted.” it feels like too much, like you’re giving away something intimate. you look away, eyes falling to the tangled mess of greenery. “it was different, the way she did things. her garden was perfect.”

satoru follows your gaze, picking a dandelion near your foot. “and this?” he gestures to the wilderness surrounding you. “this is you doing things how you want?”

“i think so.”

his smile is soft. “good.”

something relaxes in your chest. “what about you?” you ask, trying to pull the attention away from yourself. “what was your favorite part of being a kid?”

he pauses. “getting away with murder. figuratively. mostly.”

you snort before you can stop yourself. the sound bubbles out of you like a hiccup, breaking the quiet in a way that feels almost obscene.

his laugh follows yours, pleased and unrestrained, proud of himself for bringing that out of you. “what? it was fun.”

“i’m sure.” you can’t keep the amusement of your voice. something about him, so shameless and unapologetic, makes your own hesitation feel ridiculous. he grins, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the garden.

but then he says, “you do that a lot,” almost to himself. you wonder if he meant to say it out loud.

“do what?” you ask, already feeling your shoulders stiffen.

“wait before you speak.” his fingers play idly with the dandelion he picked earlier. “like you’re checking to see if you’re allowed to answer.”

the words don’t hit particularly hard, but they find something tender. something you didn’t know was there until he pressed against it. “i…” you stop. inhale. “i didn’t realize i was doing that.”

“lemme guess.” his voice is low, playful, but not fully. “a lady doesn’t interrupt?”

your lips press together, your gaze falling to your hands. the truth feels too obvious. of course he’s right. he usually is, and maybe you’re starting to think it’s a little irritating.

“it’s polite,” you say finally, the words small. brittle.

“yeah?” his voice is soft, the usual teasing smoothed out. “bet i’d give your mother a heart attack.”

the laugh escapes before you can swallow it down. you’re not sure what it says about you, that you’re laughing at something like this. maybe that’s why it feels like something worth hiding, but you can’t.

and satoru’s grin is immediate. broad and satisfied, like he’s won something. like he’s going to keep winning.

he’s proud of himself for making you laugh, you realize. and that’s… comforting? confusing?

you shake your head, but you don’t correct him. because maybe she would hate him. and for the first time ever, you don’t care. it sits in your chest, unfamiliar, like something you shouldn’t touch but reach for anyway.

+++

satoru is the one who suggested snacks, but not because he was hungry. he just wasn’t ready for the closeness to end.

the air outside had felt light, easy. something about you letting your guard down, even a little, made him want to keep the moment going. so he led you inside, playing it off with a careless grin and a lazy stretch of his arms.

“wait here,” he’d said, flashing you a smile before wandering off toward the kitchen. “be back in a second.”

the fact that you didn’t immediately make some polite excuse to leave didn’t go unnoticed. so he gathered whatever snacks he could find, anticipation growing in his chest. he felt like a teenager with a crush.

now, he finds you in the small sitting area off the main hall—a cozy, quiet space that feels far removed from the rest of the house. a low table with cushions around it, the soft glow of lanterns painting the room in amber.

you look less guarded than usual, like something from before still hasn’t settled back into place. it’s something he’d like to see more of.

“i think the staff have been moving things around to mess with me,” he says as he slides down next to you, a tray of fruit and cookies in one hand. “they can’t outsmart me though.”

he’s rewarded with the faintest twitch of your lips.

he sets the tray in front of you and leans back, watching you reach for a piece of fruit with more hesitance than he’d like.

he’s talking just to keep you there, rambling about the kitchen staff and their obsession with organizing things to the point of madness. you respond, sometimes with words, sometimes with a hum of acknowledgement. but you’re not withdrawing.

he bites into a cookie he doesn’t even want, pretending not to notice the way you move, the way your gaze keeps flickering toward him. it’s only when he shifts to make himself more comfortable that his fingers brush yours on the cushions. a light touch, nothing worth noticing—except that you both do.

the words between you taper off until the quiet feels charged. he notices the way you look at him, how your gaze lingers a little too long before you look away, then back again. like you’re searching for something you can’t quite find.

you’re closer now than you were a moment ago. he’s sure of it.

“didn’t think you’d actually wait for me,” he says. it’s meant to sound playful, but it comes out too soft.

you blink, the faintest hint of confusion flitting across your expression. “you told me to.”

“yeah, but—” he pauses, his finger tracing a line over yours on the cushion. “you could’ve just said you were tired and called it a night.”

your eyes lower, like you’re deciding what to say to that. or if you’re supposed to say anything at all.

“maybe i wasn’t ready to say goodnight.”

the words are so quiet he almost thinks he imagined them. but the way you say it, soft and uncertain, makes something in his chest unwind. his gaze fixes on you now with something he’s not sure he wants to name. something that feels tender and reckless and good.

you’re looking at him like you’re waiting for him to do something. maybe you don’t even realize it, but he certainly does.

he leans in, just enough to see if you’ll flinch, if you’ll draw back into the shell you’ve been living in since your wedding. but you don’t. if anything—if his eyes don’t deceive him—you shift a little closer.

“you know,” his voice comes out lower than he intended. “you’re really bad at pretending you’re not looking at me.”

your face immediately heats up. you don’t deny it. he grins, but it feels more like an admission than a joke. “it’s okay. i’m looking at you, too.”

there’s something so simple about the statement. so stupidly honest. it’s like he’s daring himself to say what he’s been circling around for days.

“you gonna let me kiss you, angel?”

it’s only half-serious. satoru expects you to tense up, to blink at him with that same guarded look you always have when he teases you.

but you’re looking at him without a hint of protest.

“yeah?” he whispers.

you nod. just barely, but it’s enough. he leans in before his stomach can do another somersault.

it’s nothing. a brush of his mouth against yours, enough to test the waters, to feel the warmth of your lips before he pulls back to gauge your reaction. your eyes are wide, but your shoulders are relaxed, your breathing steady, even if it’s a little too careful.

he lingers there, trying to make sense of what you’re feeling—and what he’s feeling. he’s more intentional about this than he’s ever been about anything.

but there’s nothing in your expression that tells him you’re afraid, so he leans in again.

it’s deeper this time. still careful, but not hesitant. his lips press more firmly against yours, his head tilting slightly to see how much you’re willing to give. to see if you’ll give him more.

his hand moves on instinct, fingers lifting to cradle your jaw. the touch is gentle, the pressure light, like he’s scared you’ll break if he moves too quickly.

you don’t break. you let him kiss you, mirroring his movements as best you can. like you’re learning what it feels like to want something. realization settles.

this isn’t pressure. it’s not something you have to endure. it’s something you’re allowed to explore.

he pulls back, but only just. he’s close enough to see the way your lips part, like you’re trying to find the right words and coming up empty. you’re looking at him like you’re not sure what happened.

and then your hand moves.

it feels like a second-guess even as you’re doing it, your hand as shaky as your breath. your fingers brush against his jaw and settle on his cheek, the contact so light that it’s almost not there.

he looks at you with fascination, his gaze dropping to your mouth. and then, slowly, your thumb traces over his bottom lip. just once—more curious than anything.

something inside him stutters. for once, you’re asking him for something.

you’re the one who leans in this time.

your mouth presses against his, clumsy but sure. you kiss him with the kind of caution that makes him want to ruin you, just to see what you’d look like with that gentleness stripped away.

but he stays soft, pliant. lets you take what you want, even if you’re not sure what that is.

without meaning to, you notice things. the way his hand feels against your face, the small, idle circles he traces over your skin, the slight part of his lips. he’s careful and patient and it makes you want to thank him. your chest feels tight, your heartbeat skipping. you’re not sure what you’re supposed to feel right now, but you know you don’t want this to end.

the feel of your mouth against his is something satoru knows he won’t be able to forget. he’s already dreading the fact that he doesn’t know when you’ll let him do this again.

he deepens the kiss, just slightly. not aggressive, not demanding. it’s just… more. his fingers move up from your jaw and into your hair, the touch soothing you.

you realize with startling clarity that you want him. that you want him to keep kissing you. and it knocks the air out of you, because wanting something isn’t something you should to do. want feels like an admission of need.

when he breaks the kiss, his lips don’t go far. they trail to the corner of your mouth, tracing a path over your cheek, then lower, grazing along the line of your jaw.

it’s… too much. but not how you’d expected. not in a way that feels wrong, not in a way that hurts. it’s warm, real, and your chest feels like it’s going to collapse.

it’s not until his lips brush against the spot just beneath your jaw, where your pulse flutters a little too fast, that you gasp. it’s small, but it feels raw and unfamiliar. like something stolen from a part of you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

he feels it before you do. the way your shoulders go rigid, as if your own reaction is something you need to hide.

then you pull away.

he doesn’t chase you. just watches as you blink, like you’re trying to wake yourself up from a dream you didn’t mean to fall into. your eyes are wide, your breathing shallow, but you’re not scared. you’re just… startled.

he’s bracing for your apology, for you to retreat into reservation. he’s about to say something—anything to break the tension that’s suddenly wrapped itself around you—when you smile.

small at first, a hint of warmth, something shy. then wider, brighter. like you’re trying to convince yourself that this is real and not imagined. it feels like something he’s not supposed to see.

“okay?” he asks.

you shake your head, exhaling like you can’t believe yourself. “that was nice.”

he watches you a moment longer, his lips twitching. the way you’re looking at him makes him feel like he’s finally done something important.

“yeah?”

you nod, hugging your knees. your cheeks are flushed, your hands trembling slightly. but you look happy.

he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. and then he grins, something easy and genuine spilling across his face. “guess i did something right, then.”

you laugh, and the sound is real.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ you get drunk - so it goes...

chapter summary: On a team bonding outing to a bar, you try and prove that you can handle your alcohol.

word count: 4.5k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is a bonus chapter! i consider this taking place sometime around make you mine

this is the request that inspired this chapter - and also, brooklyn nine-nine, if you watch the show you'll understand the reference "nine drink amy." and also, i'm 20 years old and i've only had a sip of beer and a sparkling wine - and both times i asked my parents. so if anything about the drinking experience is wrong, please forgive me, i tried my best

(you do NOT have to read the series to understand this oneshot.)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, shy!reader, alcohol, drinking, getting drunk, protective!logan, fluff, light pda

series masterlist

Bars and clubs were never really your thing. Not even in college.

But since Scott suggested a team-building outing and it was a Friday night, somehow everyone agreed to go to a nearby bar in town.

You sat on a stool that had been pulled right next to Logan’s. Jean popped over, eyeing the Coke in your hand with a smirk. “You do know they sell drinks with actual alcohol in them, right?”

You glanced up at her, unimpressed. “I’m aware.”

