#help isn’t there a easy way for all these calculations???

[itsnesss]

𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 | oscar piastri × fem!reader

summary | you lose yourself in him, off camera, where no one’s watching and everything feels real

warnings | tension, smut, explicit content, oral (reader!receives), p in v, unprotected sex

word count | 3.7 k

🖇 more op81 🖇 f1 masterlist

The camera spins around you, capturing the perfect scene. You're standing next to Oscar, both dressed in F1 driver suits, posing under the bright lights illuminating the set. The production for the new F1 commercial is in full swing, and although everything appears highly professional, there's something in the air—something between you and Oscar—that makes the tension palpable, even while the cameras keep rolling.

Oscar is so close you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes, so intense, watch you with a curiosity that, though subtle, you can’t help but notice. Everything else fades away as the camera flashes illuminate your faces. You’re acutely aware of every small movement he makes, of every glance he sends your way as you both play your roles as rival drivers—but something else is beginning to stir in the atmosphere.

The forced smiles only intensify the electricity. You see how his lips curl into that almost-defiant, ever-present, yet mysterious smile. For some reason, you find yourself trapped by it.

The filming progresses quickly, but as the shots continue, you realize that the line between professional and personal is starting to blur. The gestures, once calculated and perfected, now seem to be laced with something deeper—something neither of you can hide.

"Perfect, all good. Let's take a break, guys," says the director, and the sound of "cut" slices through the air, finally breaking the charged atmosphere that had been building between the two of you.

The set begins to calm down as the crew adjusts the equipment. The buzz of conversation and the hurried footsteps of the assistants momentarily pull you out of what you just felt. But for some reason, it’s impossible to shake the sensation that something has changed.

Oscar walks up to you, his gaze more intense than before. Without words, he nods slightly. It’s an invitation—no need for anything more. You follow his lead to a secluded corner, where the noise of the set fades. The air feels heavier, now away from the cameras. He leans casually against a wall, his silhouette lit by the sunlight streaming through the studio windows. Something about his posture makes you wonder if he’s really as calm as he looks. But when you meet his eyes, you know he’s not. Neither are you.

"Want to go out for some fresh air?" he asks, his voice low, but the way he looks at you makes it feel like he’s waiting for a specific answer.

In any other context, you might’ve said no. But something inside pushes you to say yes. You accept the invitation and follow him outside, where the sun is beginning to set. The sky is painted with soft orange hues, and the cool air sends a shiver down your spine.

You both walk in silence, but the space between you is minimal. The quiet isn’t awkward—it’s charged with something far more intense. The wind gently moves your hair, but your thoughts are consumed by him. By how close he is, how easy it would be to lean in.

Oscar exhales softly, as if restraining something inside, before breaking the silence.

"This..." he begins, but seems unsure how to continue. For a moment, he looks vulnerable—something you never expected from him. But that fleeting vulnerability only makes you feel more connected. It’s strange, you know it is, but the spark between you has ignited.

You stop by a wooden bench in the studio courtyard, and he does too. He’s close—close enough that you can feel his breath match yours. The sun dips lower, painting the horizon with golden and reddish hues. The peaceful moment contrasts with the tension that’s been mounting.

Oscar watches you, eyes locked onto yours, and in them, you see something different. What is it? Desire? Uncertainty? Questions flood your mind, but you don’t dare voice them. You don’t have to.

"What’s wrong?" you ask with a slight smile, trying to cut the tension. But the moment you speak, you realize words aren’t enough to ease the fire building between you.

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. He steps closer, and the proximity makes your breath hitch. A shiver runs through you when his index finger brushes your arm casually—but his touch is anything but. It feels like the beginning of something inevitable, something you can’t undo.

You're caught between the urge to pull away and the irresistible force of attraction. You can’t look away from his eyes, and before you realize it, you're leaning in. The tension snaps in a second.

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar leans in, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft but intense. At first, everything feels like it's in slow motion. The brush of his lips is tentative, but it feels like time has frozen. Every second, every inch of closeness grows more intense.

You tremble—not from the cool air, but from the heat pulsing in your chest. Oscar doesn’t rush. His hand slides up to your neck, fingers gently tracing your skin as he deepens the kiss, unhurried but full of pent-up need.

When you pull away slightly, the air between you is thicker than ever. You stare at each other in silence, breathing heavily.

"This is crazy," you whisper, trying to catch your breath. Even your voice sounds strange—distant, like everything is still in slow motion.

"Yeah," he replies, his tone low, barely audible. "It’s crazy."

But he doesn’t step back. Instead, his hands move down your sides, touching you through the fabric of your shirt. The feel of his fingers makes your heart race, and without thinking, you lean into him again, chasing that contact that left you breathless.

Sensing your movement, Oscar closes the gap swiftly, pulling you into another kiss. This time, it’s fiercer—like neither of you can hold back any longer, like the line between want and need has completely vanished.

His hands slide down your back, lower this time, until they reach your hips. The touch is firm but gentle, and you can feel the heat of his body through your clothes. Your own hands respond, roaming over his chest, down the fabric of his jacket, hungry to feel his skin. The craving for more takes over, and you find yourself wanting something you hadn’t even considered before.

Oscar pulls away slowly, a playful smirk curving his lips. His breathing is ragged, but there’s something in his eyes that leaves you speechless. He’s changed. He’s no longer the distant, composed guy you knew—he’s here, with you, burning with intensity.

"We can’t do this here," he murmurs, sending a shiver down your spine with just those words. But he doesn’t look away.

"Why not?" you ask, more teasing than anything, knowing that each word only drives him closer to the edge.

Oscar watches you for a moment, his expression softening though the fire in his eyes hasn’t dimmed. Finally, he takes a step back—but not too far. He grabs your hand firmly, and a new silence settles between you. Without speaking, he leads you to the back entrance of a nearby building, away from prying eyes. All that remains is the urgency you both carry, as if time no longer exists.

Once inside, Oscar closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock echoes in the air like a signal that there’s no turning back. You’re alone with him, and you both know exactly what you want. The desire can no longer be hidden.

He stares at you for a moment, as if deciding something, then steps forward. His body inches from yours again, and once more, the distance disappears. His hands cup your face gently, contradicting the burning urgency you both feel—but when his lips find yours again, it’s nothing but fiery and demanding. There are no more doubts, no room for anything but this kiss.

You teeter between the desire to surrender completely and the need to think—but in that moment, all you can do is follow him, matching his pace, because he knows what he’s doing. Every move he makes, every touch of his hand, every sweep of his tongue over yours forces you to release everything you’ve been holding back.

Your hands move to his neck, feeling the tension in his muscles, and you realize just how desperate he is not to stop. His lips trail down your jaw, to your neck, and the brush of his breath on your skin sends a shiver through your body you can’t control.

"Oscar…" you whisper, unable to say much more than his name. He lifts his head to look at you, but there are no words—just the promise in his eyes. You don’t need him to say anything, because you both understand without speaking.

With nearly frantic hands, Oscar begins to undo the buttons on your shirt, his fingers sure but gentle, as if each movement is designed to make your heart race faster. You respond immediately, tugging at the hem of his shirt, craving the feel of his skin. The world outside disappears—there’s nothing left but the need to be closer, to become one in this moment.

The heat between you is unbearable. The cool air outside, the spinning world—it all fades away. All that matters is this contact, the desire to lose yourselves in each other. Every touch becomes more urgent, more demanding, and with every kiss, the need grows stronger.

Soon, the sound of your zipper joins the soft gasps escaping your mouths. The haste is clear, and what started as a camera-ready act has turned into something far more personal, far deeper.

Oscar’s body is now pressed entirely against yours, and the feel of his skin, his warmth, surrounds you completely. You feel him, fully, and even though you know this will change everything—you don’t stop. You don’t want to.

The temperature rises, your breathing quickens, and in that moment, the pressure of everything you’ve held back releases in one unforgettable instant.

Oscar lets out a deep gasp as he holds you close. His lips now hover near your ear, whispering with a mix of desire and urgency that sends shivers down your spine.

"This... this is crazy," he says, voice hoarse, breath ragged. The pressure of his body increases, and you feel the frantic rise and fall of his chest.

You can barely think. Everything around you vanishes. All you feel is his body—hot and firm against yours—and the rush of his breath, wild and overwhelming, wrapping you in a spiral of sensation. Your fingers tremble as you explore him, sliding along his torso, and suddenly you find yourself wanting more—so much more than you thought you could.

Oscar seems to be struggling to maintain control, but the way he touches you, as if claiming every inch of you, shows otherwise. Every move becomes more desperate, more intense.

"I don’t want to stop..." he murmurs, his words filled with longing, followed by another deep gasp like he can’t bear the tension anymore.

It’s not just the closeness—it’s the way his hands grip your back, trailing down to your waist, where they hold you tight. His muscles tense as he pulls you even closer, as if he wants to merge with you. His kisses, once soft and restrained, now burn with desperation, pressing against your lips with a force that takes your breath away.

You gasp, unable to hold back. Every brush of his tongue, every caress of his hands makes you forget everything else. There are no cameras, no spotlight—just the two of you, and the desire consuming you mercilessly.

"I don’t know if I can..." he whispers, his voice breaking under his heavy breathing. He knows what he’s saying—you feel it in his words—but his hands don’t stop moving over you, almost as if he physically can’t. Every touch is a promise, and you know it well.

Oscar pulls back slightly, though there's barely any space between you. His face is flushed, his eyes locked onto yours with a mix of desire and uncertainty that leaves you speechless.

"This is more than I planned..." he pants, but his hands rise to your face, like he’s searching for your answer, your permission. The touch of his fingers sends a jolt through you.

You can’t answer with words. Only sighs escape your lips—a raw, unfiltered need. You have to touch him, and you do. Your hands glide along his back, beneath his shirt, craving the warm skin beneath. You feel him shudder, his breathing picking up with each caress, each stroke.

The chemistry is undeniable—everything that had been held back finally surges to the surface. You can’t stop. Neither of you can.

"I don’t want to regret this..." he whispers, and the vulnerability in his tone surprises you. But there’s no room for regrets now. Not in this moment, not with him so close, so real.

With new urgency, Oscar kisses you again—deeper, hungrier. This time, he doesn’t stop, even as he presses you against the wall with a firm push. The breathless sounds you both make fill the room, and for a moment, it feels like the world has ceased to exist.

In the way his hands grip your waist, in the way he kisses you, there’s a hunger that can’t be ignored. Every touch, every brush of his body against yours, pulls you closer to something neither of you can deny.

Completely consumed by the tension, you draw him in, matching his every move with a heat that burns from within. Desire has taken over, and words are no longer needed.

Oscar, breathless, pauses to look at you, and you see the inner conflict in his eyes. The way he looks at you—with a mix of passion and hesitation—only makes everything more intense.

"Tell me this is okay…" he whispers, his lips just barely grazing yours, yet the heat between you is almost unbearable.

"Alright, I need you," you say, your voice trembling but firm. Your eyes meet his, and in them, there is a confirmation that needs no words. There are no doubts, only certainty. In that moment, everything is okay.

With a moan vibrating in his chest, Oscar throws himself at you, kissing you with an intensity that consumes him completely. His lips are demanding yet generous, as if he wants to devour you, to absorb every part of your being. The heat between you is unbearable, and the kisses grow more passionate, deeper, until it feels like there isn’t enough air for the both of you. The desire is immense, and in this moment, nothing matters more than being closer to Oscar, than feeling his body pressed against yours.

Without breaking the kiss, Oscar lifts you in his arms and pins you against the wall, holding you with strength and determination. Your body responds to his, and you cling to his neck, your thighs wrapping around his waist. The position is intimate and daring, and you can feel every pulse of his heart beating against yours. The world around you disappears; only the two of you remain, suspended in a moment of pure connection.

The kiss continues, more demanding, more urgent. Oscar, not relenting the pressure, bites your lower lip gently, and the pain mixed with pleasure causes a moan to escape your throat. Your body arches, craving more of him, and you can feel his erection growing between you.

"I want to feel you," you whisper against his lips, and your words are the spark that ignites a fire that had already been burning inside Oscar. With a growl he hardly recognizes as his own, he begins descending with his mouth over your body, biting and licking every inch of exposed skin. Every touch of his is a flame feeding the fire consuming him, and soon he's completely overtaken by the desire to take you, to make you his in this moment.

With quick, precise movements, Oscar strips you of your clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. Your skin is exposed, and the look he gives you is a mix of intense desire and admiration that makes you feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. There’s no room for shyness now, only for pure, raw desire.

His hands glide over your body, tracing every curve, every plane, as if he’s memorizing your shape. The heat of his touch is intense, and your skin prickles with every caress. Oscar takes his time, exploring every inch of you, as if he wants to know it all. It’s a mixture of reverence and lust that leaves you breathless.

"You’re incredible," he whispers in a low voice, and his words send a wave of heat coursing through you. Oscar leans in, his lips brushing your neck while his hands continue their path of discovery. The pleasure blends with anticipation, and you can feel your heartbeat in every inch of your skin.

With unexpected gentleness, Oscar lays you down on the floor, making sure every movement is soft, almost reverent. The contrast between his strength and the delicacy with which he treats you is overwhelming, and you can’t help but tremble slightly under his intense gaze. There’s something in his eyes that goes beyond physical desire; there’s a connection you can’t explain, but feel deep within your soul.

His lips begin a downward journey across your body, kissing, licking, gently biting every part of your skin. The pleasure is intense, and you feel yourself drowning in a sea of sensations. Every touch from Oscar is a new flame igniting inside you, and soon you’re gasping, breath hitching from the pleasure that floods you.

When his lips reach the junction of your thighs, there’s a moment of pause, as if both of you are on the edge of a cliff, ready to leap. Oscar looks up into your eyes, and in his gaze, there’s a silent question, a search for permission. You don’t need to say anything; your answer lies in the way your fingers tug softly on his hair, guiding him where you need him most.

The first contact of his tongue on your clit is like an explosion of pleasure. A cry of ecstasy escapes your lips, and you arch into him, craving more. Oscar doesn’t stop; his tongue moves with skill and precision, exploring every inch, every fold, as if he wants to know you completely.

The pleasure builds with every movement, with every stroke of his tongue. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you with a rhythm that matches his mouth perfectly. The combination is too much, and soon you find yourself on the edge of orgasm, your body trembling with anticipation.

"Oscar!" you moan, and his name leaves your lips like a prayer, a plea for more. And he gives you more, increasing the pace, deepening every movement, taking you higher, beyond what you thought possible.

The orgasm hits you hard, and you let go, screaming his name as the pleasure consumes you completely. Your body tightens, then relaxes in waves that seem endless. Oscar stays there, prolonging the pleasure, taking you to new heights with every touch.

When the pleasure finally begins to subside, you realize you’re trembling, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of what you just experienced. Oscar moves up, kissing your body on his way to your lips. When his mouth meets yours, you can taste yourself on him, and that only fuels the desire still burning inside you.

"I need to be inside you," he murmurs against your lips, and his words are filled with a need that goes beyond the physical. It’s as if he needs a deeper connection, a union that transcends the mere act of sex.

There is no resistance in you; only acceptance and an equally deep longing. You nod, and your hands slide along his back, pulling him closer. Oscar positions himself between your legs, and you can feel his erection pressing against you, long, hard, and hot.

Slowly, he begins to enter you, inch by inch, as if each movement is a new discovery. The sensation is overwhelming, and you gasp as he fills you completely. The pleasure is intense from the first moment, and you can see in Oscar’s eyes that he’s also struggling to hold back.