She leaned her elbow against the bar, clearly enjoying herself. “Let me guess—one beer in college and you called it a night?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, Logan’s hand settled on your knee, warm and steady. He wasn’t looking at Jean, just sipping his own drink, but his thumb traced absent-minded circles against your leg. You could tell he was listening.

“I’ve had beer,” you said, shifting slightly at Logan’s touch. “And wine.”

Jean raised a skeptical brow. “Uh-huh. But have you ever had a shot?”

You hesitated. “…Does cough syrup count?”

Scott, who had just approached with a beer in hand, nearly choked on his drink. Jean snorted. “Oh my God, I knew it. You’re telling me you’ve never had tequila?”

“I never said never,” you mumbled, but you weren’t convincing anyone.

Jean grinned like she just won a bet. “I don’t think you could even handle a shot.”

You frowned, sitting up straighter. “I could handle it.”

“Oh, this I gotta see.” Jean turned toward the bar. “One shot of tequila, please.”

Logan finally looked up from his drink, brows furrowing. “Oh, hell no.”

Jean smirked. “What? You scared she’s gonna get wild after half an ounce of alcohol?”

Logan’s grip on your knee tightened slightly, not in warning—just… steadying. “More like I don’t wanna deal with what happens if she doesn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “I think I can handle one shot.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Yeah? What’s five-drink Y/N like?”

“I have no idea.”

Scott laughed. “That’s not reassuring.”

The bartender slid the shot toward you with a wedge of lime and a salt shaker. You glanced at it, suddenly feeling a little less confident under everyone’s expectant stares.

Jean leaned in. “You know how to do it, right?”

“I—I know there’s a process,” you said carefully.

Scott covered his mouth, definitely hiding a laugh. Logan sighed like this was painful for him to witness. “Jesus.”

Jean, to her credit, took pity on you. “Salt, shot, lime. In that order.”

You straightened your shoulders, then tentatively licked the back of your hand and sprinkled salt over it.

Scott shook his head. “This is already the best part of my night.”

You shot him a look before picking up the glass. The tequila smelled… strong. Probably because it was. But you weren’t about to back out now, not with Jean looking so smug.

Logan, on the other hand, looked less entertained. “You don’t have to prove anything, sweetheart.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the pet name and, before you could talk yourself out of it, licked the salt, threw back the shot, and immediately sucked on the lime.

It burned.

Like fire down your throat. You tried to keep a straight face, but your eyes watered, and you coughed a little as you set the glass back down.

Jean burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was adorable.”

Scott grinned. “Not bad for your first shot.”

You swallowed, willing the heat in your throat to settle. “That was awful.”

Jean patted your back. “Tequila always is.”

Logan shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Told you.”

You groaned, resting your forehead against the bar. “I hate you all.”

Jean was still laughing. “I swear, we need to document this. Who knows what two-drink Y/N is like?”

“Not happenin’,” Logan cut in, tone final. “She’s had her fun.”

You lifted your head, pointing a finger at him. “You just don’t want to deal with me drunk.”

Logan smirked, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Sweetheart, I can handle you just fine.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but your stomach flipped at the way he was looking at you. Jean caught the moment and waggled her brows at you before grabbing Scott’s arm. “Come on, let’s give them some space.”

Scott scoffed. “Oh, now you care about giving them space?”

Jean pulled him toward the pool table anyway, leaving you alone with Logan.

He studied you for a moment, then reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Feelin’ alright?”

You nodded, your face still warm—probably not just from the alcohol.

Logan’s thumb brushed over your cheek before he leaned in slightly, his voice lower now. “Not a fan of tequila, huh?”

You scrunched your nose. “It tastes like regret.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Stick to Coke, darlin’.”

You sighed, resting your elbow on the bar.

---

Fifteen minutes later, and the only difference you felt was a slight warmth in your chest. One shot of tequila clearly didn’t do much to you. Jean, however, was watching you like she was expecting something to happen at any moment.

You sipped your Coke, raising an eyebrow at her. “You good?”

Jean squinted at you, tilting her head like she was studying a new species. “I don’t know yet.”

Scott, who had wandered back over with another beer in hand, chuckled. “She was hoping you’d turn into ‘two-drink Y/N.’”

Jean scoffed. “No, I was hoping for three-drink Y/N. Two-drink Y/N is probably just a little sleepy. Three-drink Y/N might actually have fun.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. His arm was now draped over the back of your chair, and you could feel the subtle weight of his fingers resting against your shoulder. “She’s already fun,” he muttered.

Jean smirked. “Yeah, yeah. We know you think she’s perfect just the way she is, but come on—there’s gotta be a version of Y/N that’s a little more exciting than ‘science facts and sweaters.’”

You frowned. “Excuse me, sweaters are very exciting.”

Scott shook his head, amused. “Jean, she handled one shot just fine. I don’t think you’re getting a five-drink Y/N tonight.”

Jean groaned dramatically, slumping against the bar. “Fine. But I maintain my theory that she’d be fun if she actually let loose.”

Logan’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. “She’s fine the way she is,” he said, his voice low, like it wasn’t up for discussion.

Jean caught that, her eyes flicking between the two of you, but—for once—she didn’t tease. Instead, she sighed. “Fine, whatever. Stay boring.”

You still had your frown as you said, “I can be fun.”

Jean held up her hands. “I know you are, but—”

Before she could finish, you reached over and grabbed the shot sitting next to Ororo’s hand, ignoring the surprised look she shot you. Without hesitation, you downed it, barely giving yourself time to think.

The vodka burned even worse than the tequila. It was sharp, brutal, and somehow even less tolerable. You squeezed your eyes shut and sucked in a breath, your face twisting involuntarily. “Oh, my God—that’s awful.”

Scott nearly choked on his beer again. Jean let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands together. “Oh, this is already the best decision you’ve ever made.”

Ororo, who had just been reaching for her shot before you stole it, gave you an amused but unimpressed look. “Did you seriously just take my drink?”

You blinked, still grimacing. “I… panicked.”

Logan, meanwhile, looked absolutely done with all of you. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Jean, grinning, nudged Scott. “Alright, what do we think? What’s two-drink Y/N gonna be like?”

Scott leaned back, smirking. “Honestly? Probably the same, just with more apologizing.”

“Hey,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “That’s not—” You paused, considering. “…Okay, that’s probably true.”

Jean leaned in, watching you carefully. “You feeling it yet?”

You swallowed, feeling a distinct warmth in your chest, your limbs a little lighter than before. Your brain felt fuzzy, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. It wasn’t overwhelming—just a little loose.

“…Maybe?” you admitted, and Jean practically beamed.

Logan, on the other hand, did not look impressed. “This was a bad idea.”

Jean rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Logan. Live a little.”

“I’ve lived, Red,” he shot back, his grip still firm on your side. “And I know how this is gonna go.”

Scott grinned, amused. “What, you think she’s gonna start a bar fight?”

“No,” Logan muttered, exasperated. “I think I’m gonna have to carry her back to the damn mansion when she realizes she hates being drunk.”

You frowned, poking at his chest. “You’re underestimating me.”

Logan arched a brow, staring you down like he knew something you didn’t. “That so?”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning slightly into him, words coming a little easier now. “I can absolutely hold my liquor.”

Scott and Jean exchanged a look.

Logan tilted his head, smirking slightly. “Alright, sweetheart. We’ll see. But first let’s get you somethin’ that doesn’t taste like regret.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Coke, sweetheart. Water.” His thumb brushed against your skin before his hand dropped back to his own drink. “Somethin’ that won’t burn goin’ down.”

You blinked at him, then down at your soda, brows furrowing in thought. “Actually,” you said slowly, voice carrying a new looseness thanks to the two shots you’d taken, “carbonated drinks burn too.”

Jean, halfway through another sip of her cocktail, snorted. “What?”

“It’s true.” You nodded sagely, turning to Logan like this was very important information. “The ‘bite’ from a carbonated drink—it’s not from the bubbles themselves, like, physically. It’s actually a chemical reaction.”

Scott raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Oh, this is happening.”

Logan smirked against the rim of his glass. “Go on, sweetheart.”

You held up a finger, as if preparing for a lecture, oblivious to the amusement dancing in everyone’s eyes. “When you drink soda—any carbonated drink—carbon dioxide gets converted into carbonic acid by an enzyme in your mouth. That’s what causes the sting.” You lifted your glass, waving it slightly for emphasis. “It’s not actually the bubbles popping on your tongue; it’s a mild acid.”

Jean leaned in, grinning. “So you’re telling me Coke is acidic enough to hurt?”

“Not like, hurt hurt,” you clarified, pressing your glasses up the bridge of your nose with the back of your hand. “But yeah, that little tingly burn? That’s an acid reaction.”

Scott shook his head, chuckling. “Two-drink Y/N is still giving science lectures. Incredible.”

Jean groaned dramatically. “Oh, come on. Two-drink Y/N is just regular Y/N, but with slightly less hesitation.” She turned to Logan. “She’s gotta at least be more confident, right?”

Logan’s smirk deepened, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt as his arm rested against your back. “Don’t need a drink for that. She knows her shit.”

You felt a slow warmth creep up your neck at that, but—whether it was the alcohol or Logan’s steady presence beside you—you didn’t immediately shrink under the attention. Instead, you tilted your head toward Jean. “You were expecting me to be, what? Dancing on tables?”

Jean pointed at you. “Yes. Exactly. Or at least demanding another shot.”

You frowned, considering that for a moment, then shrugged. “I could have another shot.”

Logan, already knowing where this was going, gave you a pointed look. “No, you couldn’t.”

You squinted up at him, suddenly feeling emboldened. “You don’t think I can?”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his drink down. “Darlin’—”

“I think I could.” You turned back to Jean. “Jean, get me another—”

Before you could finish, Logan’s hand landed firmly on your thigh.

“Nope.” His voice was final, edged with that no-nonsense tone that usually shut down any argument before it could start.

Jean, however, looked delighted. “Oh, come on! She’s just getting started.”

You frowned, tilting your head at him. “You think I can’t handle one more?”

Logan exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your jeans. “I think you’ll regret it in about twenty minutes.”

You, with more grace than you thought you possessed, slid off the stool without any wobbling. “I’ll just rewind. Jeannie, gimme shot.”

Jean gasped in delight, already reaching for the bartender’s attention. “Now we’re talking!”

Logan’s hand shot out before she could even say the word ‘vodka.’ His grip was firm when he caught your wrist, tugging you back against him before you could drift too far away. “Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned, frowning up at him. “I’m fine.”

Logan’s jaw ticked, his grip still gentle but unyielding. “That ain’t the point.”

Jean, undeterred, leaned on the bar, watching the exchange like it was her favorite soap opera. “Oh, come on, Logan. She’s just getting started.”