"You’re so deep inside me..." you whisper, and your words seem to push him even further. With a moan, he starts moving, establishing a rhythm that is both gentle and passionate. Each thrust is deep, and you can feel him reaching places you’ve never felt before.

The pleasure grows, and soon you’re both gasping, your breaths mingling. Oscar leans down to kiss you, still moving inside you. The combination of the passionate kiss and the steady rhythm of his hips is too much, and you feel the orgasm approaching again.

"I can’t hold on," Oscar groans, and you can hear the tension in his voice, the fight to stay in control. But you don’t want control; you want release, you want to let the pleasure consume you both.

"Yes," you murmur against his lips, and those words seem to be what he needs to let go of the last shred of control. He increases the pace, thrusting harder, deeper, and every stroke brings you closer to the edge.

The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, sweeping you away completely. You scream his name as your body tightens around him, and that’s what pushes him over the edge as well. One final, deep thrust, and Oscar spills inside you with a groan that’s almost a roar of release.

The two of you lie there, panting, your bodies pressed together and skin damp with effort. The silence that follows is full of meaning, filled with a connection that goes beyond words. Oscar drops beside you but doesn’t pull away; his arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close.

The feeling of belonging is overwhelming, but there’s no fear in it—only a deep, abiding peace.

"That was..." you begin, but the words catch in your throat. There aren’t enough words to describe what you just experienced.

"Yeah," Oscar replies, and his voice is thick with emotion. He doesn’t need to say more; both of you know what has changed between you in this moment. What began as an impulse has evolved into something deeper, something neither of you expected—but now seems inevitable.

[heehoee]

stats just got 10x more difficult imma cry

[eowynstwin]

Price x Reader. Age gap. Divorced Price. Older BF Price. Vaguely smutty. Follow-up to this.

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

next

[senascoop]

ꣀ꣒ WHEN YOU’RE ALL THAT THEY WANT IN THIS LIFE . . 엔하이펜 ☁︎

pairing, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s), comfort core . . . word count, 200-300 each . . . [LIBRARY]

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

“It’s okay, I can do this.” You mutter, determination laced in your voice as you struggle to pull your top over your head. The door is shut, the room quiet except for your frustrated sighs. Your fractured hand, wrapped tightly in a cast, throbs slightly, but the real pain isn’t physical. It’s the creeping frustration, the helplessness, the way twenty minutes have passed and you’re still stuck, half-dressed, fingers trembling. It’s just a bra. A simple t-shirt. But why does it feel impossible? Your throat tightens. Useless. The word sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and cruel.

“Baby, I’m coming in.” Heeseung’s voice is gentle, the door creaking open before you can protest. His gaze lands on your bare back, and though he can’t see your face, he knows—you’re frowning, lips pursed, probably on the verge of tears. “It’s just me, hmm?” His voice is soft as he steps forward, hands finding your shoulders. He carefully turns you to face him, and even as warmth creeps up his neck, he forces himself to focus—on you, not the vulnerability of your exposed skin. Heeseung swallows, picking up your bra with careful fingers. But his heart clenches when he finally sees your teary eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asks, voice laced with concern.

You look down, shame curling in your stomach. “I feel so useless… I can’t even dress myself properly. My hand keeps getting in the way.” His brows knit together as he helps you clasp the bra, then effortlessly pulls the t-shirt over your head. His touch is careful, deliberate—like he’s afraid you might break further. When he’s done, Heeseung cups your cheeks, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Stop thinking that,” he murmurs. “This is temporary, hmm? But what’s permanent is my love for you.” His gaze holds yours, steady and full of warmth—reminding you that even when you feel weak, he sees you as nothing less than strong.

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

You carefully mixed the ingredients, your hands coated in the strong, pungent scent of kimchi as you worked beside your future mother-in-law. You had always wanted to learn how to make it, especially for Jay. You smiled to yourself, imagining how he’d react to your homemade kimchi one day, even if you still weren’t sure when that "someday" would be. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it.” You muttered to yourself as you worked, following her instructions. From the doorway, you could hear Jay laughing lightly, chatting with his mom about something—probably teasing each other, the way they always did.

It made your heart warm to see them getting along so easily, and you couldn’t help but think about how one day, this might be your family too. Jay caught your eye and smiled, his eyes softening as he watched you. You knew the look—the one that said he could picture a future with you, one where you were part of his world, just as you were becoming part of his family. “I’m so glad you’re learning to make this,” Jay said, his voice low, as he came closer. He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, his warmth a reminder of how much he loved you. “You know,” he continued, his tone teasing, “I think my mom’s kimchi is the best. But your version might be a close second.” You laughed softly. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

You sighed, staring at the crumpled bills in your wallet. The numbers weren’t adding up—again. How were pads this expensive? Weren’t they a necessity? You let out a frustrated groan, popping another piece of chocolate into your mouth. Maybe that was part of the problem too. You could survive without snacks, but during that time of the month? Impossible. You rested your head on the kitchen counter, already dreading the rest of the month.

“My money is your money. Stop calculating.” Jake’s voice startled you. You turned to see him standing at the bedroom door, arms crossed, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. His hair was messy, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but his smirk was sharp, full of amusement. “Yeah, but—” Before you could finish, he was behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his chest against your back. His chin rested on your shoulder as he swayed you slightly, the warmth of his body making it hard to focus on why this still didn’t feel right.

“But what?” he murmured. “You do know I plan on marrying you, right?” Your breath hitched. “Jake—” “Nope. No arguments.” He spun you around effortlessly, hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your skin, his grin softening into something more sincere. “That means my money is already yours, dummy.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he only tapped your lips. “Nope. Not hearing it.” You huffed. “You’re impossible.” “And you love me for it.” He kissed your forehead before stepping back. “Now, should we go get you more chocolate too?” Damn him and his boyfriend privileges.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

“Where is he…” you mumble, scanning the crowd anxiously. Sunghoon isn’t good with places like this—too many people, too much noise. You had only left for a few minutes to grab snacks, but now, the once calm area had become packed with people swarming to see a panda. Then you spot him. He’s stiff, standing awkwardly near a signpost, his hands clenched into nervous fists. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his shoulders rising slightly with tension. His gaze flickers around like he’s calculating an escape route, but his eyes widen the moment they land on you. You don’t waste a second, weaving through the bodies until you reach him.

The second your hand finds his, he flinches—but when he realizes it’s you, his grip tightens. Relief washes over his face as you quickly guide him out of the crowd. The moment you’re in the clear, you pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, you got stuck because of me.” Sunghoon shakes his head, still catching his breath. “It’s not your fault. I mean… I was the one who got hungry.” He mutters, trying to act tough, but the pink dusting his cheeks gives him away. Then, in a quieter voice, he mumbles, “But I’m glad it was you who found me. Otherwise, I’d look like a lost kid.” You grin, poking his flushed cheek. “You kinda already did.” “Shut up.” He groans, but the way he squeezes your hand says otherwise.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

You leaned your head against Sunoo’s shoulder, wincing slightly as the throbbing in your foot made itself known. You never imagined that something so small could cause this much trouble. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it made it impossible to walk without cringing. Despite your attempts to be independent, Sunoo had insisted on helping, his voice filled with concern. “I told you to be careful.” His tone was teasing but laced with care. You sighed, not wanting to feel helpless. “I was careful! It just… happened.” He chuckled, a soft, comforting sound, as he gently adjusted his hold around you. Even though you were leaning heavily against him, you couldn’t help but notice how strong he was—certainly stronger than you’d expected.

Sunoo was never the bulky type; he wasn’t exactly a gym freak, and you loved him just the way he was. Still, the way he effortlessly lifted you into his arms made you pause. “Are you sure you’re not secretly training for a superhero role?” You teased, letting your voice be light despite the discomfort. “Maybe.” He smirked down at you, carrying you up the stairs with ease. “But my real superpower is making sure you’re always taken care of.” You laughed softly, your heart fluttering at his words. “Well, you’re doing a great job.” He winked, eyes sparkling with affection. “I know.” As he laid you down gently on the bed, his touch lingering on your side, you couldn’t help but feel thankful—not just for his strength, but for the way he always knew how to make you feel safe, even when life threw you off balance.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

You lay in bed, limbs heavy, the fever wrapping around you like an unbearable weight. Every inch of your body ached, exhaustion pulling at your consciousness. You didn’t remember when exactly your eyes had closed, only that the loneliness of being sick made the world feel quieter, emptier. When you woke up, it wasn’t silence that greeted you—it was a familiar voice, soft yet laced with worry. “You scared me when you didn’t pick up your phone.” Your vision blurred slightly as you tried to focus.

Jungwon stood beside your bed, a warm cloth in his hand, dabbing your forehead. In his other hand was a bowl of soup, the steam curling in the air. You blinked, groggy, then turned to your phone on the nightstand. Ten missed calls. Your throat felt dry. “How’d you know?” Jungwon sighed, dipping the spoon into the soup before carefully bringing it to your lips. “Because you always pick up. And when you don’t, it means something’s wrong.” The first sip was surprisingly sweet, warming your throat, easing the discomfort in your chest.

You hummed in appreciation, and a small, satisfied smile tugged at Jungwon’s lips. “This is… really good,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “Of course it is. I made it,” he said, feigning smugness before his expression softened. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing over your warm skin. “Good thing, though… your temperature feels normal now.” His touch, gentle and reassuring, made something inside you melt. “Jungwon…” “Shh.” He shook his head. “No need to thank me. Taking care of you is kinda my full-time job.” You let out a tired chuckle. “Oh? Do you get paid for this?” He grinned. “Yeah. Your love is enough.”

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

“Don’t stop,” Riki mumbles, voice laced with exhaustion as your fingers glide through his soft hair. His head rests on your chest, his body melting into yours as he finally lets himself be taken care of—for once. You feel the tension leave his shoulders with every stroke, his breathing slowing, steadying. “It feels like my stress is fading away…” he murmurs, his words barely above a whisper. You let out a soft chuckle, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Then just stay like this,” you say, shifting slightly before tossing a leg over his, pulling him impossibly closer. He lets out a content sigh, nuzzling deeper into you, the warmth between you two making the rest of the world disappear. “Hmmpf…” he hums, voice drowsy, before mumbling, “I can’t wait to live with you forever.”

His words come out so naturally, like a thought slipping past his lips before he can even second-guess it. Your heart stutters. “Wouldn’t you get annoyed?” you tease, though there’s a genuine question hidden underneath. “Like those couples who grow tired of each other?” Riki immediately lifts his head, eyes blinking up at you in pure offense before peppering your face with soft, lazy kisses—your cheeks, your nose, your lips. “Never,” he mumbles against your skin, before sighing and resting his head back against your chest, fingers curling into your shirt. You smile as he wraps his arms around you, holding you like you’re his whole world. Because, in truth, you are.

© senascoop | tumblr

[yua0ra]

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝

WARNINGS: mattheo riddle x high!fem!reader, porn with plot, dark smut, blood play, p in v, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, blood kink!matty, submissive reader, biting, marking, breeding, NSFW, proofread, english is not my first language. smut 🂡

SUMMARY: Mattheo craves something, a feeling of satisfaction, fulfilment and control. Luckily for him, you are open and eager to try new things, and for once, Mattheo feels like he has found his person.

WC: +4.4K AN: This took so fucking long. I don’t think ya’ll are ready, lol. I’m being so serious: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, for the love of salazar. (also, anybody got the reference form the title?)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Touch-starved, love-starved, and attention-starved, Mattheo Riddle is no stranger to the art of indulgence. He thrives on the fleeting comfort offered by the endless parade of admirers eager to bask in his presence. Their adoration, their touch, their devotion—it’s enough to quiet the gnawing ache inside him, at least for a while. But it never truly satisfies. Beneath the smirks, the cocky demeanor, and the effortless charm, there’s an emptiness he can’t seem to fill.

He craves more. Something deeper, rawer, more exhilarating than the hollow affection he’s grown accustomed to. Something that sparks a fire in his chest and sends a thrill coursing through his veins. The superficial games, the fleeting highs, and the shallow connections no longer cut it. Mattheo Riddle wants something real, something that will consume him whole.

And yet, even as he yearns for this elusive fulfillment, he’s not sure he’s ready to face what it might demand of him. After all, it’s one thing to take; it’s another to give. And Mattheo has never been one to bare his soul. Not when the world has taught him to hide behind walls, even when he’s desperate for someone to break them down.

He has tried everything—fucking in public, fucking with a blindfold on, fucking with a leash, chasing thrill after thrill, and losing himself in the chaos of reckless nights. He’s tried drowning the ache with the loud laughter of parties, the rush of danger, and the fleeting touch of hands that mean nothing. For a moment, it works. For a moment, the void in his chest quiets, and he feels like he’s alive, like he’s in control. But the moment always fades.

No matter how many hearts he wins or how many rules he breaks, it all slips through his fingers, leaving him colder and more restless than before. The poor, desperate, girls—pretty faces, eager smiles—don’t even come close to touching the parts of him he keeps hidden. It’s not their fault. They give him everything they can. But it’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

What Mattheo craves isn’t something he can find in fleeting encounters or shallow connections. It’s something more profound, more consuming, more terrifying. He wants someone who sees past the charm, the arrogance, the calculated indifference. Someone who will unravel him piece by piece and make him feel alive in a way that no one ever has.

But that kind of connection doesn’t come easy. And for someone like Mattheo Riddle—guarded, scarred, and stubborn—it might never come at all. Still, he can’t help but hope. Somewhere deep down, beneath the layers of cynicism and self-doubt, he’s holding onto the faint belief that someone, someday, might finally be able to quiet the storm inside him.

Good thing that you’ve noticed, though. Mattheo’s restless energy, the way his eyes linger just a second too long, searching for something even he can’t quite name—it’s not something he hides well. He tells himself he’s a master of masks, of slipping into the version of himself people expect, but the cracks are showing. And you’ve seen them.

You’ve seen the way he leans into conversations as if he’s desperate for someone to say the right thing. You’ve caught the fleeting vulnerability in his gaze when he thinks no one’s paying attention. For all his bravado, for all the careless smirks and sharp retorts, Mattheo is an open book to those who care enough to read between the lines.

And maybe that’s why he’s drawn to you, even if he won’t admit it. You don’t fawn over him like everyone else. You don’t fall into his orbit just because he’s Mattheo Riddle. Instead, you see him. The real him. The cracks, the flaws, the restless hunger for something more. And while it terrifies him, it also pulls him closer.

Because maybe, just maybe, you’re the one who can give him what he’s been searching for. Or maybe you’ll be the one to finally destroy him. Either way, Mattheo can’t seem to stay away.

Which leads to this specific moment—you, sitting pretty on his bed, high out of your mind in the early hours of the morning, the faint glow of moonlight casting shadows across the room. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as if caught in the haze of a dream. You’re intoxicating, utterly untouchable yet so close that it drives him mad.

Mattheo stands a few feet away, leaning against the edge of his desk, watching you with a mix of fascination and frustration. You’re beautiful like this—unguarded, raw, and entirely out of reach. It’s unfair how effortlessly you’ve wrapped yourself around his thoughts, how your presence alone has him on edge.

“You’re not even trying, and you’re driving me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He can’t tell if he’s more frustrated with you or himself. Probably himself. After all, he’s the one who let it get to this point.

You blink up at him, a lazy smile curling on your lips, the kind that makes his chest tighten. “What’s wrong, Riddle? Can’t handle a little company?”