Scott, standing beside her, sipped his beer and muttered, “I feel like this is where we should stop pushing.”

You narrowed your eyes at Logan, crossing your arms. “You’re being dramatic.”

Logan didn’t look amused. He stared at you for a long beat, then exhaled sharply. His hand slid from your wrist to settle on your hip instead, his thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your shirt. It was grounding, the kind of touch that had always made you feel solid.

“Sweetheart,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. “You barely drink. Two’s enough.”

You squinted up at him, tilting your head like you were considering his words. “I mean… technically, I could reset my metabolism if I just—”

Logan groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “For fuck’s sake—”

Scott snorted, while Jean grinned like she just struck gold. “Oh, my God. That’s cheating.”

“It’s science,” you corrected.

Logan huffed a short laugh, but his grip on your hip didn’t loosen. “No more drinks, Y/N.”

You gave him an exaggerated squint, like you were trying to determine if he was serious. He was. But that didn’t deter you. Maybe two drink you was just a tad bit more brave.

“Fine.” You muttered, leaning in to give him a quick kiss as your hand reached out for his whiskey glass. As soon as you pulled away, you downed the glass.

You barely had time to process what you’d done before the whiskey hit.

The burn spread slow and deep, more intense than the tequila or the vodka, and you had to fight the urge to cough. You placed the empty glass down with forced nonchalance, blinking hard against the warmth settling in your chest.

Jean gaped at you, looking equal parts impressed and delighted. “Okay, I take it back. This is the best night of my life.”

Scott let out a low whistle. “That was Logan’s drink. That’s a real drink.”

Logan, on the other hand, looked downright exasperated. His fingers tightened on your hip, and you didn’t have to look at him to know he was fighting the urge to throw you over his shoulder and haul you out of the bar right then and there.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave.

You turned to him, blinking a little slower than usual. “Why not?”

Logan sighed, rubbing his thumb against his temple. “Because now I gotta deal with three-drink you.”

Jean leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, what is three-drink Y/N like?”

Logan just exhaled, his grip on you still firm, as if he was physically bracing for impact.

You, meanwhile, felt… good. Warm. Light. A little floaty, but still in control. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You stretched your arms over your head, leaning into Logan as you did. “I feel fine,” you assured them, the words coming out a little slower than you intended.

Jean squinted at you. “Huh.”

Scott observed you, tilting his head like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “So far, she’s just regular Y/N but slightly more relaxed.”

Jean frowned, disappointed. “Boring.”

You stuck your tongue out at her, and she grinned. “There we go. That’s some personality.”

Logan shook his head. “She’s not boring.” His hand slid from your hip to rest more securely on your lower back. “She’s fine.”

Jean opened her mouth, but before she could say anything else, someone called her name from the other side of the bar. She groaned. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll be right back. Try not to let her turn into four-drink Y/N while I’m gone.”

Scott followed her, still chuckling, leaving you and Logan alone at the bar.

And that’s when it happened. The moment Jean stepped away, something in you shifted.

You turned in your seat, leaning fully into Logan, pressing yourself against his side without hesitation. “You’re so warm,” you mumbled, resting your head against his shoulder.

Logan’s hand immediately settled on your thigh, instinctively keeping you steady. “Darlin’…” His voice was wary.

You sighed, curling closer into him, not a single ounce of your usual shyness present. “Seriously, why are you always this warm? It’s nice.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Whiskey hit, huh?”

You nodded against his shoulder, your fingers idly tracing along his bicep. “Mhm.”

Logan huffed, shaking his head. “Should’ve seen this comin’.”

You ignored him, too busy running your hands up and down his arm. “Your muscles are ridiculous, you know that?”

Logan’s breath hitched. “Y/N…”

“You’re so strong,” you continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. You squeezed his bicep appreciatively. “Like, stupidly strong. It’s unfair.”

Logan groaned, running a hand down his face. “Christ.”

Unbothered, you shifted, draping your legs over his lap without thinking. “I like you,” you murmured, tracing little patterns against his chest now.

Logan exhaled sharply. “You like me?” he repeated, amused.

“Yeah.” You rested your chin on his shoulder, looking up at him with wide, slightly dazed eyes. “Did I ever tell you that?”

Logan’s lips twitched. “A couple times.”

“Well, I do.” You reached up, booping his nose with your fingertip. “You’re my favorite.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Three-drink you is real affectionate, huh?”

You hummed in agreement, snuggling even closer. “Mhm.” Your arms wound around his neck, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “You smell good.”

Logan froze for half a second before letting out a slow, steady breath. His hand tightened on your thigh.  “You do,” you insisted, pressing your nose against his collarbone. “All woods-y and nice and… Logan.”

Logan muttered something under his breath, his other hand landing on your waist. “You’re gonna be real embarrassed about this in the morning.”

You scoffed, tightening your arms around him. “No, I won’t. I like you.”

Logan sighed, tilting his head down to rest against yours for a moment. “Yeah, sweetheart. I know.”

Scott and Jean returned just in time to witness you clinging to Logan like a koala, your legs still draped over his lap, your face buried in his neck.

Jean blinked. “What the hell happened?”

Scott grinned. “Three-drink Y/N is just really into Logan.”

Jean gaped. “That’s it? That’s three-drink Y/N?”

Scott shrugged. “I mean, she did just tell Logan she likes him five times in a row.”

Jean groaned. “This is not what I was expecting.”

Scott took another sip of his beer. “Honestly? It’s better.”

Logan ignored them both, his focus solely on you as you sighed happily against him, completely content.

“You ready to go home, sweetheart?” he murmured, his fingers brushing gently against your lower back.

You nodded sleepily, nuzzling into his neck. “Mhm. Take me home, Logan.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Yeah, alright, darlin’.”

And without another word, he slid one arm under your legs, the other around your back, and lifted you effortlessly into his arms.

Jean watched in disbelief. “She’s just letting you carry her?”

Logan smirked, adjusting his hold on you as you clung to him. “Guess she really likes me.”

Jean groaned. “This is so unfair.”

Scott just laughed. “You wanted to know what three-drink Y/N was like.”

Jean sighed, watching as Logan carried you toward the door, your arms still looped around his neck, your fingers lazily playing with his hair.

“…Okay, yeah,” she admitted. “This is hilarious.”

---

Logan had to carry you from the truck all the way to the bedroom. He laid you down on the bed before kneeling down to slip off your shoes.

You sighed dramatically as he pulled the first one off, your fingers lazily curling into the blanket beneath you. “You’re so nice,” you mumbled, watching him with a dazed expression.

Logan huffed out a quiet laugh, tugging off the second shoe. “Yeah? That the whiskey talkin’?”

“Nooo.” You shook your head, your glasses slipping slightly down your nose. “I mean, yes. But also no.”

Logan smirked as he set your shoes aside, “that so?”

“Mhm.” You blinked up at him, blinking a little slower than usual. “You’re always takin’ care of me.”

Logan didn’t respond right away. “Somebody’s gotta do it,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of your jeans. “Lift your hips.”

You complied without question, too caught up in watching him to argue. He made quick work of sliding your jeans down, his hands firm but careful, never lingering in a way that suggested anything other than pure intention. Still, the warmth of his touch sent a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Once they were off, Logan sat back on his heels, looking up at you. “That better?”

You hummed, stretching out on the bed, now clad in just your t-shirt and underwear. “Yeah.”

Logan stood, reaching for the blanket. “Alright, let’s get you tucked in.”

But before he could pull it over you, you grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

Logan stilled, brow raising. “What?”

You tugged lightly, urging him closer. “Stay?”

Logan let out a slow breath, his gaze flicking over your face, taking in the soft flush on your cheeks, the slight haze still lingering in your eyes. He shook his head with a smirk, amused but fond. “You’re real clingy when you drink, huh?”

You frowned, your grip tightening on his wrist. “I’m always clingy.”

Logan’s smirk faltered just slightly. His expression softened in a way that made your stomach feel warm, even through the fog of alcohol. He sighed, shaking his head again. “Yeah, sweetheart. You are.”

You took that as permission and pulled harder, forcing him to sit down beside you. The second he did, you just stared at a spot on his shoulder, your eyebrows furrowed. You pushed your glasses up before looking him in the eyes and tugging his shirt. “Take it off.”

Logan’s brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering across his face. “Take it off?” he echoed, watching you tug at his shirt with surprising determination.

You nodded, your fingers curling tighter into the fabric. “Yeah,” you said, the slight haze of the whiskey making your voice softer, slower. “It’s in the way.”

His smirk deepened. “In the way of what?”

“Of your arms.”

Logan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “My arms?”

You nodded, tugging at his shirt with surprisingly strong determination for someone three drinks in. “Mhm. They’re nice.”

Logan sighed, but there was no real exasperation behind it. “Darlin’, you got a real bad habit of talkin’ sweet when you’re tipsy.”

You ignored that, your fingers still curled into his shirt. “You sleep without it sometimes. I like that.”

He huffed, amused but fond, and reached behind his head, pulling the shirt off in one easy motion. The second it was gone, your hands were on him—slow, sleepy, tracing over his biceps and shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.

A low sound rumbled from Logan’s chest, something caught between a sigh and a chuckle. “You’re real touchy tonight, huh?”

“You’re always warm,” you mumbled, your palms pressing lightly over his collarbones before smoothing down to his chest.

Logan didn’t stop you, didn’t move away. He just sat there, watching you with an unreadable expression as you mapped out the familiar terrain of him, your touches lazy, aimless, like you weren’t even thinking about it.

Then you shifted slightly, your knee bumping against his side as you moved closer. Your hands slid to his forearms, fingers trailing lightly over the scars that never quite healed. “You know what else?”

Logan tilted his head. “What else?”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder, sighing happily. “You’re so strong.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Sweetheart—”

“No, really.” You pulled back just enough to poke lightly at his bicep. “You could lift a car.”

“I have lifted a car,” he reminded you.

“See?” You beamed up at him, eyes bright even through the whiskey haze. “Ridiculous.”

Logan exhaled, shaking his head like he didn’t know what to do with you. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but his hand found your waist, fingers pressing lightly over your shirt.

You didn’t mind that. In fact, you leaned into it, your arms looping loosely around his neck as you sighed, your body sinking against his. “You always take care of me.”

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, his other hand settling against your back, rubbing slow circles. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from makin’ bad decisions.”

You hummed, clearly content. “I don’t make bad decisions.”

He snorted. “You stole Ororo’s drink tonight.”

You pouted against his shoulder. “That was a small mistake.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sighed, shifting again, adjusting yourself so you could curl into him properly. His arms wrapped around you easily, like this was second nature. “You take care of me,” you mumbled again. “I like that.”

Logan’s chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. “Yeah, sweetheart. I know.”

You were quiet for a long moment, the whiskey making your limbs heavier, your thoughts softer. Then, in the same sleepy voice, you murmured, “you always have.”

Logan stilled.

You didn’t notice. You were already drifting, your breath slowing against his shoulder, your body completely relaxed in his arms.

But Logan noticed.

His hand paused against your back, fingers flexing slightly before smoothing over your spine again.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what you meant. You wouldn’t have an answer, anyway.

Instead, he just held you a little tighter—after he took off your glasses—grounding himself in the steady sound of your breathing, in the warmth of you against him.

And as you finally slipped into sleep, Logan exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before shifting you gently onto the pillows.

“Always,” he murmured, tucking the blanket around you.

Then he slid in beside you, letting you cling to him as much as you wanted.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

Just wanted to say that I love love love your writings before I make my request! But anywayssss, I can’t stop thinking about like sweet!Maybank!Pogue(obviously) reader, who’s had a crush on Rafe like forever despite her big brother telling her to stay away from him. Rafe being the manipulative jerk he lowkey is takes advantage of that crush and makes her keep an eye on the Pogues and tell him everything she knows and hears about the cross (so during season 2 I guess). He definitely fucks her or buys her pretty things if she gives him good info. Thank you so so much beautiful! <3

mine now - rafe cameron

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ content: 18+ MDNI

⊹ ‧₊˚ ౨ৎ word count: 1.5k

Being JJ Maybank’s little sister came with a rulebook thicker than the Bible—unspoken laws etched into every glare he shot your way, every growled warning about the Kooks who’d sink their claws into you if you gave them half a chance. Rafe Cameron was at the top of that do-not-touch list, circled in red, underlined twice. “He’s a fucking snake, sis,” JJ would snarl, blue eyes blazing with that wild protectiveness that made him equal parts brother and guard dog. “He’ll use you up and toss you out like trash. Stay away.” You’d nod, mumble something about understanding, and try to ignore the way your stomach flipped every time Rafe’s name came up. Because the truth—the shameful, burning truth—was that you’d been in love with Rafe Cameron since you were a kid, a dumb crush that stuck like gum under a shoe no matter how hard you tried to scrape it off.

It started years ago, back when you were all elbows and freckles, watching him from across a bonfire with that messy hair and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. He’d caught you staring once, tossed you a lazy smirk that made your chest ache, and that was it—you were done for. Over time, it festered. A glance at the beach as he strode by in board shorts, all tanned muscle and arrogance. A low, teasing “Hey, Maybank” when JJ wasn’t close enough to hear. You’d replay those moments in your head at night, fingers twisting in your sheets, imagining what his voice might sound like up close, what his hands might feel like if they ever touched you. JJ’s warnings only made it worse—Rafe’s danger was a siren call, pulling you in even as you knew you should swim the other way.

Then came the night that changed everything. The Wreck was buzzing, humid air clinging to your skin as you sat picking at fries, half-listening to JJ and the Pogues plot their next move on the Cross of Santo Domingo. You felt him before you saw him—Rafe’s presence like a shadow sliding over you. He dropped into the seat across from you, knees brushing yours under the table, deliberate and slow. “Hey, princess,” he drawled, voice dripping with that Kook-rich confidence that made your pulse stutter. “You look like you’re dying over here. Those Pogues boring you yet?” JJ’s head snapped up from across the room, but Rafe didn’t flinch, just leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek as he murmured, “Bet I could keep you entertained.”

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve remembered every word JJ ever said. But your tongue felt heavy, your body traitorously still, and when Rafe’s lips quirked into that knowing smirk, you were lost. That was the night he saw it—the crack in your armor, the way your eyes lingered too long—and decided to pry it wide open.

A few days later, he found you alone by the bait shop, the sun dipping low and painting the world gold. He stepped too close, all sharp edges and expensive cologne, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not as dumb as JJ thinks, are you? You hear shit, see shit. I need someone like you—someone smart, someone mine—to keep tabs on those little friends of his. That cross they’re chasing? I want to know everything.” His fingers grazed your wrist, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver up your spine. “Help me out, and I’ll take care of you. You like nice things, don’t you? Pretty little treasures for a pretty little Pogue?” His eyes locked on yours, dark with promise, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You nodded, barely, and that was all he needed.

It started small. You’d catch snippets—John B muttering about a map, Pope piecing together coordinates—and you’d text Rafe late at night, heart pounding as you betrayed the only family you’d ever known. He’d meet you in secret, always somewhere quiet—the docks, an empty stretch of beach—slipping a bracelet onto your wrist or a delicate chain around your neck. “Good girl,” he’d say, voice rough and low, his thumb brushing your jaw as he tilted your face up to his. The praise sank into you, warm and addictive, and you’d flush, torn between guilt and the thrill of his attention.

But Rafe wasn’t patient. The Pogues got closer to the cross, and he got greedier, his texts sharper, his demands heavier. One night, you spilled it all—every detail JJ had let slip about their next move—terrified of the edge in Rafe’s voice when he’d called you earlier. He showed up an hour later, truck parked in the shadows of the pier, eyes glinting with something feral. “You did good, princess,” he said, stepping close, his body crowding yours against a weathered post. His hand slid up your arm, lingering at your shoulder, then higher, fingers curling around the back of your neck. “Real fuckin’ good.”

You didn’t have time to respond before his mouth was on yours, hard and claiming, all the pent-up tension of your crush exploding in a rush of heat. His lips were rough, tasting faintly of whiskey and salt, and you melted into him, hands fisting in his shirt as he pressed himself closer. He kissed you like he owned you, tongue sliding against yours, slow and deliberate, drawing a whimper from your throat that made him groan. His hands roamed—down your sides, gripping your hips, then lower, palming your ass through your shorts as he ground himself against you, the hard length of him unmistakable even through his jeans. “Fuck, you’ve been holding out on me,” he muttered against your mouth, voice ragged, his breath hot on your skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, thumb brushing your swollen lips. “Get in the truck,” he said, more command than request, and you obeyed, legs shaky as you climbed into the passenger seat. He didn’t waste time—followed you in, door slamming shut, and then he was on you again, yanking you across the console until you straddled his lap. His hands shoved under your shirt, rough palms sliding up your bare skin, cupping your breasts through your bra as he kissed you deeper, hungrier. “You’re mine now, yeah?” he rasped, tugging the fabric aside, fingers pinching your nipples until you gasped, arching into him. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed, too far gone to care, and he smirked, triumphant. He unbuttoned your shorts with one hand, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. His lips dragged down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, and then his fingers were slipping inside your shorts, past your panties, finding you already soaked. “Jesus, you’re wet for me,” he groaned, circling your clit with slow, teasing strokes that made your thighs tremble. “Been thinking about this, haven’t you? All those years staring at me like a lovesick puppy.”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, just rocked against his hand as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them deep, his thumb still working your clit in maddening rhythm. The cab of the truck was too small, too hot, filled with the sounds of your gasps and the slick slide of his fingers. He watched you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, that smirk never fading as he coaxed you closer to the edge. “Come for me,” he murmured, voice a low growl, and you did—shattering around him, clinging to his shoulders as your body shook.

He wasn’t done. Before you could catch your breath, he was shoving his jeans down just enough, freeing himself—thick and hard and ready—and pulling you down onto him. The stretch burned, delicious and overwhelming, and you cried out, nails digging into his chest. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, hands bruising your hips as he guided you, slow at first, letting you adjust, then faster, harder, until the truck rocked with every thrust. His mouth found your tits, sucking and biting through the thin fabric of your shirt, and you lost yourself in it—the heat, the fullness, the way he filled you up and took you apart all at once.

When he came, it was with a guttural sound, spilling inside you, holding you down so you couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the weight of him. He kissed you again, lazy and possessive, then slipped a roll of cash into your pocket like it was nothing. “For being so perfect,” he muttered, smirking as he fixed his clothes, leaving you dazed and disheveled in his passenger seat.

That was the pattern now. You’d feed him info—guilt clawing at you every time JJ grinned at you, clueless—and Rafe would pull you into his world, fucking you senseless in the back of his truck or gifting you silk dresses and diamond studs that felt like shackles. He’d whisper “You’re mine” as he pinned you down, and you’d let him, because the crush you’d harbored for years had twisted into something darker, something you couldn’t untangle yourself from—no matter how much it cost your soul.

taglist: @littlelamy @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Forever and Always

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, wedding day emotions, a little bit of nerves, tender moments, smut, soft Simon

Author’s Note: I’m in a wedding mood so here we are!

Summary: Your wedding day with Simon—from the first nervous moments of the morning to the intimate, quiet night just the two of you. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word solidifies what you already knew. This was forever.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Morning – The Bride

You woke up before the sun, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with excitement and nerves. Today was the day.

Rolling over, you grabbed your phone. A message from Simon was waiting.

Simon💍👻: Morning, love. Hope you slept better than me. Can’t wait to see you.

A smile tugged at your lips as you test me a quick:

Can’t wait to see you too.

The morning flew by in a whirlwind of makeup brushes, hairspray, and laughter. Your bridesmaids chatted around you, but your mind kept drifting to Simon. How was he feeling? Was he just as nervous?

Soap popped his head into the room, smirking. “Damn. Riley’s gonna drop dead when he sees you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Think so?”

“Oh, I know so,” he said, stepping inside. “Speaking of which, are you ready for the first look?”

Your stomach flipped. The first look. That intimate moment before the ceremony, just the two of you.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

---

Morning – The Groom

Simon was pacing.

“Would you sit the hell down?” Gaz groaned from the couch, watching him with amusement. “You’re making me nervous just looking at you.”

“Can’t help it,” Simon muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels like my chest’s gonna explode.”

Gaz smirked. “Big, scary Ghost, nervous about his wedding day?”

Simon shot him a look. “Say that again, and I’ll—”

A knock at the door interrupted him. The photographer poked his head in. “First look’s set up.”

Simon exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. This was it.

Gaz clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Go get her, mate.”

---

The First Look

The secluded garden was quiet, tucked away from the noise of the wedding party. Simon stood with his back turned, hands curled into fists at his sides. His heart pounded harder than it ever had in a firefight.

The soft sound of footsteps on the grass made him freeze. He could feel you behind him.

“Simon?” your voice was gentle, uncertain.

He turned.

And the world stopped.

You were breathtaking. The dress, the way the sunlight kissed your skin, the way your eyes shimmered with emotion. He felt the air punch out of his lungs.

You bit your lip. “Say something.”

Simon took a slow step forward, then another, his throat tight. He reached for your hands, holding them between his own, calloused and warm. His jaw clenched, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, thick with emotion.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your lips trembled. “You like it?”

“Love it,” he murmured. “Love you.”