He scoffs, but the tension in his body betrays him. “Company isn’t the problem,” he bites back, though his voice softens as his eyes linger on you. It’s not company he wants. It’s you. All of you. Every reckless thought, every untamed emotion, every unspoken secret. But he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like a fool.

Instead, he stays where he is, hands gripping the edge of the desk, trying to keep himself grounded. You’re like a storm, and Mattheo isn’t sure if he wants to weather it or let it tear him apart completely.

You laugh softly, the sound like a spark in the quiet room, and shift on his bed, drawing your knees to your chest. The oversized sweater you’re wearing—his sweater—slips off one shoulder, exposing bare skin that makes his throat tighten. You’re a mess, and yet you look so perfectly out of place in his world that it makes him dizzy.

“Relax,” you say, your voice dreamy and far away. “You’re so tense all the time, Mattheo. Always thinking, always brooding.” Your gaze meets his, half-lidded but piercing in a way that leaves him raw. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

He swallows hard, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, but the words lack conviction.

“Don’t I?” you counter, leaning forward slightly before standing up, moving across the room with an unsteady grace. You stop just behind him, and before he can turn or protest, your hands are on his shoulders. Delicate, careful, but firm—your touch makes him go still, the tension in his body seizing under the unexpected intimacy.

Your fingers work with a precision that sends a shiver down his spine, pressing into the knots in his shoulders as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s maddening how easily you disarm him, how your touch both soothes and ignites something in him he’s tried to keep buried.

“You’re so tense, darling” you murmur softly, your voice low and sweet, like a lullaby in the quiet room. “Do you ever let yourself relax, Mattheo? Or do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders every single day?”

His breath catches, his grip on the desk tightening as he tries to fight the urge to lean into your touch. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a mix of irritation and something he can’t quite name.

“What does it look like?” you reply, your tone playful but laced with genuine concern. “You’re all wound up, and it’s exhausting just watching you. Let me help, for once.”

Mattheo doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t know how to. No one’s ever touched him like this before—not with the intention of easing his burden, of grounding him in a way that feels almost… safe. It terrifies him how much he wants to give in, to let you pull him out of his own mind, if only for a moment.

“You shouldn’t…” he starts, but the words trail off as your fingers dig into just the right spot, coaxing a low groan from his lips before he can stop it.

“Shouldn’t what?” you tease, leaning closer so he can feel the warmth of your breath against his neck. “Take care of you? Show you that not everything has to be a fight?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets his eyes fall shut, his body betraying him as it relaxes under your touch. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

You smile softly, your hands continuing their gentle rhythm. “Maybe I do,” you whisper, your voice dipping lower. “Maybe I know exactly what I’m getting into.”

Your words linger in the air, soft but potent, cutting through the haze in his mind like a blade. Mattheo doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but you can feel the tension rolling off him, not in resistance but in something darker—something that borders on surrender.

“Is that what you think?” he finally murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost dangerous. His head tilts slightly, enough for you to catch the edge of his profile, his dark eyes glinting under the dim light. “That you know me? That you can handle whatever it is you’re inviting in?”

You don’t flinch. If anything, you press your fingers a little harder into his shoulders, grounding him, as if you’re not the least bit intimidated by the warning laced in his words. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t,” you reply, your tone steady, unwavering.

Mattheo’s lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl, his hands gripping the desk in front of him so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His voice trembles slightly, as if he’s teetering on the brink of losing control.

Carefully, you lean closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Then show me.”

It’s like a switch flips. In an instant, Mattheo is on his feet, spinning around to face you. His hands find your wrists, pulling them away from his shoulders, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he holds you there, his grip firm but not cruel, his dark eyes locked on yours with an intensity that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

“You think this is a game, don’t you?” he asks, his voice soft but venomous, his face inches from yours. “You think you can come in here, touch me like that, look at me like that, and I won’t lose my mind?”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t pull away. “Lose your mind, Mattheo,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your pulse quickens under his touch.

That’s all it takes for Mattheo to snap. His hands release your wrists only to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with surprising tenderness, a sharp contrast to the possessive gleam in his eyes, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And then he breaks. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all-consuming, overwhelming, like he’s trying to pour every dark, unspoken emotion into it. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the raw, obsessive need in every movement, every touch.

Mattheo isn’t gentle. He isn’t careful. But beneath the intensity, there’s something achingly vulnerable—a desperate, unspoken plea for you to stay, to see him, to claim him the way he’s beginning to realize he wants to claim you. You’re not sure what you’ve unleashed, but as you kiss him back, as his hands grip you tighter like you might disappear, you know there’s no turning back.

Mattheo’s hand flies over your plump ass, gripping the soft flesh with great force, making you moan into his mouth, the vibrations echoing against each other throats.

He swallows your sweet sounds greedily, his tongue delving deeper tasting inch of your warm mouth.

He pulls you even closer, showing you how good you’re making him feel, his hardening length poking you right against your lower stomach.

You can’t help it, you’re so greedy, so selfish, so fucking horny. All you want is him, him and him. Your body moves in autopilot, rubbing your body against his, creating a hypnotising friction between you two. His hand kneads and squeezes your ass even tighter, as he moves your bodies into the bed.

Breaking the kiss, Mattheo’s hungry mouth trails down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing over their racing pulse. He sucks hard, determined to paint your neck in purple, red and pink hues. Not bothering to leave any room for other lovers.

You can only let deep and low exhales, trying your hardest to maintain whatever is left of your composure. “Mhmm…. You like that baby? Huh?” You nod eagerly below him, still rocking your body forwards, grinding like a mad-woman.

“Words sweetheart, I want to hear you, yeah?” He looks at you intensely, his eyes narrowing slightly, “use that greedy mouth and let me hear you, pretty girl….” He commands, his hands roaming your body in a possessed manner. He just can’t help himself, he knows this was bound to happen, from the moment you two started talking to each other, he knew.

Squirming under his desperate touch you can’t help but smile, “y-yes, ugh,” you whimper when he pulls your jumper off your head. “You make me feel so good….” Your high making you feel things ten times stronger.

He torments you, fingers slowly tracing over one of your perky nipples as he carefully plays with the metal piercing. “Such a sweet girl, who would’ve guess this?” He laughs, his mouth moving from your throat to on nipple, his tongue swirling around the hard bud before sucking it into his mouth.

He rolls it between his teeth, applying just about enough pressure to make you gasp and arch into him. His other hand comes up to roughly palm your other breaths, pacing at the matching piercing.

He alternates, lavishing each nipples with attention. His mouth is hot and greedy, his saliva deliciously coating each one. He bites and sucks, matching your chest markings with your neck ones.

Mattheo’s left hand slides down with ease, expertly reaching your soaked panties, smiling when he feels your wetness. “Shit, baby, would you look at that?” He mutters in between your breasts, “so fucking ready,… dripping wet for me already, just how I like it.”

He cups your cunt, applying pressure on it, making your mouth open and closing with silent prayers. “Fuck, Matty, yeah, just like that…” Feeling satisfied, he finally leaves your sensitive and now colorful breasts alone, focusing on his most prized possession.

Your throbbing pussy.

With a quick movement he gets rid of the lacy underwear, grabbing you thighs and spreading your legs, positioning himself between them. He gets close, inhaling your arousal deeply. The smell making his head spin with pleasure, and he can’t help but try a little.

“Oh God…” You whisper, grabbing his head from the back, one hand teasing your breasts. You push his head further into you, so needy for this touch.

Mattheo grumbles againsts your soaked core, your flavour intoxicating, “take it, sweetheart, show me how you like to be eaten out.” He spreads your folds even wider, spitting into your core, flicking his tongue and diving his warm mouth back at it again, sloppily making out with your cunt.

He looks at you, his gaze never leaving yours. He loves to see your reactions, your body taking his treat so well, loves how expressive you are.

The endless slurping and the lewd noises, make you shake, tremble under his touch. He slides two fingers in, as his thumb rubs circles around your clit. This action makes your thighs pull him closer, suffocating him, but he doesn’t care. Mattheo wants to drown in your pussy, want his face covered in you, your sweet juice dripping down his chin. He’s just so obsessed, so fucking down bad.

His digits curling and pumping you full, in such a good way, such an explicit way, you roll your head back, your tongue darting out as you pant for air. You lungs are so overwhelmed, so full of desire, making you pathetically whimper as you begin to notice getting close. “M-mph fuck! Mattheo, God…”

He abruptly stops, making you whine loudly. “Not yet, my love… I want you cumming with my dick buried in this pretty little thing okay?” He undresses, tossing his clothes everywhere.

“No, please Matty…” you grind your hips in the air, your pussy clenching at nothing desperately wanting to feel his fingers in you again. “No… baby, please! I’m so, so, so close.…”

“Shh… my love,” he quiets you down, his drenched fingers now in your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself. “You need to learn how to be patient, because patient girls, get rewards….” Still sucking on his fingers he positions himself in front of your wet entrance, the head of his dick, so pink, so plump, so mouthwatering.

With his other hand, Mattheo grabs his dick, and slaps it a few times against your swollen lips. “Mhm.” Your arousal more than enough to be able to slide it in easily, but he doesn’t like easy. He wants more. Taking his fingers away from your mouth, he commands you “spit, princess, come on.”

You do as your told, spitting into his hand. Mattheo smiles “atta girl…” following your steps, he spits as well, to then rub the mixture of saliva on his angry cock. It makes it shiny, highlighting the veins and the sensible skin.

“Alright pretty… I’m going to fill you up, hm? ” Finally, Mattheo pushes his thick shaft into you, stretching you in unimaginable ways. He’s fucking huge, ripping your insides apart, as he tries to fit all of him inside your apparently tiny cunt. He can see his dick poking outside of your tummy, the sight making his eyes roll to the back of his head, as his lashes flutter in pleasure.

Mattheo hums lowly, his tone dropping an octave “oh s-shit, so tight f’me. Fuck, angel!” He grabs your legs, putting them in his shoulders, enhancing the heavenly sensation. You on the other hand, feel like you’re going to pass out. You can’t think, focusing all of your attention into the way he feels. Your red tired eyes, barely open, fill with tears as your hands lay lazily next to your head.

Mattheo rocks his body, picking up the pace. He needs to feel you closer, keep his hands busy with something. Him fucking you isn’t enough.

This is the point where normally Mattheo would come down from the initial, horny, high and give up on the search for something more raw, more exhilarating. Until an idea comes through, and his cock twitches inside of you.

He reaches for his wand, maintaining his fast rhythm, pumping in and out with extreme force, hitting spots that have never been hit, reaching beyond the g-spot, making you see stars, reach that almost unreachable nirvana.

He summons a silver, small, extremely pointed blade, and his hand reaches your chin. “Pretty girl? Look at me…” he flashes a shit-eating grin, one that makes you almost come instantly. “Fuck princess, can…can I mark you? Hm?” you barely process his question. “Can I make you mine? Are you going to let me ruin that beautiful skin of yours?” He persuades, but to be honest, you don’t need much, imagining his name carved into your skin, and fuck, it turns you on so much, the way his blood would mix with yours, ugh, you can’t wait, nodding in agreement.

He doesn’t waste any time, and slows down his fucking, turning his fast, rough thrusts into deep, almost loving ones. He makes himself comfortable, spreading your legs so wide, your pussy stretching even more. You’re going to be so sore, you can already feel it.

Mattheo tightens the grip on the blade, as he nears it towards your left inner thigh. “Relax for me, gorgeous… it’s going to hurt a bit, yes? But after, you’re going to feel better… so much fucking better.”

Relaxing your body, savouring the new pounding rhythm, you feel it. He presses the flat of the blade against your plush skin, the cold steel sending you shivers down your spine. He drags it with sensibility, leaving a deep, red line in its wake. The pain is sharp but fleeting, nothing compared to the dark pleasure radiating from his touch.

Mattheo’s leans down, his fingers tracing the lines, playing with the red, dense liquid, coating his fingers in your blood. His tongue flicks up, cleaning his digits, leaving them completely clean.

His eyes shutting for a moment at the coppery taste of you blood in his tongue. “Yes, yes, God, yes! You taste even better than I imagined,” his eyes open, gleaming with a crazed, obsessive light. A wicked, twisted smile spreads across his face. His teeth stained with red.

Mattheo's hand moves to your other thigh, the knife tracing a matching line to the first. He connects the cuts, forming an obscene, possessive mark - a dark, blood-red phrase 'property of M.R' etched into your flesh. The pain only serves to heighten the twisted, depraved pleasure coursing through you.

He groans, the vibrations rumbling through your core, his hips never falter in their relentless, punishing rhythm, driving into you with a force that borders on violence.

"That's my girl," he growls, his voice rough and ragged with lust. "My pretty little blood witch, so fucking perfect. I'll ruin you for anyone else, leave you wrecked and forever marked. You’re mine, you know that?”

Mattheo's hand slides up your body, wrapping around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make your heart race and your lungs burn. His eyes lock onto yours, burning with a fevered, wild glaze as he keeps pumping inside of you.

The bed creaks ominously beneath you, the blood dripping onto your most intimate areas, stoking the inferno raging inside you. Suddenly, he stills, his body pressed flush against yours, his breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.

He reaches up, his blood-stained fingers brushing your cheek with a sudden, shocking gentleness. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough, rough and tinged with a desperate, aching need.

“Fuck, baby. I want... I need to feel it,” he rasps, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

Mattheo takes the pointed silver, the blade glinting as he presses the cold steel against your palm, guiding your hand to his chest. His skin is hot, flushed, and slick with sweat beneath your touch.

"Mark me, my love…," he urges, his voice a desperate, aching plea. “I want to wear your name.”

Your don’t have time to react as your hand moves automatically and he leans in closer, feeling his pulse race beneath your palm, a frantic, erratic rhythm that mirrors the wild, untamed beating of your own.

Mattheo's eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he feels the cold blade press into his heated skin. He doesn't flinch or pull away, instead arching into the sharp, sudden pain of the steel biting into his flesh. A low, guttural moan tumbles from his throat as he feels the first letter of your name being carved into his chest.

His hand fists in your hair, gripping tight, holding you in place as he guides your hand, urging you to carve deeper, harder. The pain is intense, searing, but it pales in comparison to feeling of fulfilment. Each letter you etch into his skin sends a bolt of electric, white-hot lust straight to his core, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you.

Mattheo's hips begin to move again, thrusting in time with the brutal, possessive strokes of the sharp blade. The dual sensations of your initials being carved into his flesh and his sensitive member driving into your dripping cunt push him closer and closer to the edge. His grip on your hair tightens, his fingers twisting almost painfully in the strands as you both chases the release.

“I'm so fucking close, beautiful. I'm going to fill you up, mark you from the inside out. You'll be dripping with my cum, fucking drenched in it."

His thrusts become erratic, losing rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. The knife digs deeper, carving harder, the final letter of your name leaving a vivid, bloody scar on his chest. Mattheo throws his head back with a roar of ecstasy as he comes undone, his hot, thick seed erupting inside you, painting your walls white with his release.

At the same time, your pussy clenches, milking his cock tightly. The final wave of pleasure hitting you, as you drown in it. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck! Oh! ugh!” You scream, crying and whining, gasping for air.

He collapses against you, his body shaking and shuddering, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He inhales and exhales harshly, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he clings to you, desperately, possessedly, like a man drowning and you're his only lifeline.

Mattheo's fingers tangle in your hair, fisting the strands almost painfully as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, dragging the scent of your skin into his lungs like a drowning man seeking air. When he speaks, his voice is a low, hoarse rasp, roughened by his exertions and the intensity of his emotions.