A breath of relief left you, and you threw your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, holding you close, his nose buried in your hair. “I missed you,” you whispered.

“Missed you too,” he admitted, voice quiet. He pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours. “You sure about this?”

You cupped his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His fingers traced the back of your hand, where your wedding band would soon sit. He exhaled slowly, nodding.

“Alright then,” he murmured. “Let’s get married.”

---

The Ceremony & Reception

Everything after that felt like a blur. The ceremony, the vows—the moment he slipped the ring onto your finger and heard you say *I do.*

When it was time for the first dance, Simon held you close, swaying gently. “You tired yet?” you teased.

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never when it comes to you.”

Later, as the night ended and you stood in your hotel room, hair undone and feet aching, he watched you with a softness he rarely showed.

“You’re staring,” you teased.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re mine now.”

You smiled, stepping into his arms. “Always.”

---

Night – Just the Two of You

By the time you reached your hotel room, exhaustion had begun to set in.

Simon kicked off his shoes, watching as you undid the pins in your hair, letting the strands fall freely around your shoulders. You looked at him through the mirror, eyes soft.

“Can’t believe we’re finally married,” you murmured.

He stepped behind you, hands finding your waist. “Believe it,” he said, voice low.

You turned in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck. “So, how does it feel? Being my husband?”

A rare smile tugged at his lips. “Feels like the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Your breath hitched slightly, eyes searching his. You reached up, fingers tracing along his jaw. “I love you, Simon.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something raw, something deep. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you too,” he murmured. “More than you’ll ever know.”

You kissed him, slow and lingering, as if savoring the moment.

And when he picked you up and carried you to bed, pressing soft kisses along your neck, your jaw—when he whispered your name like a prayer against your skin—you knew.

This was forever.

Always.

Simon's eyes followed the path of your fingers, a shiver running down his spine at your gentle touch. He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss to your palm. His other hand slid up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as he held you close. "And how about you, love? How does it feel to be Mrs. Riley?" His voice was a low rumble, eyes darkening as they roamed your face.

You bit your lip, a small smile playing on the corners of your mouth. "It feels...right." You admitted softly, leaning into him further. "Like this...like us...it just feels right."

Simon's thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the soft curve. "Aye, it does," he murmured in agreement, head dipping down to rest his forehead against yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. It made your heart race, made your skin flush with anticipation.

His hands began to wander, gliding over the smooth fabric of your dress, mapping out the curves of your body. You shivered under his touch, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his fingers found the zipper of your gown. He paused, looking at you questioningly, silently seeking permission.

You nodded, a breathless yes falling from your mouth. His lips curved into a smirk before he slowly began to tug down the zipper, his knuckles grazing against your skin. The dress slipped off your shoulders, pooling around your feet. He took in the sight of you, clad in only your underwear, eyes burning with a hunger that made your toes curl.

"Beautiful," he breathed, calloused hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing over the lace of your bra. You arched into his touch, a moan catching in your throat. His lips found your neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point.

You reached up, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. A low growl rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating through you, making your core clench with need. One hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He found you already wet, arousal coating his fingers as he stroked your slit.

"Fuck," he breathed against your skin, fingers circling your clit, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves. You writhed against him, hips rolling into his touch, chasing the pleasure he was giving you. He slipped a finger inside, then two, pumping them in and out of your tight heat. His palm pressed against your clit, rubbing firm circles, stoking the fire building low in your belly.

"Simon," you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder, breasts heaving with each ragged breath. He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, tongue delving deep to taste you. He added a third finger, thrusting harder, faster, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room. You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your walls beginning to flutter around his fingers.

He broke the kiss, hand moving from your sex to hook around your thigh, lifting your leg up to wrap around his waist. The new angle allowed him to drive deeper, his fingers kissing your cervix with each thrust. The other hand pushed your bra up and out of the way, calloused palm cupping and kneading the soft mound of your breast. He pinched your nipple hard, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

"Come for me, love," he commanded, voice rough and gravely, eyes dark and intense as they bore into your own. "Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

His words, his touch, the intensity in his gaze, it was too much. The coil snapped, your orgasm crashing over you, back arching, a silent scream tearing from your throat as ecstasy consumed you. He groaned, fingers pumping faster, drawing out your pleasure, working you through the aftershocks until you collapsed against him, boneless and spent.

Simon took a step back, hands moving to the collar of his shirt. He undid the buttons one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the smattering of hair, the scars that mapped out his history. You watched him through hooded eyes, heart racing as more and more of his skin was bared to you.

He shrugged off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. The sight of him, all lean muscle and strength, never failed to take your breath away. He reached for his belt next, unbuckling it with deft fingers before shimmying out of his pants. In a matter of moments, he was left in nothing but his boxers, the bulge of his arousal tenting the fabric obscenely.

Your tongue darted out to wet your suddenly dry lips as your gaze drifted over his body, taking in every inch of exposed skin. He was a work of art, all hard lines and soft curves, a beautiful canvas of battle scars and old tattoos. You itched to run your fingers over every mark, to trace the path of each one and learn its story.

Simon watched you watching him, a smirk playing on his lips as he stepped closer, looming over you. He reached out, calloused fingers skimming down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your skin tingled, nerve endings sparking to life under his touch. You shivered, a breathless little laugh escaping you as he tugged you up and against him.

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, could feel the hard length of him pressed against your stomach. Your core clenched, arousal already beginning to pool between your thighs. He slid a hand up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as he held you close, the other hand cupping the back of your neck and tilting your head back.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured, voice low and rough, dark eyes boring into your own. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the soft curve. "Tell me what you need."

You swallowed hard, a flicker of nervousness sparking through you at the intensity in his gaze. But there was no fear, only anticipation and desire. You reached up, fingers curling around his wrist, holding him close.

"I want you," you whispered, voice breathy and soft. "I need you, Simon."

Something flashed in his eyes, a hunger, a desperation that made your heart race. "Aye," he growled, voice dropping an octave. "You're mine now. And I'm going to make damn sure you never forget it."

Then his mouth was on yours, kissing you with a ferocity that stole your breath away. He backed you towards the bed, the back of your knees hitting the mattress, and you tumbled down onto the sheets, pulling him with you. He settled between your thighs, the hard length of him nestling against your core, separated only by the thin barrier of his boxers and your panties.

You could feel every inch of him, could feel the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress. It made you feel small, made you feel fragile, made you feel cherished and protected and desired all at the same time. You wrapped your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, holding him close.

His hand slid down your side, fingers skimming over the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip. He cupped your ass, squeezing the supple flesh, before hooking his fingers in the sides of your panties and tugging them down your legs. You lifted your hips, helping him remove the last barrier between your bodies.

He tossed the scrap of lace aside, his gaze dropping to your naked sex. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire as he took in the sight of you, laid out bare and wanting beneath him. "Fuck," he breathed, voice rough and low. "You're fucking perfect."

You blushed, a sweet ache building in your chest at the reverence in his voice. He thought you were perfect. You couldn't imagine how he could think that when he was the one who was perfect, the one who was everything you could ever want or need.

His hand slid up your inner thigh, fingers brushing against your slit, teasing through the slick folds. You gasped, back arching off the bed, hips rolling into his touch. He circled your clit, stroking the sensitive bud, before slipping a finger inside your tight heat.

"Always so fucking tight for me," he murmured, pumping his finger in and out of you, crooking it just right to hit that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "Always so fucking perfect."

You could only moan in response, head thrown back, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as he worked a second finger inside you, then a third. He thrust faster, harder, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room, the wet squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy echoing off the walls.

His thumb rubbed firm circles over your clit, stoking the fire building low in your belly, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with each pass. You could feel it, the pleasure cresting, your orgasm building, your walls beginning to flutter and clench around his invading fingers.

"That's it, love," he encouraged, voice a low rumble, hot breath fanning over the side of your neck. "Come for me. Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

His words, his touch, the intensity in his gaze, it was too much. The coil snapped, your orgasm crashing over you, back arching, a silent scream tearing from your throat as ecstasy consumed you. He groaned, fingers pumping faster, drawing out your pleasure, working you through the aftershocks until you collapsed against the bed, boneless and spent.

He looked down at you, a fierce pride shining in his eyes, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "That's my girl," he murmured, leaning down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss. "My beautiful, perfect girl."

You kissed him back just as fiercely, tangling your fingers in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. He hissed, breaking the kiss to nip at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft suck. You could taste the metal of his piercing on your tongue, cold and hard and delicious.

His hand slid between your bodies, calloused fingers curling around his hard length, giving it a firm stroke. You could feel him, hot and heavy and thick, the tip already leaking with arousal. He notched himself at your entrance, the broad head parting your slick folds, stretching you around him.

"Are you ready for me, love?" he asked, voice a low rumble, dark eyes searching yours. "Ready to take all of me?"

You nodded, a flicker of nervousness sparking through you at the size of him, at the thought of taking him inside you. But there was no fear, only anticipation and desire. You wanted this, wanted him, more than anything.

"I'm ready," you whispered, voice breathy and soft. "Please, Simon...please fuck me."

Something flashed in his eyes, a hunger, a desperation that made your heart race. "As you wish," he growled, voice dropping an octave.

Then he pushed forward, the thick head of his cock pushing past your entrance, stretching you wide around him. You gasped, back arching off the bed, fingers digging into his shoulders as he slowly, inexorably, pushed deeper and deeper inside you.

He paused when he was fully seated, hips flush against yours, the base of his cock kissing your cervix. You could feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you, could feel the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him, trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut as he fought for control. "So fucking tight and hot and perfect..."

You could only moan in response, head thrown back, nails digging into his shoulders as you tried to adjust to the stretch of him, the delicious ache of being so full. He started to move, hips pulling back until just the tip remained inside you, before slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, a sharp cry of pleasure-pain, back arching as he set a brutal pace, hips slapping against yours with each powerful thrust. The bed creaked and groaned beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each drive of his hips. You could only hold on for dear life, fingers scrabbling at his back, legs locking around his waist as he fucked into you with wild abandon.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, his tongue delving deep to taste you. One hand slid between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bud. You keened into his mouth, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure he was giving you.

"Come on, love," he encouraged, voice a low rumble against your lips. "Come on my cock. I want to feel you come apart around me."

His words, his touch, the intensity in his gaze, it was too much. The coil snapped, your orgasm crashing over you, back arching, a silent scream tearing from your throat as ecstasy consumed you. He groaned, hips slamming forward one last time before burying himself deep, his cock pulsing as he found his own release.

He collapsed against you, hips still twitching, breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. You could feel the hot splash of his seed painting your insides, could feel the way his cock jerked and throbbed inside you with each spurt. It made you feel claimed, made you feel owned, made you feel like you truly were his.