"Fuck, baby…," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. "That was... fuck, that was incredible. You're... you're fucking incredible."

He lifts his head slightly, his dark, hooded eyes searching yours. In their depths, you see a whirlwind of emotions swirling together - the wild, reckless lust that consumed him, the dark, twisted possession that demands your complete surrender, and something else, something softer and more vulnerable that he rarely allows anyone to see.

Mattheo's thumb traces your lower lip, smearing the mixture of his blood and yours across your lips, as if applying lipstick, sealing it with his own. A shudder ripples through him as he leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Don't... don't go," he whispers, a desperate, aching plea underlying the words. "Stay with me, my love. Let me hold you, let me feel you in my arms. I... I need you, fucking now and forever."

[eiralunaire]

Headcanos of Damian Wayne.

1. Small Gestures of Tenderness.

Although Damian would never admit it out loud, he always feels inexplicably more relaxed when he's around his girlfriend. He often watches her in silence, observing the small details, like the way she laughs, her expression when she's focused, or how she always has something to say, even when she doesn't feel like talking. There's something about those moments that makes him feel, for the first time in his life, that war and fighting aren't everything.

2. Defender of Her Well-Being.

Damian, who has been trained to be cold and calculating, can't help but become extremely protective when it comes to her. If someone looks at her wrong, even in jest, he'll step in without thinking, making it clear with his gaze (and sometimes his threat of "don't do it again") that no one can hurt her. He's convinced that it's his responsibility to take care of her, but it's more of an internal desire to make sure nothing bad ever happens to her.

3. The Typical Sarcastic and Jealous Behavior.

When it comes to other men, Damian is relentless. Although he would never express it in an obvious way, he feels extremely uncomfortable if any kind of unwanted attention is directed towards his girlfriend. It is common for his sarcastic tone to appear when some guy talks too close to her. "Really? Do you think she wants to hear that?" he would say, with an almost imperceptible smile on his lips, as he takes a step forward.

4. Thoughtful (albeit weird) Gifts.

He is not the type of boyfriend to buy expensive jewelry or flowers (because he doesn't know how those things work), but what he does do is remember the little details about what his girlfriend likes. One day, unbeknownst to her, Damian shows up with a rare book she mentioned in a casual conversation, or with that chocolate she is known to like a lot. The truth is, he's become an expert at listening to her, not just because of his tactical intelligence, but because he genuinely wants to please her, even if his way of showing it is... unconventional.

5. Intimate Moments of Vulnerability.

When Damian is with his girlfriend, his guard is down in ways that only happen with her. It can be something as simple as watching a movie together, or lying next to her after a long day of training, but in those moments, he doesn't have to live up to his last name or his lineage. It's just him, Damian Wayne, simply enjoying her company. It's a luxury he doesn't usually get with anyone else, but with her, it's something that constantly draws him in and comforts him.

6. Interactions with His Family.

Despite his reserved attitude, Damian has found himself talking more to his family about his girlfriend, albeit in a slightly brusque manner. With Bruce, for example, his attitude towards her is a kind of possessiveness that makes it clear that he wants her in his life, but he also knows that his father will never really understand what he feels. With Alfred, however, he seems more relaxed, because he knows that the butler sees what he sometimes can't recognize: how happy their relationship makes him.

7. Subtle but Efficient Jealousy.

Damian can't help but show jealousy, although he does it in a subtle and almost childish way. For example, if his girlfriend talks a lot with another guy (even if he's a close friend), he may make comments like: "Since when are you so interested in what he has to say?" or suddenly offer to take her back to her apartment, as if there was some "urgent" business to attend to, to prevent her from staying too long with that person. It's his way of saying "I want you all to myself" without having to say it directly.

8. He Likes Deep Conversations.

Damian isn’t a man of many words, but when he’s with his girlfriend, he finds it easy to open up and share things he never thought he’d say. He likes to talk to her about topics that have nothing to do with war or fighting, like his views on the future or what he thinks about life. Sometimes, he catches himself talking more than he planned, but he doesn’t mind, because he knows he can be vulnerable with her, something he’s learned to deeply appreciate.

9. The Vulnerability of Being “The Man”.

When he’s with her, Damian feels weird about not being able to show off everything he knows how to do. I mean, with his combat skills and tactical intelligence, he could defend her from anything, but what really attracts him to her is how she calms him down and makes him feel more human. In her mind, that makes him more than just Bruce Wayne’s son or trained assassin. He makes her feel a little more normal, like any other guy in love, and that thought baffles him, but he loves it at the same time.

10. Sudden Moments of Insecurity.

Despite all his training and his confident facade, Damian sometimes feels insecure in their relationship. There are times when he doubts himself: Is he really up to par with her? Will he be enough for someone like her, who has so much to offer? Although he would never admit it, he has those moments of uncertainty that make him more human. However, as time goes on, he realizes that all he really needs to do is be himself, and sometimes, even a more vulnerable and caring Damian can be what attracts her the most.

11. The Unspoken "I Protect You".

Although he never says it outright, Damian is obsessed with the idea of ​​protecting her. If she is ever sad, he turns into a wall of ice, willing to face anything to make her feel safe. This leads to more possessive behavior, but he doesn't see it that way. It's his way of showing her that even though he's not the traditional boyfriend type, he'll always be there for her, even if that means walking away from conflict and just offering his company.

[bartonomy]

AND IF I SAID I COULD LOVE YOU, WOULD IT LAND?

PAIRING Barty Crouch Junior x Quidditch player!reader

SYNOPSIS After a brutal match, barty visits you with his concerns.

CONTENT WARNING hurt/comfort, gn!, the reader gets injured, established yet new relationship, small comment on barty's canon end, self doubt

WORD COUNT 2.7k

library.

The crowd was wild, a swirling mass of enthusiastic red and green as Gryffindor faced off against Slytherin in what was sure to be the most brutal Quidditch match of the season. The tension between your teammates was at its peak, determination of securing the final win against the toughest crowd at hogswarts and bagging the house cup uniting you all.

“Alright, you lot, focus up!” James' voice broke through your thoughts as he flew beside you, adjusting his glasses. “This is our game. We take out Mulciber, we block Avery, and Y/N-” he grinned at you, “you catch that snitch before baby Black even knows what’s happening.”

You smirked. “Way ahead of you, Captain.”

Madam Hooch blew the whistle, and the Quaffle was released. The match erupted into exciting chaos.

You darted through the air, dodging players and bludgers alike as James and Gideon passed the Quaffle between them, and took your post at the peak of the Gryffindor stand . The crowd roared highly when Sirius scored the first goal, his cocky smirk infuriating the Slytherin stands and the players.

“Oi, Potter! You fly like my grandmother!” Barty taunted, sending a Bludger straight at James’ broom.

James rolled his eyes but dodged at the last second. “That supposed to scare me, Crouch? I’ve seen you fall off your broom in practice.”

Barty had fallen once, when he’d been too distracted watching you leave the pitch. Not that anyone knew that.

He dove back up, hitting incoming balls away from the goalpost, earning a 'thanks ,mate" from Avery. He played with so much precision, his movements sharp, every strike of his bat a calculated attempt to control the crowd. He was absolutely ruthless, sending a Bludger straight at Marlene, forcing her to drop the Quaffle.

You rolled your eyes and shouted at him from the top, “Playing dirty already, Crouch?”

His lips curled into a smirk, but his voice was loud enough for only you to hear as he sped past you. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you, Malishka.”

Heat flushed through you, but you shoved it down, refocusing. But it was so hard to do anything when the black and green haired boy was shooting through the field like a supernova.

“Keep your head in the game,” James called as he whizzed past you, already dodging another oncoming Bludger. “That snitch isn’t going to catch itself, love!”

You rolled your eyes but grinned, scanning the field. The golden snitch was nowhere in sight, so you finally moved down, dipping lower to avoid the chaos unfolding around you.

Regulus was hovering near the goalposts, pretending to search, but you knew his game, he was waiting for you to find the snitch first so he could swoop in and steal it.

Not happening on your watch.

You tilted your broom to the right, diving toward the middle of the pitch, feigning a chase. It worked, Regulus immediately followed, eyes wide with his usual indifference but mixed with pure determination.

“Gryffindor Seeker’s seen something!” the commentator, some fifth year from Ravenclaw, announced over the roaring crowd.

You smirked. Hook, line, and pull in.

Just before you hit the ground, you pulled up hard, executing a sharp arc that sent you soaring back into the sky. Regulus, not as quick, struggled to correct his course.

“Alright L/N-” he started, but you were already gone, laughing as you sped off.

From across the field, Barty had been watching. He should have been focusing on his job, but he couldn’t help it. The way you moved, it was effortless, like you were born for this. And Merlin, did it turn him on.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to snap back to reality. If he kept staring at you like this, someone would notice.

The game raged on. Gryffindor and Slytherin were locked in a brutal back and forth, neither side willing to give an inch. Every goal was met with deafening cheers or groans of frustration. Bludgers shot across the sky like cannonballs, and chasers weaved through the chaos, pushing their bodies to the limit.

“There! The snitch!” someone yelled.

The snitch hovered near the bottom of the Hufflepuff viewing site, fluttering just above the ground. But you weren’t the only one who saw it.

Regulus was already diving.

Shit.

You shot forward, wind whipping against your face as you plunged into a sharp descent. The snitch darted as quick as light away from the players, weaving dangerously in the sky. You and Regulus were neck and neck, neither willing to back down.

“I hate to break it to you Y/N,” Regulus called over the wind, his voice smooth and laced with amusement, “but I don’t plan on losing to my idiot brother's team today.”

You smirked, eyes continuously locked on the snitch. “Neither do I, Black.”

The crowd was on its feet. You both pushed your brooms to their limits, the little golden ball taunting you just inches out of reach. Regulus edged closer, his arm outstretched.

And then, from your peripheral view, you saw a brown force flying towards you.

You barely had time to react before the bludger came hurtling toward you. You twisted sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a direct hit, but it clipped the side of your broom, throwing off your balance.

Regulus used the moment to surge ahead.

No, no, no.

Gritting your teeth, you leaned forward, pushing every ounce of speed from your broom. The snitch was right there. If you could just pray to whoever was listening, them maybe you could just-

Another bludger shot toward you. This one was different, because you saw who hit it.

And this time, it was heading straight for your ribs and your body was tumbling back.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. Somewhere above, Regulus pulled back, the flying object momentarily forgotten.

And Barty was already diving. He dove, faster than he’d ever flown before, ignoring the gasps and screams from the stands. But he was too late.

You crashed onto the pitch before he could reach you. He landed hard next to you, barely aware of the way his pants scraped against the ground.

He reached out with trembling hands, hovering over you as panic clawed at his throat. You’re breathing, that was something. But your eyes were squeezed shut, your face twisted in pain.

The impact was brutal. Pain exploded through your side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your grip on your broom had slipped, then you were free falling, and now you were lying on the sandy ground with every inch of your body exploding into tiny flames.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care about the match, about the looks of his teammates, about anything except you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” his voice broke, and his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Shaky. Raw. Extremely desperate.

You groaned, eyelids fluttering open. “Bloody… fucking hell.”

He let out a breath that nearly made him dizzy. He was the reason you were groaning in pain, unable to move while the whole school watched you.

His trembling hands touched your face, so soft, in fear that even his fingertips would put you in even more misery. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible over the noise around them. Barty clenched his jaw, guilt settling like poison in his stomach. He did this. He hurt you. His love. His little tiger. "Fuck, i'm so fucking sorry"

Your fingers twitched, brushing against his wrist. “Wasn’t your fault.” But it was. And the way your forehead creased in pain made it unbearable.

“Y/N!” James and Sirius came sprinting over, skidding to a stop beside you. “What the hell, Crouch?” James snapped, hurling Barty up on hus feet and fisting his jersey jumper. “Trying to kill our Seeker, are you?”

Barty’s fingers curled into fists. He deserved that. Deserved worse. Monster, monster, monster.

But then your tired voice cut through the tension. “It was an accident, Potter. Relax.”

James let go didn't argue just as Madam Pomfrey appeared by your side, waving her wand over you, levitating you towards the hospital wing. “Cracked ribs and a concussion, this is why I hate Quidditch,” she huffed.

You felt yourself being lifted, but before she carried you off, your fingers brushed Barty’s.

The smallest touch, barely there. But it shattered him.

The Hospital Wing was quiet, save for the faint clinking of Pomfrey's potions in her office and the distant hoot of an owl outside. You were still sore but awake, shifting under the sheets when a shadow slipped through the door.

Barty stood there, his eyes wide, his usual composed demeanor shattered by something more frantic, more raw. He couldn't shake the feeling of doom since the game ended. His hands were clenched tightly into fists as his gaze immediately found yours, his expression softening when he saw you.

“Mali” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach you, how to properly apologize for what had happened earlier.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a strange mixture of relief and nervousness. “What are you doing here, B? It's the middle of the night, shouldn't you be at the Slytherin party?”

He winced at the gentle tone in your voice, but his eyes softened again, and he stepped forward cautiously, his gaze not leaving you. “What I'm doing here? Merlin, baby, you were hit with a bludger, my bludger, and landed yourself in the damn hospital wing because of me”

You leaned back slightly, smiling fondly by the sincerity in his voice. “I’m fine, Barty, really. Just a few bruises, nothing a little rest won’t fix.”

Barty’s eyes flickered to the spot where the Bludger had hit you, your side still tender and wrapped in bandages and his brow furrowed.

“No,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re not fine.” His hand twitched at his side as if he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you. “I… I should've known that sending that wretched ball at Prewett, I would've sent it in your direction as well. I wasn’t thinking straight. I… I never meant for you to get hurt.”

You sat up slightly, studying him closely. His usual carelessness was gone, replaced by a look of genuine worry that almost felt foreign on him. Instead of your Barty, who was no stranger to violence, always looking for trouble in the most forbidden sections, now stood a hurt, lost boy who looks like he was about to combust in his guilt.

“I know it was an accident,” you said quietly, watching him carefully. “You don’t need to apologize for that. Clearly, I was in the way of your brilliant aim. ” You jested.

But Barty shook his head, his frustration building. “No, you don’t understand,” he muttered, pacing a step away from your bed. “It wasn’t just an accident. I… I hurt you. I caused it. And that’s… that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. You don’t know how much I…” He stopped abruptly, glancing back at you, but his words trailed off.

Your eyebrows knitted together slightly, sensing his inner turmoil. “How much you what, B?”

He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, his gaze dropping to the floor. He looked like he was struggling, his face contorting into something painful, trying to find the words but failing to do so. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “When I saw you fall, when I saw you hurt just, just laying there… I’ve never been so afraid in my life. I didn’t know what to do. And I know it’s stupid, but all I could think about was how it was my fault.”

You watched him, the weight of his words sinking in. This was different from anything you’d expected from him. You have never seen him show vulnerability. Yet here he was, confessing to something deeper than just guilt over the match.

“Barty, you didn’t mean it,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It was no one's fault. And I’m fine now, see? Madam Pomfrey’s already fixed me up.” You winced slightly as you adjusted your position and gave him your best smile, his eyes only narrowed in concern.

But you could see the weight of his feelings wasn’t lifting. He wasn’t just upset over the incident on the field, there gad to be something more.

“I know,” he said, his voice barely audible. “But it doesn’t make me feel any less… like I failed you.”

The words hit you harder than you had expected, and you found yourself searching his eyes, trying to understand. “Failed me?”