He lifted his head, looking down at you with a satisfied smirk, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "You okay, love?" he asked, voice a low rumble.

You could only nod, a small smile playing on your kiss-swollen lips. "More than okay," you murmured. "That was...incredible."

His thumb brushed over your cheek, a tender caress that made your heart ache in the best way. "Aye, it was," he agreed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "You're incredible."

He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close. You tangled your legs with his, head pillowed on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His fingers slid up and down your back, a soothing caress that made you want to purr.

"You're not so bad yourself," you teased, tilting your head up to smile at him. "For a grumpy bastard."

He barked out a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Cheeky bitch," he muttered, but there was no heat behind the words. If anything, there was a softness to his tone, a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

You snuggled closer, fingers tracing over the scar on his chest, the one that looked like a bullet had grazed his heart. "I love you," you whispered, voice soft and full of feeling. "I love you so much."

His arm tightened around you, holding you possessively close. "I love you too," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "More than anything."

You knew, in that moment, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. In his arms, in his bed, his wife. You were home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[slutoru1207]

What the Hell Were You Thinking?!

Protective!Mark Grayson x Reader

Angst + Fluff | He Loves You Too Much to Lose You

The fight is a blur. You don’t even see the blast coming. One second, you’re standing behind Mark, and the next—

His body slams into yours, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. There’s a deafening explosion, a blinding flash of light, and then—

Silence.

You groan, head spinning, and blink up to find yourself pinned under Mark. He’s crouched over you, arms braced on either side of your head, his body a solid, unmoving shield.

For a second, he doesn’t move. His breath is ragged, his grip on you tight. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, eyes blazing with something raw—something that makes your stomach drop.

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

His voice is sharp, angrier than you’ve ever heard. Before you can even process it, he’s pulling you up, hands running over you like he’s checking for injuries. His fingers tremble slightly as they brush over your arms, your waist, your face—like he can’t believe you’re still in one piece.

"Mark, I—"

"No." His jaw clenches, eyes flashing. "You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just—just run in like that!"

Your chest tightens. "I didn’t—"

"You did!" He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing like he’s trying to keep from exploding. "You didn’t see that blast coming, and if I hadn’t—if I wasn’t fast enough—" He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply.

Your heart twists. He’s shaking.

You take a step closer, voice softer. "Mark…"

He turns, and the anger in his face wavers, replaced with something wrecked. "Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if I wasn’t there?" His voice drops, rough with something dangerously close to panic. "Do you know what I would’ve done if I lost you?"

Your throat tightens.

You reach for him, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. The second your fingers touch his, he grabs you—pulls you against him, arms locking around you so tightly you can barely breathe.

"You can’t scare me like that," he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. "I can't—I won’t lose you."

Your chest aches. You wrap your arms around him, squeezing back just as tight. "I’m sorry."

Mark exhales shakily, then pulls back just enough to press his forehead against yours. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

"You’re staying behind me next time," he mutters.

You huff, trying to lighten the mood. "Oh, so now I’m not allowed to fight?"

"Nope." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "New rule: You stay behind me. Always."

You roll your eyes, but your heart swells. "And if I don’t?"

Mark leans in, lips ghosting over yours in the softest warning. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep throwing myself in front of danger for you." His voice lowers, teasing but so sincere. "Forever."

You sigh dramatically. "Ugh, fine. One superpowered boyfriend-shaped shield, coming right up."

Mark chuckles, finally relaxing. "Damn right."

And then he kisses you—slow, lingering, still a little desperate—like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re still here.

Because he meant it.

He won’t lose you.

Not now. Not ever.

[marauroon]

𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐃-𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 (𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡-𝐬𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐭).

there’s always a few hours where you live in blissful ignorance on your return to hogwarts. it never lasts.

eventual james x fem!reader | 2.7k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

CW | the marauders suck (it won’t last forever dw) and they bully people bc ofc they do, james is so annoying in this

The Hogwarts Express was packed as always, the air thick with the mingling scents of pasties, fresh parchment, and the damp wool of students’ robes.

You had barely set foot on the train before you were dragged into a compartment with Lily, who was already complaining about the boys.

“They’re insufferable,” she huffed, arms crossed. “I saw them at the station, and James was acting like he’d come back from summer with some grand revelation about himself,”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. What is it this time? A new Quidditch move? A newfound respect for the rules?”

Lily snorted. “Worse. He’s taller now,”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she said grimly. “And he won’t shut up about it.”

You shrugged. “How bad can it be?”

Lily gave you a look that told you everything you needed to know.

—

By the time you arrived at the castle and made your way into the Great Hall, it became painfully clear that she hadn’t been exaggerating.

James Potter was tall now, and he was making it everyone’s problem.

From the moment he stepped into the hall, he was on a mission. He strode over to the Gryffindor table like a man on a mission, and before Remus could sit down, James was pressing against him shoulder to shoulder. “Oi, Remus, hang on,” he said, a wide grin splitting his face. “Did you shrink over the summer?”

Remus didn’t even look up as he took his seat. “No, James,”

James leaned in, mock serious. “You sure? Because I swear you were at least this tall last term,” He held his hand up next to Remus’s head, shifting it ever so slightly higher than necessary.

Remus sighed and turned to Sirius. “Are we humouring this?”

Sirius, lounging in his seat, smirked. “Absolutely not. Don’t give him the satisfaction,”

James, undeterred, moved on to Peter. “Pete, my good man,” he said cheerfully, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “How’s the weather down there?”

Peter swatted him off. “You’re barely taller than me!”

“But I am taller,” James pointed out, practically buzzing with energy. “And that’s what matters,”

It didn’t take long for his newfound height to become the central theme of his personality. It was as if, over the course of one summer, he had discovered his life’s purpose: to loom over everyone who was even an inch shorter than him and let them know it.

And it wasn’t just his own friends he tormented. No, James was equal opportunity about it.

Throughout the first week, you saw him standing next to anyone and everyone, sizing them up with exaggerated curiosity. “Ah,” he would announce, stepping back and rubbing his chin as if making a great discovery. “Short. Tragic,”

Some people laughed. Others rolled their eyes. A few, like Severus, scowled and stalked away, though that only seemed to amuse James more.

Sirius, Remus, and Peter suffered the worst of it.

“You know this is just going to encourage him, right?” Remus muttered after Sirius nearly punched James for his latest “short people” joke.

“I don’t care,” Sirius growled, rubbing his temples. “I’ll break his stupid tall nose,”

James, now leaning casually against the Gryffindor table, grinned. “Merlin, it must be so hard being so small,”

Sirius lunged, and James yelped, dodging behind Remus. “James, I swear—”

“—that you’ll thank me one day when you realise you were standing next to greatness this whole time?” James finished smoothly, winking.

Peter groaned. ��I hate this. I hate this so much,”

“It’s been five days,” Remus muttered. “How much longer can this possibly last?”

As if to answer that question, James caught sight of you across the room. His eyes lit up.

Uh-oh.

“Ah, excellent,” he said, striding over with purpose. “I haven’t tested my theory yet,”

Your fork was halfway to your mouth. You lowered it slowly. “What theory?”

“The one where you are also, tragically, shorter than me,”

Lily, sitting next to you, let out a long sigh and rubbed her temples.

You stared at James. “Potter, you just had to run from Sirius. Do you really want to start this with me?”

James beamed with all the brightness of the sun. “Absolutely,”

You glanced at Lily, who was already shaking her head.

Then, with all the calmness in the world, you turned back to James and said, “Would you like to be short again?”

James frowned. “What?”

Before he could react, you flicked your wand under the table and whispered a spell so quietly it was almost imperceptible.

James didn’t even have time to register what had happened before his calf seized up violently. His smug expression flickered—then his leg gave out entirely.

With an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, he keeled over.

A few heads turned. Sirius, seeing his friend crumpled on the floor, burst out laughing. “What the hell was that?”

James, groaning, pushed himself up onto his elbows. “My leg,”

Lily stifled a snicker. “What a tragedy,”

You speared a piece of roasted potato with your fork. “Hm. Not so tall now, are you?”

James glared up at you. “That was rude,”

“Was it?” you asked innocently. “I thought it was a very appropriate reaction.”

Sirius practically howled with laughter.

James groaned again, flopping dramatically onto his back. “This is bullying,”

Lily leaned down with a smug smile. “Welcome to our world, Potter,”

—

After the Great Height Incident—as Sirius had started calling it—James seemed to learn precisely one lesson: messing with you and Lily was fun. Unfortunately, that meant you, Lily, and Severus were now prime targets for the boys’ endless shenanigans.

It started subtly at first. You’d be in the library, peacefully reviewing your notes, and suddenly James would happen to walk by, stretching extravagantly. “Merlin, I keep forgetting how much taller I am than everyone now,” he’d say loudly, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

Sirius would nod solemnly beside him. “It’s tragic, really,”

Peter would sigh dramatically. “So difficult being so much better than everyone else,”

And then Remus, without even looking up from his book, would mutter, “You lot are insufferable,”

But that was only the beginning.

Soon enough, they were showing up everywhere. You, Lily, and Severus had your usual study spot under the large bay window in the library—a quiet, peaceful place where you could actually focus. Or at least, it used to be.

Now, the second you pulled out your books, the four troublemakers of Gryffindor would materialise.

“Alright, what’s on the syllabus today?” James asked one afternoon, plopping himself unceremoniously onto the bench across from you.

You sighed, not looking up from your parchment. “Potter. Go away.”

Sirius slid into the seat beside him. “That’s no way to talk to your study buddies,”

“You’re not our study buddies,” Lily said, exasperated.

James gasped, clutching his chest. “Evans, I’m hurt. You wound me.”

“I can fix that,” Severus muttered, reaching for his wand.

Remus—who, unlike the other three, had actual academic aspirations—had the decency to look somewhat guilty as he pulled up a chair. “I do actually need to study, but, er… I doubt they’ll leave if I don’t come with them,”

“Correct,” Sirius confirmed cheerfully.

You narrowed your eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

Sirius grinned. “Very much,”

They didn’t even pretend to study. James spent ten minutes balancing his quill on the tip of his nose. Sirius kept tossing sugar quills into Peter’s open mouth. Peter missed all of them. And Remus, bless him, tried to read, but his attempts were constantly interrupted by James tapping his shoulder every three minutes just to point out glaringly obvious things around the room.

By the time Lily slammed her book shut in frustration, you were about two seconds away from hexing the whole lot of them. “Honestly, can’t you go bother someone else?” she snapped.

James grinned. “Why would we, when you’re so fun to annoy?”

Severus shot him a glare so venomous it could’ve melted through stone. “You have a death wish.”

Sirius leaned back lazily, propping his feet up on the table. “Nah, we just have excellent taste in entertainment,”

You turned to Remus, the only reasonable one. “Can you control them?”