Barty looked at you, his gaze filled with an intensity that took you off guard. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m supposed to protect you, Y/N. And I didn’t. I-”

He stopped again, shaking his head, his frustration evident. But this time, his voice cracked, just enough for you to hear the pain in it. “I fancy the hell out of you. You already know this, of course, but this.. I feel like you deserve someone who will protect you from danger. Fuck, I am the danger who put you in this position. I'm reckless, a failure, someone who harms every little bloody good thing in life. And.... and I don’t know how to stop being it.”

The words landed with a sudden weight in the silence between you. Barty was standing there, looking like he might break under the weight of his own emotions, and it took everything in you not to reach out to him. You wanted to, of course, but your body's protest had strayed you away from it.

“Barty, I love you for you” you said softly, the words coming out almost as a whisper. The admission felt natural, as if it was something that had been a part of you since you could think. And in the quiet of the room, it felt right. "And every piece of you, the recklessness, the trouble and whatever flaw you could conjure, are what made me fall for you. And I would fight every bloody dementor who would even attempt to suck them out of you."

Barty’s head snapped up, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “Really?”

“I care about you,” you said, your voice stronger now. “And that’s why it hurt to see you look so… guilty. It hurts seeing you best yourself up for something that you can't control.”

His lips parted, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words seemed to elude him. Instead, he took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure whether to get closer or to stay where he was.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, his voice soft and raw, but the crumbling walls seem to build themselves up again.

You smiled faintly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “For once, I think you should just let me enjoy the fact that I made the great barty crouch junior speechless”

Barty chuckled softly, though now it was edged with relief. He finally took the last step forward, sitting down beside you on the edge of the bed, and embraced you in his arms, hand cradling the back of your head. His touches were so delicate, as if he was afraid to hurt you even further. His presence was warm and comforting despite the turmoil that had brought him here.

“I’m sorry again, Malishka,” he said again, this time with more sincerity, more honesty in his voice. “And I promise, I’ll never hurt you again.”

You turned to him, offering him a small but genuine smile. “I know. And you don't have to say it.”

And for the first time, you realized that no matter how complicated your relationship with Barty was, it was something that both of you were willing to fight for. Something that was, at its core, genuine.

You both grew quiet in each other's embrace. And as the night stretched on, you both found a sense of peace.

[hivemuthur]

i haven’t seen this before but a viktor x doctor!reader where his pains are extra bad one day but he’s come to a standstill to his discoveries so he’s extra irritated already. and so reader tries to help him and he just snaps. can be full on angst or angst w/ happy ending if you please. idk much about the topic of chronic pains so hopefully this request wasn’t ignorant, tweak it if you want! love ur writings!!

Hi Anon! Here's your fic!

It Never Entered My Mind

viktorxgn!doctor!reader general audiences, angst with a vague resolution

author’s note: Okay, so this wasn't easy to write because I'm on the both sides of this coin, as a person with chronic pains and someone with medical degree. So, when I'm in pain I want people to pat me on the back and make me a cup of tea, and when someone announces they are in pain I'm this annoying dude that asks WELL DID YOU DRINK WATER TODAY? :O Title from Miles Davis, cheers!

word count: 1,3K

—

The first thing you hear is the door slamming shut and then a long groan as Viktor kicks off his shoes and drops his keys in a bowl. His movements are careful, deliberate—like with each one, he calculates how to hide the fact that something is wrong. But you see it anyway. The stiffness in his shoulders, the slight hitch in his step. The way he lingers just a little too long by the door, gripping the frame before finally stepping out of the hallway.

“Hey,” you greet him, eyeing his posture from under your glasses. “You’re late.”

“Hm,” is all he offers in response before strolling toward the kitchen. No teasing remark. No tired but affectionate jab about you keeping track of his schedule. Just that vague, dismissive sound as he moves past you, his cane tapping against the floor in uneven intervals.

Undoubtedly, it’s going to be another one of those afternoons where he sighs and talks mostly to himself while telling you not to worry about it. So you brace yourself and follow him.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry,” he mumbles while searching through the tea cabinet. You frown. His coat is wrinkled, his hair more dishevelled than usual. And up close, you notice the tension in his face—the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into his palm even as he reaches for a cup.

Pain. It’s always there in some form, but tonight it clings to him heavier than usual.

You step forward, your hand already reaching out for his shoulder. “Viktor—”

“I am fine.”

The words come too quickly. A pre-emptive strike. Which only confirms that he isn’t and makes your frown deepen. You exhale and go for the obvious first.

“Do you want something for the pain?”

“No.”

He doesn’t even look at you. You can see his defences rising and feel yourself becoming annoyed with his martyrdom.

“Viktor.”

“I said no.”

He sets the cup down harder than necessary and sighs, defeated, as if you have just betrayed him somehow. As if it’s not the physical pain that he is looking to ease.

You cross your arms, studying him for a moment before shifting tactics. “Alright. Then tell me what happened.”

“It was just—” He waves a hand, as if dismissing an invisible nuisance. “Nothing of importance.”

“That’s not an answer,” you press, and all air leaves you. Why do you press in the first place? If he wants to sulk alone, you should let him.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patience is thinning, but so is yours.

“Viktor,” you try again, willing yourself to be softer this time. “Just talk to me.”

He hesitates, then finally, “I am stuck.”

You blink but say nothing, making space for him to speak. Your features soften at the sight of him cracking—just a bit.

“With Hextech. With my research.” His fingers tap against the counter, restless, agitated. “It is like hitting a wall, again and again. Every theory, every equation—I run in circles, and it is infuriating.” His voice edges with frustration, exhaustion—something raw beneath it all. “And on top of that, my leg—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing into a thin line.

When he doesn’t continue, you take a step forward and place your hand on his shoulder. “You need to take better care of yourself, Viktor.”

His jaw immediately tenses. “Not this again.”

“You don’t take breaks, you barely eat when you get like this, and it only makes everything worse—”

“Enough,” he growls, shaking your hand off.

But you don’t stop—meaning well but making it worse. “You push yourself too hard. You know stress makes the pain worse. If you just listened to me—”

“I am not your patient,” he hisses through his teeth. It isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut through your little lecture.

You stare at him, startled, words stuck in your throat. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, gripping the edge of the counter as he fights for composure. When he speaks again, his voice is lower but no kinder—disappointed, for that matter.

“I do not need a lecture. I do not need to be told how to manage my own body, my own limits. I live in them every day.” His knuckles whiten before he delivers the final blow. “I need my partner. Not my doctor.”

And that does it. Because he is right. You’ve slipped into doctor mode without even thinking. Instead of just listening, instead of just being there, you’ve tried to fix it—fix him—like he was just another case to manage. Or an inconvenience.

And the worst part? You can see it in his face, in the way his shoulders have drawn inward like a man bracing for impact—this isn’t the first time.

You swallow hard, and with the lump in your throat go all the possible words you could say to him. I am sorry sounds like not enough. That wasn’t my intention sounds accusatory. I just want you to feel better feels too dismissive.

“I’m sorry.” You pick the lesser evil and reach for him again. “I’m here for you. Tell me what you need.” You say it quietly, moving closer, and it hurts you disproportionately that he keeps moving away.

“Viktor.” You plead, taking advantage of his slower coordination and sliding your hands around his waist. He raises his arms as if he’s trying to shake you off, but you persist.

“I do not need to be scolded like a child, that’s for sure,” he mumbles grumpily but lowers his arms. Still not ideal, as now you are wrapped around his waist while he stands stiffly, arms hanging limply by his sides. But he does finally look at you. “I just need you to listen, that’s all. To tell me it’s going to be all right.” Just tell me that you love me despite all of this.

You never meant to make him feel like that—like a problem to solve rather than the man you love. But how else are you supposed to react? When he is in pain, when he is hurting, barely keeping himself upright?

You exhale into his chest, trying to find your footing, trying to push back the instinct to argue—to tell him you know what’s best for him. Because that’s not what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I wasn’t trying to—” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to see you suffer when I know there are things that can help.”

Viktor rubs a hand over his face, still avoiding your touch as much as possible. “And I appreciate that. But you have to understand—I have lived with this pain for years. There is no solution. No cure. No treatment that will make it all go away.” His gaze lowers to meet yours. “Sometimes, I just need comfort.”

Something in your chest aches at the admission. “I’m sorry for not seeing you,” you whisper, placing your hand on his cheek. You see something shift in his expression. “No more lectures. I promise.”

Viktor huffs out something like a laugh, tired and wry. “That is a first.” But his hands do finally move, settling on your hips, making you sigh in relief.

You press your ear to his chest and close your eyes. His heart beats unevenly.

“Can I at least take care of you?” you plead quietly, your palms flattening against his back.

His eyes close for a beat when he sighs. And then he hums softly.

“Yes,” he admits. “You can do that.”

[dailyadventureprompts]

Hearthfire Health and Resting Overhaul

Artsource

TLDR: You can solve nearly all problems with D&D's powercurve (and a lot of other problems beside) by limiting the overall hitpoints your party gets, basing it off profficency bonus rather than character level.

If you’ve played anywhere close to as much d&d as I have, you’ll notice the game tends to play best at levels 3-8. Lower than that feels like being trapped in the tutorial, with players denied the majority of their interesting character options and the DM having to use kid gloves or else risking a party wipe. High level play invariably breaks down as player abilities trivialize most encounters, forcing the DM to reach deeper and deeper into the monster roster to provide adequate challenge, making more work for themselves in the process. There’s a definite sweetspot, and like anyone with a head for game design I want to widen that sweetspot to encompass as much of the game as possible. 

As is typical of someone who’s into game design; I’ve bit off more than I can chew, deciding to build several interlocking rules changes/subsystems that I think will help me make the game function more like I want it to. This isn’t going to be for everyone, but if you’re feeling the need for a rules lite overhaul to rebalance how you plan encounters/ the rigours of adventure, this might be for you.  

Here’s the overhaul in short form: 

Character HP is determined as (Max Class HD + Con modifier) X proficiency bonus. This means they keep the same Max HP throughout the tier (1-4, 5-8 etc)

This means that low CR enemies stay relevant for far longer, making encounter building more reasonable. Likewise this prevents mid/high CR enemies from being trivialized.  It allows you as the DM deploy mundane threats ( a steep drop, a detachment of city guards, the threat of a building catching fire) as legitimate challenges well into the later chapters of the campaign.

Temporary HP can be gained from using improved provision consumables (including those harvested from monsters), or by resting at inns and better establishments in town. A hardy, homecooked meal gives the party the strength they need to take on greater challenges, far more than a diet of salt pork & hardtack. In rare cases permanent HP boosting items can be sought as treasure. 

Long resting in the wilderness is more difficult, requiring the party to find a safe campsite and spend provisions. Making sure they don't burn through these finite resources before encountering the real challenge makes for a great resource management challenge to go along with exploration based gameplay, acting as an informal ticking clock.

First, A small Testimonial: I've now tried this system with four different groups, and while there's still some bugs to work out I can say it feels a lot closer to my ideal form of d&d than the baseline rules. Planning combats is SO EASY, and I can actually scare my players with big monsters again. I've dropped the weird XP calculation and I can now use the group's level as a budget for medium-challenge combat encounters. Lower HP totals on both sides keep fights fast and punchy, which means I can fit more of them into a session, getting more progress through a gauntlet of challenges. While considering implmenting this system, I also encourage you to take a look at some of my combat hacks, which help to supplement fights the same way this system is meant to supplement exploration.

PROVISIONS: In order to get the benefits of a long rest while travelling you need 1) A place to set up camp that's not exposed to the elements 2) To spend a use of your provisions

Rather than beancounting individual servings per person, provisions are tracked through "The provision die", an abstract representation of what your party has left to eat that ranges from a d4 to a d20. This works off a depletion die system, meaning that every time provisions are used (generally once per night) you roll the die, and if it's a 1 or 2 it shrinks a size category. If it shrinks while it's a d4 the party is officially out of supplies and starts taking levels of exhaustion.

The base price or provisions is 5gp for a d4 depletion die, larger sizes of die may be bought based off the linked chart.

Alternatively, provisions (of an enhanced rarity even) may be salvaged from a monster, dungeon meshi style.

Without the extra carrying capacity from a bag of holding or wagon, the party's provision die is limited to a D6. Going offroad is tough, requiring characters to live off the land.

Living off the land generally requires a survival check with a DC based on how verdant the area is. Failure can mean a lack of finding anything suitable, or a delay in trying to acquire necessary provisions.

Features that can keep people fed like the outlander background or goodberry spell prevent the exhaustion buildup but still do not allow a long rest.

If ever the party is traveling for a week or more between settlements, their provision die drops by one size, regardless of how many times in the week they've rolled.

A party can buy better rations (consumable) or improve their camp gear (permanant) in order to gain temporary hitpoints when they consume provisions. A common upgrade will get you 2 class HD in temporary hitpoints, an uncommon will get you 4, a rare upgrade will get you 6. Enchanted camp gear (such as high quality tents, enchanted cookwear, rare spices) may also grant other bonuses when provisions are consumed, such as resistance to weather effects, bonuses to saves against fear, or even inspiration.

HAVENS: If the party is sticking in one place for a while it's likely that they'll be doing so in a Haven such as a tavern, outpost, or perhaps even their own bastion. Havens are rated on the same rarity system as camp upgrades and provisions are, which determines their overall level of quality and the amount of temporary HP they bestow per night.

As a guideline, if the party has to pay to stay in a haven, it costs 1sp per person per night for common accommodations, with the associated rarity price jump: (5 silver for uncommon, 5 gold for rare). Many inns have varying levels of accomidation, so some party members might chose to spring for greater amounts.

[uyuforu]

ik this topic wasn’t in the polls you did but maybe a observation post on profection years would be very informative!! considering there really isn’t any here and you’d be the best one to start!! (if you do do them pls use this in the post as an example 😭😭 leo 12th house because i’m this )( close to entering it)

Profection Years Observations

All pictures were found on Pinterest

Other posts you could like:

જ⁀➴ Astro Observations XI

જ⁀➴ Why your Birthday is your Persona New Year

જ⁀➴ Solar Return IV

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✮⋆˙ What's a Profection Year?

Annual Profections are based on Astrology, and mostly on our ages and houses. Basically, this tool explains that depending on which age (and so birthdays) we are, we embody a certain house that year. For example, when you will turn 25, you'll embody the 2H more. It usually means you'll probably be more focus on savings, money, perhaps making more money this year, or also changing the way you manage your money, etc. Each House has a different meaning. Of course, this doesn't mean you will need to wait to be on a certain house to do something. It just means as an individual, those houses will represent your more intern focus. And it may actually go naturally, without you need to force anything. Life is most likely to put you through certain transformations based on the houses' themes.

✮⋆˙ How can I read my Profection Year?

꩜ Calculate your Annual Profections here.

꩜ The calculation technique here is based in Whole Signs, as it is more easy to determine your houses' traditional rulers and knowing which is your profection year.

꩜ For each houses, there is a specific theme, but it's not the only thing to look at. We also need to look at the sign ruling your house and the planet that also rules it. It will make the prediction of your projection year more personal and accurate to you.

꩜ To know which sign and planet rules over each house, it's better for you to calculate your profection year with the link above. It's determined by the rising sign.

꩜ So basically: check your age to see in which house it is in, check the sign and planet ruling this house to make a whole prediction of what can happen to you this year. Also don't forget this is just a theme of the year, Solar Return and more can help you to know what will happen. Also check where the planet that rules your profection house is in your chart.

꩜ Example: This year I am in my 2nd house profection year, and since I am Libra rising, my 2H is ruled by Scorpio, so planet ruler is Mars. This year will be so focused on my money, my stability, and my security in my life. Because it is ruled by Mars and Scorpio, it will be a very transformative year, perhaps also I'll feel like I need to get more money, I could feel more ambitious. Yet, my Mars is in my 1H, so my self and identity will be related to the key theme of this year. This could be a year where I'll have financial difficulties but my money situation could also transform. I'll think of my own stability this year, perhaps live situations that will make me feel like I should focus a lot on my own stability.

✮⋆˙ Key Themes for Each Profection Years based on Houses

꩜ 1H: A year about you, who you are, self, your personal identity, new beginnings. ꩜ 2H: Money, financial year, stability, security, possessions. ꩜ 3H: Communication, friends, siblings, ideas, contracts, learning. ꩜ 4H: Family, home life, stability, parents, children, long term projects, possible pregnancy. ꩜ 5H: Romance, flirts, creativity, imagination, pregnancy, children, having fun. ꩜ 6H: Health, routine, healing, work, supporting yourself or others. ꩜ 7H: Marriage, relationships, partnerships, contracts, romance, enemies. ꩜ 8H: Transformation, endings, rebirth, money, more other people's money, spirituality, new beginnings. ꩜ 9H: Travels, learning, philosophy, spirituality, beliefs, studying. ꩜ 10H: Work, contracts, reputation, legacy, public life. ꩜ 11H: Friends, social medias, communities, dreams. ꩜ 12H: Endings, spiritual year, religious year, addictions, self-reflection, leaving old patterns.

✮⋆˙ Key Themes for Each Profection Years based on Signs & Planets

꩜ Aries/ Mars: A year about you, who you are, self, ambitions, fast energy, conflicts, arguments, fast things, change. ꩜ Taurus/ Venus: Money, financial year, stability, security, possessions, beauty, romance, daily life, long term plans. ꩜ Gemini/ Mercury: Communication, friends, siblings, ideas, contracts, learning, social medias, writing, creativity, studying. ꩜ Cancer/ Moon: Family, home life, stability, parents, children, long term projects, possible pregnancy. ꩜ Leo/ Sun: Romance, flirts, creativity, imagination, having fun, being seen, being popular, reputation, fame, success. ꩜ Virgo/ Mercury: Health, routine, healing, work, supporting yourself or others, learning, studying, writing. ꩜ Libra/ Venus: Marriage, relationships, partnerships, contracts, romance, enemies, balance, beauty, glow up. ꩜ Scorpio/ Mars: Transformation, endings, rebirth, money, more other people's money, spirituality, new beginnings, conflicts, arguments, change. ꩜ Sagittarius/ Jupiter: Travels, learning, philosophy, spirituality, beliefs, studying, life lessons. ꩜ Capricorn/ Saturn: Work, contracts, reputation, legacy, public life, hard work, obstacles, life lessons. ꩜ Aquarius/ Saturn: Friends, social medias, communities, dreams, obstacles, life lessons. ꩜ Pisces/ Jupiter: Endings, spiritual year, religious year, addictions, self-reflection, leaving old patterns, dreams, travels, subconscious, life lessons.

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✮⋆˙ Observations

꩜ᝰ. When I was in my 1H Profection Year, I had a glow up, mostly since I'm a Libra Rising, and so my 1H is ruled by Venus. I was also self reflecting a lot, thinking of myself and I thought of what I wanted to become a lot.

꩜ᝰ. In the 12H PY, I had some hard time actually, yet I ended some toxic cycles in my life.

꩜ᝰ. The year I met my FS online I was an 11H PY, and I have Venus in my 11H. We met online first.

꩜ᝰ. The year I met my FS in real life I was in my 12H PY. It was indeed a very important time since this house is about endings and new beginnings.

꩜ᝰ. The year I had my first love story with someone, I was an 8H PY, and Venus rules over my 8H.

꩜ᝰ. The house that Leo rules over in your chart (and so Sun) could be the Profection year where you have the most success.

꩜ᝰ. If you are searching for a year where you could marry or get proposed to, a Jupiter or a Venus ruled House could be the one. Saturn is also an option since it's a planet related to long term plans and stability.

꩜ᝰ. A 7H PY doesn't mean necessarily to enter a relationship.

꩜ᝰ. Entering in your Moon/ Cancer ruled House in PY means you have more chances to move houses.

꩜ᝰ. You could get married during a year where you are Venus or Jupiter ruled, but also a year which ruler (planet) is in your 7H or conjunct Venus.

꩜ᝰ. It is more likely to be pregnant or have a baby in a 4H or 5H PY.

꩜ᝰ. Yet, it's not always the case, you can also be pregnant or have a baby in a PY where your House ruler conjunct your Moon. For example, if you have Saturn conjunct Moon, you could get pregnant or have a child during a PY with Saturn ruling your House.

꩜ᝰ. You can also get pregnant or have a baby in the PY with the planet that rules over your 5H. For example, if in your NC, your 5H is in Aries, and you are in a house profection ruled by Mars, this could be a good timing.

꩜ᝰ. It seems quite common to meet your FS on a 12H PY, since this house represents endings and new beginnings.

꩜ᝰ. Otherwise, it could also be a Venus ruled House in PY.

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[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates (Conclusion)

MDNI

Shanks x f!reader

Summary: An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you finally solve your captain's equation.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, piv, swearing, smoking, allusions to power imbalance

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! - Ya filthy animals. Thanks for all the support! I have another Shanks piece brewing (a genuine one-shot, even!) that will hopefully see the light of day in the coming week. Til then: stay tuned, drink water, kiss someone you like, and survive the holidays!

Shanks is, as ever, a bonfire on a winter night. Blazing bright and beautiful. A human beacon with a smile so bright it made his hair dull by comparison. He should be ridiculous, maybe even an object of pity with his scarred face and missing arm, but he’s confidence given legs – legs in ridiculous printed trousers, even.

He holds court in the bar closest to the docks. He’d swaggered ahead with all your worldly possessions under his arm, chatting up passing locals. You’d followed, drowning in his wake. The storm inside you didn’t touch him.

You followed him here, met up with the crew after picking open you scabs so he could see how deep the infection ran, and now you’re once again ducking under too many waving hands and wondering how the hell these killers and thieves smile so readily. As he guzzles sake and laughs with Lucky Roux, he feels farther away than ever. Memories are easier to hold close. Now you can only calculate the gulf between your understanding and his plans.

The sea between your feelings and his easy charm.

This must be what a cuckoo chick feels when it realizes it has the wrong feathers.

Cheering voices shake the tavern walls, and you sit among the merry-makers, pretending to enjoy yourself. But you know your voice would come out wrong if you joined in. There’s a reason you never fit the atmosphere aboard the Red Force. Even when they were trying to be kind, your comrades must’ve sensed something strange had hatched in their midst. An intruder in the crow’s nest, so to speak.

You sit, stewing in your own self-pity, taking the barest sips from your glass. You can’t afford to be drunk. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with Shanks.

Maybe things have never been easy between you and the Red Hair Pirates, but everything spiraled after you revealed yourself on a tide of rum and fatigue. Drinking is a solitary activity now. No way in hell will you make things worse. You still hope, a little desperately, for an amicable separation.

You spill your drink twice, fetching refills to keep up appearances.

That game ends when Beck joins you. He lands across the table, filling the corner where you settled with the excuse of eating away from flying elbows and table dancing. The stew smelled so appetizing every other time you passed the place, but you’re struggling to do it justice. Doesn’t help that it gets colder with every bite.

Still makes a marvelous diversion from Beckman, though.

Until he opens his big, stupid mouth.

“Hongo seen the wound yet?”

Which wound? The time you shot yourself with your own big, stupid mouth in his company or the bullet you caught during your year or isolation?

“No wound.” You shovel a spoonful in your mouth, buying a moment of peace. “Just a scar. And he’s threatened me with a thorough exam tomorrow.”

“Shame. Earned your first major scar of on your own.”

He makes it sound like your fault somehow, and that grates. Your tolerance is growing thin, and you haven’t spent more than ten minutes in each other’s company tonight.

It isn’t your fault they left you behind. As always.

It wasn’t your fault the Marines fucked up a good thing. As always.

It sure as hell wasn’t your fault that you got shot in one of the most chaotic battles you’d ever seen.

The world turned and you clung on where you could.

You wonder if Beckman even remembers what it’s like to have no one at his back, no ship to rely on.

He taps out a fresh cigarette. “Would’ve been an opportunity to celebrate.”

You laugh as he lights up, almost genuinely. “Like you’ve ever needed one.”

If the crew celebrated every first scar acquired on the sea, they’d never stop drinking. But maybe they do. It would explain some things.

“Hn. It will be good to have you back on the ship. Never enough good crew.”

“Oh please, we both know I’m average at best.”

“Do we?” Beckman didn’t take his eyes off his match. “Captain talk to you about his plan yet?”

Your spoon circles the bowl’s rim. The vibration shakes into your fingers as metal drags over rough crockery, but the men are too loud for you to hear the chime.

“We talked about a plan. Wasn’t really his.”

One more bite. Just to soak up the drip of booze you’ve choked down. Nothing’s ever as good as you hope these days, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s your own fault.

You push the meal away, hoping no one asks why there’s so much left. The folks behind the counter work hard, and you’d hate to insult a family recipe.

Beckman shakes out his match, and his cool eyes fix on you. For all the bodies in the room, his attention carves out a private space. You might as well be back on deck, drinking in the dark after they party’s over.

You lean back. Cross your arms.

“I do sometimes look up from the books, you know.”

If the Captain agrees to your plan, it will impact Benn’s role most. And you’re comfortable with him. He doesn’t ask for much. So long as you meet his expectations, he doesn’t demand a sunny smile and a performance. You’re grumpy bastards both, the eyes in the back, assessing and measuring. You don’t know what answers he’s looking for at your table in the corner, but you can guess a few questions.

“Shanks only brings aboard people who’ve already… become what they’re gonna be, I guess.” Just saying his name pushes your gaze to find him across the room.

It’s no wonder you fell in love. Doesn’t make you any less of a fool. “It’s why he doesn’t take on apprentices, I think. He knows he’d protect them. They’d get hurt. They’d have to, at some point, or they’d never push themselves. So, he always turns the young ones down.”

Benn doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t twitch. He blinks, slowly, like a cat, and a ribbon of smoke fades into the rafters. You look him in the eye.

“That’s how I know. I am what I am. Good at numbers. Entirely average in every other respect.”

“Tsk.” He looks away. Uses his boot to grind out an old cigarette that’s been cold on the floor since before you arrived. “You see the numbers, but you’ve put ‘em in the wrong places. A transcription error. Get out of your own way.”

Your arms cinch tighter around your chest, and the eye contact slips up and away. The rafters offer an escape. You study graffiti carved by a thousand daggers over endless decades by happy drunkards. Maybe they’re a map to sanity. A star chart of curses, confessions, and promises.

Are you even having the same conversation? It feels like everyone is pushing you to the brink of madness.

Nothing adds up anymore.

“You’re smart,” Beckman says. “And you’re strong.”

He kicks you under the table to reclaim your attention from the ceiling, and you jump, yelping. You regard him with a hint of shock. It’s minor violence, yeah, but it’s friendly violence. It’s a new level of engagement. The routine mandates sitting and snarking over more booze than you want to drink. Beckman isn’t the touchy sort.

The cigarette dips as he grins.

“Let yourself believe in something, girl.”

“I – I don’t – what?” Your tongue is too big for your mouth, and your teeth keep getting in the way.

Beckman glances away, and you follow his line of sight through the shouting, and the drinking, and the rowdy delight to your captain.

Shanks.

He’s in the middle of a story, slapping the bar for emphasis. Part of you wishes you could sneak closer. Hear his tall tales and measure them against his usual bullshit. Bask in his presence. But your overwhelming common sense tells you it would burn to sit beside him. Bonfires can catch.

Seas. He really is beautiful.

You remember who you are sitting beside.

The first mate chuckles, and your face burns.

Flailing to your seat, less graceful than most of the drunks, you cough up an excuse.

“I’m going for some air.”

Cigarette smoke chases you out the door, and you march away from the windows, turning the corner into an alley where you can breathe.

Fuck’s sake.

You press cold palms to your cheeks, horrified by the heat. Did your feelings show? Beckman clearly spied something to amuse himself with in your expression. Who else? How many witnesses to your shame would cackle at your expense in the morning? Maybe they’d just assume you stepped out to throw up. Because you had good manners, unlike the rest of them.

Not a bad thought, actually. You feel like hurling.

Night has settled over the town, and the locals are giving the pirates their space. Normal people have normal work to do in the morning, and even Shanks can’t chat the stars still. A breeze carries whispers of the sea into your hideaway, and you ache for the clean smell of deep water far from shore.

Your resolve cracks like an egg.

Slumping against the brick wall at your back, you accept your truth. It doesn’t even take half a bottle of rum this time.

You love Shanks. You crave life aboard the Red Force. The captain shared a taste of his world and instead of thanking him for the experience, you’ve gotten addicted. Demanding. It will never be enough. Given the chance, you’d die happy at sea, listening to the ship groan creaking lullabies.

You might die if they agree to your proposal.

If Shanks leaves you forever.

Even though that would be safest. That would be reasonable.

That would be good for the crew. For him.

“There you are.”

Think of the devil.

Shanks, framed in moonlight, invades your sanctuary. “Thought you might be sneaking off.”

You freeze. Your mind goes blank with the fear of being caught and the contrary urge to impress. Something spews out of your mouth, but you have no control over it.

“Just breathing.”

What a fucking stupid answer. Might as well tell him there was no air in the tavern when you noticed how his eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“Well.” He picks a spot on the wall across from you, mimicking your position. “Can’t have you stopping that, can we?”

An obligatory smile. You’ll give him whatever he commands, but there’s no joy here.

Believe in something.

Sure. Just like that. Drop all your defenses as you waited for the executioners’ spears.

Shanks smiles at nothing and glances towards the sky.

“Your thoughts aren’t too far from mine,” he says. “The old system needs adjustments. Can’t have you catching any more bullets with just your skin.” His eyes flick back to you, fixing you in place. You aren’t sure whether it’s your nerves or his haki.

“But we have very different ideas about your future with the crew.” His captain’s voice rings between the broken crates and empty barrels surrounding you. He’s found something he doesn’t like and he’s working out a solution, gearing up to state orders and fix his will on the future.

It’s a challenge. You rise to it.

“And what’s your great idea, then?” If he thinks he’s solved the equation better than you can, let him prove it.

“No more layovers. You stay on the Red Force like every other crewmate. The Den Den Mushi aren’t a bad idea, and I agree we’ll need new eyes and ears on shore, but your place onboard is essential.”

If people keep telling you things like that, you’ll start to believe it. You shake your head, knocking the warm fuzzies away before they rot your perspective like mold.

“I kind of doubt that. No offense.”

His eyebrows rise. “You think I’d have brought you on if I didn’t think you could cut it?”

“I mean,” you gesture broadly at the crew that isn’t there, “anyone can do the numbers with a little time and training.”

“Sorry to ruin your rosy view of the world, but they really can’t.” That captain voice is gone. He’s all smiles again. Teasing almost. Like he knows a secret and is watching you walk into a trap. “Not like you. Mathematics are strategy in your hands, and we need more of that. You have no idea how many times Building Snake complains when you aren’t around, or how often Lucky Roux moans about larder management. Your work touches everything.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting in the distant streetlights, and props his arm against the wall just over your head. Heat radiates from him and that stupid unbuttoned shirt he always wears. Can he feel the warmth curling out in answer from your own skin?