Remus sighed, rubbing his temple. “No,”

Lily groaned. “This is unbearable.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” James said. “We’re simply enriching your academic experience,”

“I will enrich you straight into the hospital wing,” you muttered.

Sirius cackled. “See? Fun.”

And just like that, your peaceful study sessions were gone.

—

It started, as most things did with James and Sirius, with boredom.

You were vaguely aware of their antics throughout the day—whispered conversations in the corridors, Sirius elbowing James in the ribs while the two of them barely suppressed their grins, Remus sighing deeply whenever they entered a room. The usual signs that something stupid was about to happen.

You just didn’t expect it to happen to Bertram Aubrey.

No one really knew why James and Sirius chose him. Maybe he’d said something mildly irritating in class. Maybe he’d taken the last good seat in the common room. Maybe he’d simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever the case, Bertram became their next victim.

And unfortunately for him, James and Sirius had decided to test a rather bold hex.

It happened in the courtyard between classes. One moment, Bertram was minding his own business, chatting with a group of Ravenclaws. The next, James had flicked his wand and muttered, Engorgio Skullus!

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then Bertram’s head swelled.

Like a balloon.

A very large balloon.

His eyes widened—quite literally—his glasses stretching to accommodate his rapidly expanding skull. A strangled, horrified yelp escaped him as his head reached twice its original size. His expression twisted somewhere between panic and outrage as the entire courtyard exploded into laughter.

“Oh Merlin,” Peter wheezed, clutching his stomach.

Remus dragged a hand down his face despite being the one who supplied the two with the spell in the first place. “I am not involved in this,”

James, barely holding back his own laughter, clapped Sirius on the back. “Brilliant work,”

Sirius gave an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you,”

Bertram, meanwhile, was screeching. “What have you done?!”

The laughter quickly turned into a scramble for safety as a very large-headed, very furious Bertram Aubrey came charging after James and Sirius.

James yelped. “Run!”

The two of them bolted, Bertram lumbering after them with the grace of an enraged troll. His head made it impossible for him to move properly—his balance was completely thrown off, his steps uneven, his weight shifting dangerously every time he turned a corner.

They didn’t make it far before a thunderous voice rang out across the courtyard.

“Potter! Black! Don’t even think about turning that corner.”

The laughter immediately died.

McGonagall had arrived.

By the time you heard about it, James and Sirius had already been sentenced to double detention.

You were sitting at dinner when the news broke, passed down through whispers and amused glances. James and Sirius trudged into the Great Hall, both looking exceedingly pleased with themselves despite the fact that James’s left hand was now stained entirely black from whatever punishment they’d been assigned.

You sighed, shaking your head as they collapsed onto the bench across from you. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Sirius smirked. “We were hoping for more running time, honestly,”

James flexed his ink-stained fingers with a dramatic wince. “But worth it,”

Lily scoffed. “You permanently traumatised Bertram Aubrey, and for what?”

James grinned. “For science,”

“For chaos,” Remus corrected, still looking exhausted from association alone.

You snorted despite yourself. “You deserve whatever detention McGonagall gave you.”

James shrugged. “Maybe. But admit it—you wish you’d seen it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

—

A sensible person might have learned their lesson by now.

James Potter, however, was not a sensible person.

It had been a few days since the Aubrey Incident, and though James and Sirius were still suffering through their detentions, neither of them seemed particularly remorseful*.* If anything, they were emboldened*.*

Which was why, despite multiple warnings, despite physical evidence that you were very capable of hexing him, James still thought it was a good idea to try the height joke again.

You were in the common room, comfortably curled up with a book, minding your own business. Lily was beside you, finishing up an essay, while Sirius lounged on the floor, flipping a stolen Chocolate Frog card between his fingers.

James, fresh from another detention and looking far too smug for someone who had just spent two hours scrubbing cauldrons, sauntered in and immediately made a beeline for you.

“Oh, excellent,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite short person,”

You didn’t even glance up. “Potter.”

“Just thought I’d remind you how tragically small you are,” he said, grinning as he loomed over you. “Must be so difficult, looking up at greatness all the time.”

Lily sighed. Sirius smirked.

You, still not looking up from your book, flicked your wand.

There was a sharp crack!—and then a very loud yelp*.*

James immediately stumbled, nearly toppling over as his knee buckled under him. He barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the couch, eyes wide. “Oi!”

Sirius howled with laughter.

“James,” he gasped between laughs, “I swear—you’re going to get hexed every single time you pull that.”

James groaned, rubbing his leg. “That was just plain mean,”

“You deserved it,” Lily said primly, dipping her quill into her inkpot.

James shot her an indignant look, then turned back to you. “You didn’t even look at me!”

You turned a page. “Didn’t have to,”

Sirius collapsed against the couch, still cackling. “Oh, that was beautiful,”

James sighed dramatically, dropping onto the floor beside him. “Still worth it,” he grumbled.

You hummed. “If you say so,”

He stretched his leg out with a wince. “I do,”

Sirius elbowed him. “Tell me, oh mighty tall one, how’s the view from down there?”

James groaned, flopping onto his back. “I hate you,”

Lily snorted. “You should hate yourself.”

James just sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “One day,” he muttered, “you’ll all see how truly tall I am.”

“Not if tour leg cramps permanently,” you replied absently.

Sirius grinned. “Brilliant. I can’t wait for next time,”

[asxgard]

A Lesson in Vulnerability | one-shot

Resident!Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x resident!f!reader

Summary: A pregnancy scare forces you both to lay your cards on the table.

Note: This one took awhile lol, I had it in my head since ep9, but it took forever to get it right (still not thrilled with it), plus it took a backseat once I started Companionship. Not positive how Dr Robby would behave as a resident, so I drew some inspiration from Noah’s ER character, Dr. John Carter (legal controversy aside, I think both characters might’ve had a similar residency experience before moving in different directions. I love and appreciate both characters separately, as their respective shows are different entities. Had they gained the rights, then perhaps our beloved Dr. Robby might’ve instead been our dear Dr. John Carter, but honestly I am living for Dr. Robby right now so I can’t say I’m upset it’s not a reboot).

This one-shot might be inspiring me to make a series, or just jump into some John Carter fics lol

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: afab!reader, established situationship, foul language, pregnancy scare, anxiety, angst, some fluff, residency stress, hurt/comfort, vague smut, loss of a patient, medical inaccuracies, Robby having a hard time expressing his feelings, it’s the 90’s, those brown eyes oof

not beta read

You forgot how it had started — a lingering touch here and a few flirty comments there. Either way, you had ended up in Michael Robinavitch’s bed all the same. It had started with just a night every so often, but then it was after nearly every shift you had together; and now it was leaving a few extra clothes at his apartment so you could stay the night.

Part of you wondered if there was something unspoken about your relationship, but you did not want to be the one to mess with a good thing, or risk breaking it. All you wanted to focus on was your future; what hospital you might want to work at when your residency was over or if perhaps you would move states. You had worked too hard to get hung up on a guy.

But he made it so hard to focus on much else in his company, with those dark brown eyes looking at you like you were the only person in the room, the memory of his touch on your thighs, your hips seared into your mind. For all the stresses of residency, it was nice to forget in the comfort of his touch.

His lips on your throat, his beard tickling you, hot breathy voice in your ear, the feel of his hands on your skin, exploring down, down, down—

“MVA inbound! Three victims, five minutes out!”

You snapped back to reality, pushing your things into your locker and getting to work. It was easy now to fall into pace with the other residents and attendings, after nearly seven months of hard work of being an R2.

The senior attending of the ER, Dr. James Long, called you over to assist in tending to the first patient wheeled in. You hated the way your eyes searched for Dr. Robby, an R3, before you started working on the patient.

Time passed in a blur after that, intubating the more critical of the MVA victims, while the two others were evaluated and deemed lower risk, all three waiting to be brought up to get imaging. While you kept one eye on the MVA patients, you also stepped in to do a few stitches for a mother who had slipped while making lunch.

There was rarely ever a lull, so you stepped away when you could. You quickly found your way into the staff lounge, looking for a pick-me-up and perhaps a protein bar. It was the perfect place to take a deep breath — the one patient had been touch-and-go for nearly a half hour, and the adrenaline was slowly leaving your system.

“Hey,” Robby greeted, seemingly having the same idea as you.

You smiled back at him, opening the protein bar.

“You want to come by after your shift?”

You were thankful you were chewing so you did not jump at it. You tried to stay casual. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He smiled, and you swore it could light up any room he was in. You hated how rare they were, but in the environment of the ER, you couldn’t say you were surprised.

The rest of your shift did pass quickly, but not easily. Two gunshot victims passed under your care, though only one was serious, but not life-threatening. You heard from one of the nurses that Robby had lost a patient, a thirteen year old boy and your heart constricted. You had gone looking for him after that, finding him with the boy’s parents, their heart-wrenching cries making the ER go silent.

He had brushed you off each time you approached him after that, his once warm demeanor frozen over.

—

You met Michael at his apartment, picking up take-out on your way over, knowing you both barely had time to eat during your shift. Lately, your nerves had invaded you whenever you had gone to his place, and you tried to keep it buried deep. Something that had started out so easy had turned into a situation that turned your stomach into knots.

While he had been expecting you, he still stood stiff in the doorway. His brown hair was in his eyes, he moved a hand through the tousled mess atop his head, but his eyes were tense.

Trying to trade casual conversation over dinner, you kept your eyes on the hockey game on the television. Somehow not looking at him made it all worse — the tension in the room thick while you both stepped around the obvious. At least, until you couldn’t.

“Are you okay? I heard—”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, tossing his fork into the container of his food.

You raised your eyebrows at him. He didn’t shut down all the time, but he was a champion at deflecting, especially after you had gotten to know him. Likely due to the fact that now you knew him outside the ER, it was easier to see his tells: the twitch under his eye, the partial wince in his right cheek, the rubbing his neck. It was all easy enough to see that he was not okay.

“Michael…” I worry about you got stuck in your throat.

He let out a huff of air, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Your stomach rolled, a small wince crossing your face. To be fair, you never opened up to him very much about your own stresses, or patients lost, but you just told yourself you compartmentalized well. The time at the hospital was completely separate from your personal life — which was why you never called him Robby outside hospital walls.

A rush of faces of the handful of patients you had lost flickered through your mind.

If you were so good at compartmentalizing, then why was emotion constricting your throat?

As if sensing your sudden shift of your mood, he grabbed your hand, “Look, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

You wanted to accept that, you really did — to keep that status quo, to ensure nothing changed between you.

“You really should.”

He scoffed, withdrawing his hand. “I’m not sure I should be taking advice from Queen ‘I don’t talk about anything personal ever’.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his tone, “That’s not true.”