“And I agree with Lucky, by the way,” he croons. “You’re very scary.”

Your breath physically stutters. It’s entirely involuntary, and you bite your tongue, eyes wide as you struggle to read him. He still wants you on the crew. Alright. But what else?

Logic strains under the pressure of his regard.

You force yourself to breathe. Hopefully that will help you think. Unlikely, though, with the way Shank’s scent fills your head. It’s dizzying.

“It would still be a problem.” This isn’t reasoning. This is pleading.

His smile flicks to life, and like the helpless little moth you are, you prepare for it to scorch you.

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

One of his feet slides forward, not quite invading your space, but close. His toes linger in the gap between your feet, suggesting a path of navigation you know will take you past whirlpools and monsters.

He doesn’t get it. A quick pity fuck won’t fix this.

“It’s easy to ignore feelings you don’t have, Captain, but it would be a problem for me.” There’s nowhere to look but his eyes or his pecs, so you swallow your jagged anxiety and focus on his face. A strong twitch would bring you together, you’re that close. He deserves a punch. But that might just be an excuse to touch him. And you’d rather do that softly. Fuck.

“If we’re going to talk about it, then let’s get to the point.” There isn’t much space to draw yourself up, but you try, and you don’t miss the way his lips twitch. You want it to make you angry, but the rage just won’t kindle. “I caught feelings. That’s my fault, and you’ve been more than gracious about it, but I meant what I said, and if the best thing for the crew – for you – is to peel off, that’s what I’m going to do.”

That’s it. You’ve said your piece. Now he can make his move as captain. Chide you. Dismiss you. Laugh. Your eyes shut, and you brace for words you don’t want to hear. If he’d just cooperated with your plan and let you distance yourself, maybe you could’ve –

Hair whispers over your face, and Shanks’ temple presses to yours.

Your eyes pop open. He’s right there. Right here. He wasn’t supposed to come closer.

He chuffs, and his breath rolls down your collar.

“So stupid.”

He kisses your forehead as you stand dumb and amazed.

The…fuck?

What?

His little chortle cracks into a hearty laugh, but it isn’t mockery or a mere diversion from your shame. He laughs all the time, for all kinds of reasons. But this one’s real. His shoulders shake with it.

“So smart. But so stupid.”

There must be a proper response to this. But it feels like your first meeting all over again. Your decisions have been upended, and it’s all his fault.

But it’s a good thing. Isn’t it? Wasn’t it even back then, when he arguably ruined your life and turned you into a pirate?

It isn’t bad.

But it can’t be real.

Even though he’s filling your senses, and you’d never dare hope for something like this, let alone imagine it.

But –

Cigarette smoke wafts down the alley with Beckman’s shadow as he turns the corner. “You both are. Makes you well suited.”

The glowing tip of his cigarette is shockingly grounding. The bright red is familiar. It isn’t the romantic, pale moonlight or the dim yellow streetlights that cast everything in chiaroscuro. That’s really Beckman. This is really happening.

Your soul and mind slam back into your body with the violence of a shipwreck. Your defenses splinter, and it feels like your whole chest cracks open to put your heart on display, leave it pulsing and naked for a careless pirate’s strike.

Oh, holy shit.

You have absolutely no idea what your expression is doing at the moment, but Shanks leans even further in, letting his cloak block you from his first mate’s view. His lips hover by your ear.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. Beyond his role as captain. Shanks the man. Shanks the man who said he doesn’t have a problem with your feelings. Shanks the man who doesn’t have a problem with your feelings and dropped a kiss on your head while crowding you against the wall in a dark alley.

Simple answer, really.

“I guess I do.”

He pulls back and grins like a gods damned shark.

“All I needed to hear.”

For the second time that night, he rips the ground from under your feet and flips your world on its head.

Fairly literally, this time.

Between one fluttering heartbeat and the next, he’s ducked, thrown you over his right shoulder and launched out of the alley. Straight into the air. Wind rips tears from your eyes, and your hair stings where it lashes against your skin.

Backman and the tavern shrink below, and gravity yanks on your stomach.

“Shanks!”

His laughter rumbles through his shoulder into your belly. He must’ve been expecting to sacrifice an eardrum to your shriek, and whatever he’s getting from this must be worth it. To him at least.

You’ve only seen him sky walk once or twice, one of many abilities he stores under good humor in case of bad weather. Since the Red Force practically demands fair weather by its very presence, you haven’t seen him break out the weatherproofing often.

Nails sinking into his cloak, your mind blanks on adrenaline. There are no equations in freefall.

Just as you begin to lose altitude, he steps again, and you howl, trying to sink into the man’s flesh. You’re like a cat frantically trying to cling to a human raft.

He touches down on the deck of his command ship, and you can’t unlock your knuckles from where they’ve knotted into his clothes. Just as well, because he doesn’t take his arm from around your knees. A few steps bring him to the captain’s quarters. A kick opens the door. A second kick closes it. And then – finally – he helps you slide down from his shoulder.

Your legs are boneless. You refuse to let go. Your dignity hangs by the thread count of his clothing.

“I thought you trusted me?”

Looking up, you meet his shit-eating grin, and you pant in lingering terror and growing rage. “Fuck you, Shanks.”

He’s practically glowing, he’s so happy. Cackling in glee, he falls back into a wide chair, pulling you to sit across his lap, your back supported by his remaining arm.

Shaking the hair from his eyes, he beams at you. Like you’re finally in on the joke.

“I think I need to keep you closer. Hard to take care of me from so far away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He isn’t wrong. The distance between you swelled like an ulcer, a terrible little fear you couldn’t help worrying as you scanned the newspapers and bounty posters for an update. For proof he was alright. Safe. Well.

But as the ringing fades from your ears and you take stock of where you’re sitting, you’re afraid to add up the final sum.

“Captain – Shanks.” You catch yourself. His hand rests on your knee, and because you have no idea where to put yours, you clutch one fist to your chest and let the other settle over his wrist.

What is happening? A black and white answer is all you want. You can set a course if you can just find the difference between north and south.

“What is this?”

His nose traces your jaw, and you turn into the contact as eager butterflies cannibalize the anxious moths banging around in your gut.

“What do you think?” He’s lured you close enough, and he steals a kiss. A satin brush of desire that conjures a sigh from his chest. Warm eyes find yours as they blink open, like sunset at sea. “It was never your problem. It’s my fucking problem, too.”

Whether or not he’s lying, there’s only one good response to that.

You know what to do with your hands now.

Taking his jaw, you pull him into another kiss. A proper one that delivers on all the restrained promise of the first. His grip rises to your waist, pulling you into his chest as his lips tattoo his feelings over yours. You’re far from a blank page, but you doubt you’ll ever be able to read old notes under the bold script he prints.

He pulls back to breathe, and he smiles under the little pecks you pepper over his face. Skilled fingers explore everything he can reach, and you know you’ve gotten too close to the bonfire. You’re starting to melt.

“I didn’t mean to leave you for so long,” he murmurs.

When his hand wanders over your chest, firm enough to spark every nerve to life, your head falls back, and he takes advantage. He mouths along your neck, around your ear as he continues.

“At first, I wanted to prove to myself that I could be good, that I wouldn’t take advantage of you. Be a responsible captain.”

He squeezes a breast, and the jolt rushes down your spine, trapping itself between your legs. Red hair twists between your fingers as you desperately explore him in return. He’s too busy talking and tasting to kiss.

“Wanted to give you room to breathe. To come to your senses.”

The wandering hand drifts. Smoothing over your sternum and down your belly, spreading over your trousers’ fastening.  

“But then one thing led to another, and Beck handed me your bounty poster.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that Shanks has a motormouth, even as a lover. His words touch as skillfully as his hand, though, and you’re drunker than you’ve ever been on rum. He doesn’t have to be good. Whatever he wants, he can have. You’ve been a cold pile of kindling for an age. He’s set you blazing to match his heat.  

His touch lingers on the buttons, and you kiss whatever parts of him you can reach. The crown of his head. His temple. You map his shoulders with curious fingertips, pushing under the collar of his loose shirt. He listens to your cues.

The first button pops free.

“I have no doubt you could go out on your own.”

The second button.

He slips his hand under your knee, pulling your leg to straddle him, your back to his chest.

“Make a name for yourself as a pirate. Terrify the world with your numbers and your revolver. But I couldn’t bring myself to be happy for you if you did.”

Back up your thigh, over your hip. He lets you simmer, anticipating his next move. Even as he finally moves under your clothes, he pauses short of the goal, and you whimper. Your head rests against his shoulder, allowing him every piece of you he desires, and he nips your earlobe.

Drunk off him as you are, he wants you to hear every word that comes next.

“I want you to be my pirate.”

Calloused fingertips creep between your folds, and you immediately roll your hips, chasing him the way you’ve wanted to for so long.

He grazes your clit in passing, and your back arches. “I am. I’ve always been yours, you idiot. Please, Shanks!”

Boyish giggles trail over your flesh as he finally touches you, strokes you, finds the proof of your unquenchable infatuation. He hums, beyond happy with himself and the task in hand.

“Poor thing. Have you been aching for me like this all year?”

You gather enough breath to pant, “Longer.”

He croons and licks the first dew of sweat blooming along your throat.

“Poor little pirate.”

Quick circles over your most sensitive spot push you staggering towards the precipice in record time. You’ve never gotten yourself off so fast. No partner has ever managed it, that’s for fucking sure.

But it’s him.

And he’s holding you, and all but purring as you flutter and jerk against him, and you want to…

One finger pushes in, and you buck, crying out. You’re still riding the cliff’s edge, and you aren’t sure if this is better or if you’re going to give him another scar for abandoning your clit. You whine, and the finger pulls back. It returns with a friend at a fresh angle that grinds his palm exactly where it belongs.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

He searches, stretching you as he goes. When he finds what he’s looking for, your eyes all but roll back into your head. The both of you groan as you clench. He shoves you over the border, and you lose yourself. The orgasm rips your mind away, and you float, convinced you’d drift to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding you. Wasn’t still knuckle-deep, drawing out the fall.

By the time you settle back into your own skin, your toes and the tips of your fingers are tingling. He removes his hand and it only makes you want to cry a little.

Until he brings it to his lips. Sucks his fingers clean. Winks as you stare.

“To the bed?” He isn’t even trying to hide how excited he is. You can feel him, long and hard under your thigh, but the roguish glee in his eyes reveals more.

Once you’re in that bed, he won’t be letting you up for the rest of the night.

“Just a minute.” You pet his face, almost slurring as you explain. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Mn. Take your time then.” He nuzzles into your neck, and without the distraction of his fingers curling inside you, it tickles. A lot. His stubbly little beard rubs into your flesh, and you realize he’s doing it on purpose when you flinch and the hand resting over your belly squeezes. He draws his cheek over the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Hmm? Something wrong?”

“N-no.” Fuck that. You can win this game. Even though you’re already biting your lip to keep the giggles locked in.

His whiskers move down your neck as he aggressively cuddles into the tender skin, hunting for the spot that will break your resolve. He finds it in the gap between shoulder and neck. Laughter tears out of you, and the hand on your belly dances to your side, setting you writhing on Shanks’ lap.

“Alright! Alright!” You go to stand, but his arm keeps you pinned.

“Thought you needed to catch your breath?” He doesn’t move away from your neck as he speaks, using his lips and breath to continue your torment.

“I yield,” you gasp. Tears gather in your eyes as you wriggle, trying to push your way free. “Let me go.”

The tickling fingers smooth flat again, and he stops attacking your neck. Only to place a chaste kiss there. “Never.”

But he does, letting you rise, sliding his grip down to hold your hand. He looks up at you, his heart in his eyes, and everything inside goes still.

It’s like sailing through a Calm Belt after passing through a storm. It’s the same ocean, but everything looks different.

Right.

This is it.

Safely at anchor, the ship barely moves, but there’s always that subtle sway that keeps the light moving. Your sea legs find it a thousand times firmer than shore. A dance that lulls and leaps. Home and heart.

His thumb rolls over your fingers.

Here’s the solution to the equations that never quite fit.

The solution brings your knuckles to his lips for a kiss, holding your gaze until you blink back to yourself.

“Take off some of those layers for me.” He’s all suggestion, in every sense, and nodding, you step back, letting your fingertips slide free of his hold.

You have no idea how to perform a striptease without making yourself ridiculous, so you stay practical. His attention keeps you safe, and you don’t look away as you shed your jacket, pull off your boots, tug away your socks. When your hands drift to your trousers, still unbuttoned from Shanks’ good work, his eyes dip to follow. The fabric falls, and his tongue runs over his lower lip, almost like he’s caught in thought. But his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide when he meets your eyes again, and you doubt there’s anything left in his head besides visions of what he’s about to do to you.

You begin working on your shirt buttons, and he stands. His shirt pulls smoothly over his head, a feat he performs gracefully even with a single arm, and your fingers shake, stumbling in their task as you appreciate the view. Golden skin and a warrior’s build. It isn’t even the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. Damn.

He basks under your appraisal, shaking back his hair and leaning his hips forward so there’s no mistaking his interest as he unbuckles his belt.

It dawns on you, as you struggle with your buttons, eyes lingering over inappropriate places, that it has been a very long time since you got this far. Romantically. With a man who’s clearly well endowed.

Math can be a cruel mistress. Even if physics isn’t your specialty, you understand some things about pegs and holes. Laws of volume and stretch. That sort of thing.

“Stop calculating.” He’s caught you. As usual. And he’s laughing you both past any anxiety. Easy as a strong wind under blue skies. “I can feel those damn numbers stealing your attention from me, and I’m a greedy, greedy pirate. I need it all.”

Your own grin catches, spreads.

A greedy pirate you can trust. Do trust.

Equations be damned. Shanks has always found a way to get what he wants, and you know he wants your pleasure as much as you want his.

He kicks off his sandals as he swaggers up to you and pulls you tight, banishing your calculations and concerns with a kiss. When his tongue begs entrance, you oblige, hurrying to meet him, eager to feel and touch and play in thrilling new ways.

You find the bed together. Or it finds you. Maybe, like Beckman, it has some secret understanding with the captain. A conspiracy to place you somewhere soft and vulnerable. Regardless, you fall back, never leaving your lover’s embrace.

Shanks is more than happy to finish with your shirt, making a show of slipping each loop free with his one hand. Everything else comes off in a rush. The man’s an octopus, groping, squeezing, and surrounding you like he has twice as many limbs as most men.

He has you on your back, bare, one leg hoisted over his shoulder. As he takes his time coating himself in your slick, a moment of clarity breaks through the crush of sensation.

“I really do want to take care of you.”

There’s no pause. He lets your words soak in, rumbling in satisfaction as he slowly breaches your entrance. He falls forward to rest on his forearm, covering you as he rocks in and out, creeping deeper like an incoming tide.

“Oh, you are. You’re taking such good care of me.”

He seals any further complaints away with a kiss, moaning and lapping into your mouth. There’s too much to parse into individual feelings. You’re so full, and he’s so warm. Pleasure thrums through you, and everything tangles into the press of bodies, the unspeakable intimacy of the act.

Some unknown time later, when you sneak a breath and a thought, you gasp, “Not fair.”

Wicked laughter answers, and he pushes deep, grinding up against your clit to chase away any idea of the world beyond how good he feels.