He rose to his feet, picking up his take-out container, “Right. What about when you lost your last patient? You shut me out for days.”

You got to your feet, pointing a finger at him, “That’s not fair! We’re talking about you right now, not me.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he stalked to the kitchen, “Aren’t we always.”

“Excuse me?” You followed after him, frustrated now.

“Whenever this shit comes up, you deflect—”

“I deflect?” You scoffed, “Watch out everyone, king of deflection is here.”

He went silent, narrowed eyes watching you. “Are you done?”

For whatever reason, that seemed to set you off more — nerves in your belly long forgotten. “I’m just getting started,” you told him. “What? You expect me to care about you and not make sure you’re okay?”

Your words hung in the air, heavy and with so much more meaning.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

You took a step back, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. You felt like your heart had shattered — you knew pushing too hard too soon would fuck everything up.

“Fine.” You told him, moving to get your things. “See you at work, Robinavitch.”

You slammed the door behind you before you could see if he had made a move to protest. You were thankful he did not get to see your tears.

—

After a fitful night’s rest, you woke up feeling queasy. More queasy than any amount of nerves in the past had made you feel — and that was saying something. You nearly threw up on your first day as a first year resident.

You tried to calm your racing thoughts about the night before and Michael, but your heart still felt tight in your chest. You only suffered a bite of your breakfast before you gave up, deciding to just head into the hospital and face your day head on.

The early morning passed slowly, each moment flooded with the anxiety raging through your system. You had no idea what had made it this bad, and part of you wondered if you could convince your attending to send you home so you could try to sleep it off.

While tending to a young woman presenting with UTI symptoms, your stomach rolled uneasily. Your mouth watered, and the nausea did not relent. Quickly assuring the woman that her tests would be back shortly, you dashed to the nearest bathroom, ignoring a look of concern on the charge nurse’s face.

You thankfully made it into one of the stalls before you emptied the confines of your stomach. There was not much in it, and the bile burned your throat.

After a few moments, your stomach settled — just enough that you felt you could get back to work. Hunger ebbed its way in, which you found to be a relief from the queasy onslaught. You figured you would see what was in the staff lounge once you wrapped up with your patient.

Heading back to East 5, you grabbed the test results, eyes quickly scanning over her file. Pregnancy test and urine analysis, the urine coming back positive for e. coli. The pregnancy test also came back positive.

Damn, how were you going to break that to her? Pregnancy tests were more or less routine for most cases brought into the ER, to ensure medications given wouldn’t hurt the fetus.

You wondered if she knew already, or if it would come as a surprise.

When you presented her with the results, she took it well.

“I figured, honestly.” She told you. “My period was late and I’ve been feeling sick. I meant to take a test, but I wanted to figure out the UTI first.”

You smiled at her, “The antibiotics we’re prescribing will be pregnancy safe. Twice a day for seven days, with a meal. Stay hydrated, too. I’m also giving you something to relieve some of your discomfort. It’s a two day prescription, take three a day. I can give you one now, then you can take the next one in six hours.”

When you left, you stood at the charge desk for a few moments. When you spotted Robby writing up his charts, a thought struck through you. You were late, uncomfortably late, and add in the nausea this morning? You felt sick all over again.

You rushed back to the bathroom, but nothing came. You and Robby were always safe, but condoms broke, accidents happened. Fuck. You could feel your residency slipping through your fingers. You were still shaking when you made your way to the staff lounge.

Robby was there, taking in your appearance, “Are you alright?”

“We need to talk. Privately.” Was out of your mouth before you could think about it.

His eyebrows raised, “About last night—”

“No, not that,” though you thought it might be a good idea to discuss that, too. You glanced quickly towards the hall, moving to close the door. You stood still in front of it, words escaping you.

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I might be pregnant.” You told him in a whisper. “Possibly. Maybe.”

He blinked owlishly at you, “What?”

You didn’t know if he didn’t hear you or was still processing. “I didn’t even realize, I’m nearly a week late — and I’ve been sick all morning. I think it could be—I could be—” You couldn’t say it again, tears springing in your eyes.

It wasn’t necessarily career ending to have a kid during your residency, but the only person you had known that went off to have a baby as an R4 had not returned. She had told you she planned to come back, but also did not want to wait too long to start her family, tugged simultaneously in both directions. Could you make the sacrifices necessary to make both work? Did you even want both to work? Would Michael—

“We can—we can take a test. Yeah. Tonight, after shift.” He said, his brown eyes avoiding you, hands tucked into his pockets. “We can figure it out then.”

“Figure it out then?” You asked incredulously. “This could end my career! This could—oh god—” You moved to lean against the wall, clearing your throat, “You don’t have to—”

“I’ll be there.” He said, cutting you off, voice soft. “I’ll get a test and meet you at your apartment.”

“My roommate will be home, can we go to yours?”

“Yeah, I’ll grab the test on my way home. I’ll meet you there.”

You nodded your head, “Thank you.”

Part of you just wanted to get it over with, grab a test from the closet and take it right in the bathroom. You could be discreet, you wouldn’t even need to involve Michael, but part of you feared any number of your co-workers catching you with a test and no patient. That, and the fear of knowing crept into your mind.

—

The drive to his apartment was agonizing. Your stomach had not once stopped rolling, and you were distracted all day, nearly catching a left hook of a patient in withdrawal. So much for being good at that compartmentalization thing. Perhaps Michael was right — you deflected just as much as he did, or you just flat out ignored your feelings and buried them.

This whole situation was going to force you to vocalize your feelings, wasn’t it?

You waited in your car until Michael pulled in, and you felt like your limbs had grown heavier while you had waited. The weight of what could be awaiting you pushing all the air from your lungs.

Once inside, neither of you spoke. You just took the pharmacy bag from him and went into his bathroom. You stared at the box for what felt like forever, thinking it was funny how lines on a stick were going to determine your future. After using all three in the box — not wanting to risk a false positive or negative — you opened the door.

“Box says fifteen minutes.”

He nodded, checking his watch. He moved closer to you until you were crowded in his tiny bathroom. His eyes flickered to the countertop where all three tests sat on top of some toilet paper, before they met your gaze. You couldn’t hold it, looking back at your hands.

“Whatever it says, I’m not going anywhere.” His breath fanned your face, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his scrubs. Underneath was the smell of his cologne, sandalwood and vanilla, and something unmistakably him. You missed when that scent of him clung to your skin, too.

You tried to smile, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s okay if you did. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tipped your chin up so you would look at him, “How could you say that after everything?”

“Last night,” you reminded him. “I clearly don’t know you and you don’t know me. Not personally anyways.”

Michael’s brow twitched. “What if I wanted to?”

Your mouth grew dry. “Please don’t. Not if it’s out of some misguided sense of duty over this.”

“It’s not.” He told you, hands moving to hold your face, his fingers finding the back of your head, thumbs on the sides of your cheeks. “I promise it’s not.”

You swallowed, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t find any words. The silence that used to hold the safety of quiet, now stood tense and firm between you.

“I’m shit at talking about my feelings and deflecting, you’re right. But I won’t stand here and pretend I don’t feel something for you. Like I don’t care about you. I—I just figured not talking about it was easier. But last night, it fucked me up; thinking we parted without you knowing how I felt.”

You sputtered a shocked intake of air, “What?”

His dark brown eyes held you steady, slowly absorbing your fears until you reached out to touch his chest. His heart pounded beneath your palm, but it steadied yours.

His gentle smile came easily, “I’ve been trying for weeks. I chickened out every time.”

You exhaled an amused breath of air, “You chickened out? I didn’t want to make this complicated.”

He searched your eyes, flickering between them like he was trying to read you.

“It’s kinda funny.” You said, smiling at him. “I’ve been trying to do the same thing all week.”

He kissed you, lips warm and soft, hands holding your face. His heart thumped below your hand, like an anchor in a storm, your other hand curling around his wrist. After all the anxiety of the day, and the anguish over the night previous, relief finally washed through your system. The familiarity of his beard scratching against your skin, his careful hands enveloping you in a sense of safety.

You moved just enough to speak, “I’m sorry about last night. You were right, too. I just never want to burden you with my problems after I know we both had a tough shift.” You told him, noses touching, breath intermingling.

“I want you to know that you can.” He stressed, thumb caressing your cheek.

“I will if you will.”

He smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He kissed you again, harder this time…hungry, his mouth taking in your bottom lip.

You lost yourself in the warmth of his body, the soft tendrils of his hair in your hands, the feel of his tongue in your mouth. You clung to him like he was a liferaft. It was easy to forget your troubles like this, worries of the day lifting off your shoulders.

Your blood pressure spiked when you remembered the tests on the countertop. You pulled away, breathing quickly, still wrapped up in his arms.

“What if it’s positive?” came your quiet voice.

“Then I suppose I’d have to marry you.”

You almost thought he was serious, if his tone hadn’t been so light, so close to a jest. You rolled your eyes, pushing him away, but you smiled. “I never took you for a traditionalist. A shotgun wedding, seriously?”

“Be a great way to meet your folks.” He added with a smirk.

“Get real.” You laughed, “As if I’d marry a resident. Are you even a real doctor?”

He mocked offense, but chuckled, bringing you closer to him again, “I’ve got my stethoscope and everything.” After a few beats of his heart, he added, “But seriously, we’d figure it out. Take time off, or…I don’t know. We’d make it work.”

“I don’t want to look.” You admitted to him.

“Whatever it says, we’re in this together.”

It was reassuring to hear him say it again. You nodded, removing your hands from his body and taking a small step back. You took a long breath, staring at him.

“On three?”

Your head bobbed in agreement, swallowing thickly.

“I mean it. Whatever it says, I still care about you. I want you in my life.” He told you earnestly.

“I want you in my life, too, Mike.”

He counted down slowly, holding your gaze. The anxiety returned, but he held you grounded beside him, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

Negative. Negative. Negative.

A singular line on each displaying that you were not pregnant.

You released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Thank fuck, echoed in your head. The stress you had been under could explain away the lateness of your period, and the queasiness was explained easily by your anxiety. It seemed like those three little tests tied all your worries up in a neat little bow. You had been honest about your feelings, which took away the gnawing anxiety, Michael reciprocated your feelings and you weren’t pregnant.

He sighed in relief next to you, taking another long breath through his nose. “Well as much as I was looking forward to that shotgun wedding, maybe now we can take our time—”

You looked over at him, eyebrow quirked.

“—take you on a proper date first.”

You grinned at him, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

special shoutout to Dr Robby for getting me off my hiatus, first Companionship and now this lol

current tense fought me the whole way through this, which is weird considering I usually write in past tense. so if you saw a current tense error, no you didn’t.