 “I’m your captain. Nothing about this is fair.” He bites your lip and moves faster, gleefully driving you to the brink of insanity once again.

Your body delights in his, and it fights to keep him as resolutely as your mind tried to escape. Every time you flutter and clench around him, his eyelashes flutter over his cheeks. The muscles over his back roll under your grip.

It’s strange and wonderful. A day ago, you expected him to abandon you to your sensible plans. Now, well, it’s a whole new world, isn’t it?

Whispers of his name pick loose strings from his control.

When you crash through your orgasm, burying your scream in his shoulder, he pounds you through it. His mouth moves, full of words he’s beyond articulating, and a groan from the depths of his soul shakes through the both of you as finds his own release.

He falls beside you, hair damp with sweat, meeting your pleasure-numbed eyes with a lazy smile.

“C’mere.”

His arm loops around you, pulls you back to his chest, and the afterglow hums over you like music.

Distant voices remind you of the crew outside Shanks’ quarters.

“I hope you know,” he mumbles, “you don’t have to worry about finding a spare hammock below decks ever again.”

He snuggles into your neck, and you stroke the arm anchoring you.

This dickhead.

How many crewmates saw the captain’s little show? How many put the pieces together after you both disappeared? How many heard you chanting his name?

Gods. You’ll have to find some energy to worry about that tomorrow.

Might be a good reason to get drunk, actually.

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.289 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Silence weighs heavy in the kitchen as Rafe remains there, in the door, looking at you. His smirk widens, a flash of perfectly straight teeth between his swollen lips. – The new chef, huh? You already hired?

Kareem stands, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. – Mr. Cameron, this is—

– I was talking to her. – He takes his time scanning the room, gaze sweeping over the kitchen like he’s searching for something out of place, something to pick apart. When his eyes land on Kareem, there’s a flicker of amusement, barely there before it smooths into something more polished, more calculated. He gives you a slow, easy smile, practiced like the rest of him. – Didn’t know we were hiring new help.

Kareem only barely bites back whatever it was that flashed over his face so violently.

Rafe exhales a short laugh, like he’s humoring him. He moves closer, leaning against the counter like he’s settling in for a show, and pushes at your plate. – So? What's on the menu?

Kareem puts his fork down, fidgeting with his hands. – Lunch’s already in the making. The new hire was just showing off.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, trailing down to the plate before drifting back up. – Was she now? – The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like he’s talking about a trick dog instead of a person. Like the whole thing is some private joke only he’s in on. – Damn, – He whistles, tilting his head. – Guess we’re getting fancy. You go to culinary school or something?

You hold his gaze, forcing your shoulders to stay squared. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but you’re almost thankful he’s pretending not to know you. – No, sir. Just experience.

– Sir? You serious? – Rafe grins. – I like it. Real respectful. Could use more of that around here.

There’s an edge to it. A warning disguised as praise. You don’t miss the way Kareem stiffens slightly, the way his grip tightens around the fabric of his sleeve. Rafe doesn’t like him. That much is obvious. But more than that—he likes making sure Kareem knows it.

He reaches for the plate without asking, plucking a piece of cornbread from the edge. He takes a slow bite, exaggerating the motion like he’s savoring it, like he’s considering whether or not to spit it out. Then he hums, licking a crumb from his hand.

His eyes gleam as when he meets your gaze. – Not bad.

– Glad it meets your standards. – You say evenly.

His eyes flick back up, a flash of something sharper beneath the surface. – Careful, – he warns, low and amused. – Flattery’ll get you everywhere.

Kareem shifts beside you, his hand landing on your shoulder as if he's trying to tranquilize you. He's shaking. – Mr. Cameron, is there anything we can do for you?

Rafe doesn’t move. Just chews, watching you with the kind of patience that isn’t patience at all. – Yeah. Well, not you. But maybe she can do it. – He takes your fork, scooping up some of your mashed potatoes. – Lamb roast, like the one at the Wreck. Kareem over here always fumbles it, his lamb tastes like beef jerky.

– Mr. Cameron, the supper’s already planned.

– Well, then, un-plan it. – He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, taking some more chicken and mash from your plate, and chewing slowly. – We have a very special dinner guest coming over and I want that lamb for dinner. So chop chop. Go ahead and buy the things. I wanna see if your new hire really is up to my standards. – He looks back at you, mischief glinting off his eyes. – Right, newbie?

You let your eyes drift back to Kareem, nodding quietly. – I think I can handle a second interview.

– Great! – Rafe’s smile is almost innocent, he chuckles lightly, his shoulder brushing yours. – Off you go, Kareem. She can handle a second interview.

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment. His brows drawn together, eyes overtaken by worry. His lips fall open, but they close again as he reaches for a tote bag on the back door. – I won’t be long.

It's a reassurance, you realize, but as soon as the door closes Rafe starts laughing like a child, covering his mouth as he leans into your side.

– Are you always this charming?

– You know I am, baby. That's what you like about me. – You don’t know what to say. A twinge of discomfort still lingers in your chest after watching Rafe treat poor Kareem, who ranks much higher than you, as if he was nothing. – So… – He pokes at you, eyes wide and intent, and pulls the chair behind you closer with a grin. – You’re officially employed now, huh?

– You could say so.

– You know what that means? – He takes another bite of the chicken and hums, happily. Happier than you’ve ever seen him.

You sit down, and he pulls your chair even closer, his knee brushing yours. – That I don’t have to worry about starving anymore because you saved my ass?

Rafe chuckles, the sound light and careless. He seems so different like this. So different from the guy that was bullying one of his employees not a minute ago. – That too. But mostly, that you’ll have to fulfill all of my cravings, no matter how insane.

His eyes darken as he leans close. You don’t miss the suggestiveness, but you look around, at this giant, pristine kitchen, at the calm surrounding you, at this perfect new job you only have because of Rafe.

You don’t have it in you to be bothered for much longer.

Things never go your way.

You might as well enjoy the smooth sailing while it lasts. – Tell me about these cravings then. I know you like my lamb roast. – He nods, taking the other fork on the counter and handing it to you. – What else do you like?

– Tryna get to know me huh? That's cute.

– Go ahead, Rafe. I’ll make it easy for you: Favorite soup, favorite roast, favorite pastry.

He looks at you, challenge glinting off his eyes. – You’re the professional here, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can guess my taste. Give me your palm reading.

– Palm reading? – You laugh. – I’m a psychic now? Shit, I gotta put that on my resume.

– You’re not gonna put shit in your resume. This is your job now. You ain’t getting fired.

His words are even, level, almost casual. Like he hadn't thought before the words left his mouth. But he is still pressed against you, holding up the fork as an invitation, an attempt to make you feel part of his world.

You take the fork from his hand, twirling it between your fingers as you watch him. His expression changes then. He looks so smug, so sure you’ll get it wrong. But you’re good at this. You've never been good with yourself, but you've always been good at people.

– Alright. Let’s see… – You lean back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. His knee is still brushing yours. – Favorite soup? French Onion.

The smirk on his lips twitches, almost falters. You know you have him.

– Interesting. Why?

– You like rich food. Heavy, but classic. Something you’d get at a steakhouse or some bougie country club dinner with your dad. Here's the thing though, I think, for you it has to be indulgent. Something you could eat for days. It's gotta be tasty.

He nods. – That’s what I'm talking about.

– Cheese too. I bet you put a lot of cheese on your soup. What do you like?

He smiles, leaning so close he's almost glued to your side. – I like a good Gruyere.

– Okay, fancy!

– I'm a man of culture, okay?

– I see it. – You tilt your head, watching his reaction. – That’s my first guess. Am I wrong?

His tongue darts out, running along the edge of his teeth. As if he's thinking about it. – Not bad. Not bad at all, baby.

You grin, triumphant. – Roast is easy. Man like you? Only one option: Prime rib. You like it rare, still bleeding.

His brows lift, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and genuine curiosity.

– You sure about that?

– Oh, I am positive. Lamb is still your number one, but prime rib is a close second. You wouldn’t go for anything too gamey—no pork, no turkey, chicken only if it's fried. – He laughs, the bone of your fried chicken still in his hand. – You like the expensive stuff. The things other people think are only good because they cost a lot, but that are actually better than the rest.

Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. – You really think you know me, huh?

– Oh, I do.

He’s still grinning, but there’s something sharper in his gaze now, like he’s sizing you up in a way he hadn’t before.

– Alright, psychic. Last one.

You take a beat, tapping the fork against your lip.

– Pastry… You pretend you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you totally do. – His smile sharpens. Rafe licks his lips slowly, his gaze fixed on your mouth. – You’d never admit it, though. So it has to be something subtle. Not over-the-top, nothing too sugary. – You pause for effect, then snap your fingers. – Madame Routledge says... Chocolate croissant.

Rafe stares at you, and for a second, you think you’ve finally missed. But then he lets out a small tsk, shaking his head. – Close.

– Close?

– Chocolate éclair.

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s—okay, that actually makes perfect sense. – Damn. That was my second guess.

Rafe grins, tilting his head as he leans in just a little closer. – Sure it was. – You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re smiling too. – You’re kind of freaky, you know that? – he mutters, taking another bite of your chicken.

– And you’re easy to read.

His smirk deepens, his knee pressing just a little firmer against yours.

– I’ll let you think that.

– Okay, Bella Swan. What else do I need to guess? – You smirk, teasing him back as your hand grips your cup. You’re not intimidated, but it’s hard to ignore how his presence seems to consume the space around you.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a new kind of amusement. The food he's eaten entirely, almost licked the plate clean, and even as the plate lies between you two, there’s still an unspoken hunger in the air, only it’s not the kind that comes from a full stomach.

– My favorite drink. What do you think? – He takes your glass and runs his thumb along the rim, gaze never leaving yours. There’s a definite playfulness to his tone, but it’s mixed with a touch of challenge. He’s testing you now.

– It’s hard. – You tilt your head, putting your water down. – Scotch. Or something with vodka, maybe a Moscow Mule if you’re trying to play classy.

– Oh, I see, you think you’ve got me pegged now. – His lips curl up. There’s that cocky smirk again. – I do like a good scotch. But you missed one.

Your brow furrows. – What'd I miss?

Rafe’s eyes gleam with something almost conspiratorial as he leans in, lowering his voice. – Gin. The real gentleman's drink. Never would’ve guessed that, huh?

You blink, surprised yet somehow not. – I'll give you that one. You’re full of surprises.

– I like to keep people guessing. – His voice is low, and there’s something almost predatory about the way he’s watching you.

Before you can respond, he casually throws another challenge your way, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

– Alright, let’s go for the ultimate test. You ready?

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. – Born ready.

He leans even closer, his lips just barely brushing your ear. – Guilty pleasure.

You pause. He’s looking at you like he’s about to tell you something you’re not supposed to know. You lean in, matching his intensity. – What is it? It's something sweet isn't it?

– Peach pie. – He drops the bomb like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his grin only widening at your confused expression. – I eat the whole damn thing. Never fails. It’s the one thing that can put me in a good mood, no matter what’s going on.

You blink, trying to process it. – Rafe Cameron... peach pie? – You let out a small, incredulous laugh. – You? The ‘I’m so fancy’ guy? Eating peach pie like it's your last meal?

He doesn’t flinch, just smirks. – Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s the filling, sweet, juicy—and the crust? It hits every spot.

You shake your head in disbelief, but you can’t hide your smile. – I guess I see it.

His hand moves, brushing against yours again as his eyes drop to your lips for a moment. – What else do you think you can guess? Maybe... – He trails off, leaning back slightly, a new challenge in his gaze. – ...a favorite movie?

You smirk knowingly. – That’s easy. The one you would say, is The Godfather. Definitely. Eldest son of a legendary man, making the world his own? That's all you, Rafe. – There’s a different glint to his eye now, his smile softens, his eyes round the slightest bit, like one of the walls he's put up just fell to his feet around the both of you. – But that's not your favorite is it? It's cool, but it can get a little boring. Not the sort of thing you re-watch. You like a little feel-good.

– You're getting colder…

– I think... Men in Black?

Rafe laughs. – Nope. – He leans in again, lowering his voice just for you. – Shrek.

You blink at him. – Shrek? – You can’t contain your laughter. It feels so fitting, just the right amount of darkness with a lot of humor. It's Rafe to a T.

He grins wickedly. – What? I like the layers. I’m a complicated guy.

You shake your head, laughing. – Of course you do. You’re a walking contradiction, Rafe.

Rafe leans back in his chair again, that infuriating smugness back on his face. – That’s what makes me interesting.

You narrow your eyes, but your smile says it all. – So, what’s your real secret then? You’ve been dropping little hints, but I think I got you figured out.

He grins, standing up to grab the bottle of scotch. – Not yet, that’s-so-Raven. You still have a lot to learn.

He pours himself a drink, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to enjoy the game as much as you are. – You want me to dig deeper? Think you can handle that?

– Oh, I can handle it. – He dawns the drink in one breath, flopping back on the seat right in front of you.

– Give me your hands, traveler. Let's see what’s written in your soul. – He’s laughing as he hands himself over, you can see the smallest of shivers blooming in his arms as you cart a finger through the lines of his right hand. – Favorite color, favorite season, favorite ice cream.

– You’re never gonna guess that. None of that.

– Wanna bet?

– What do I get when I win?

– Don’t jump the gun yet, mr. This-is-my-swamp-Corleone. I have not yet revealed all of my talents. – He raises a brow, licking his lips as his eyes trail down your body.

– I’m hoping you’ll show me the talent I’m thinking about when I win.

– Hilarious.

– I’ll guess you! – He grins. – Best of three, how bout that? Loser drinks with every wrong one.

You can feel the smirk tugging at your lips before you even speak. – Someone’s getting cocky.

– I don’t get cocky. I just know you’re not gonna get it.

– You better not bet a drink then. You’ll be owing me a bottle when I’m done with you.

– Fine then, baby. – His eyes flick to your lips. – A kiss then, loser kisses where the winner says.

– With this lipstick? You’re out of your mind.

– I don’t mind if you leave a mark. I like it. – You can see the gears turning in his head. – C’mon. Is someone gonna chicken out?

– Oh, you’re on, mister. Me first. Your favorite color: Judging by the fact that every shirt I’ve ever seen you wear is blue, and your shoes are blue, and your comforter is blue, and your eyes are blue, this is a really tough one. I’d say, blue.

– What kind of blue?

– So I’m right! – You can’t help the giggle. You’ve always been competitive, and this day has you in such a good mood, it falls from your lips before you can even think.

– No! You gotta guess the shade too!

– What am I, home depot? Nobody’s painting walls here, just accept that I won!

– Okay, okay. Where do I kiss? – You laugh, take back your right hand, and point to the floor. It takes Rafe a minute to follow the line. – You’re absolutely hilarious, y’know that?

– I don’t know why you think I’m joking.

– Where do I kiss you?

– Changing the rules, now, Mr. Cameron? – He doesn’t even answer, just leans closer, a smile bright on his face as he pulls back your shirt to kiss your collarbone. His lips remain there for a moment, brushing against your skin like he’s savoring every second. – Sore loser.

– We’ll see who’s losing next. – He squeezes your nose in his fingers as he pulls back, still smiling. – Go ahead. What’s my favorite season?

– Summer.

– You think I’m that much of a plebe?

– Plebe, really?! – You’re laughing now, and he’s holding both our legs as he pulls his chair closer, until his is less than a foot away from yours. – You are a sociological experience, Rafe.

– Wrong. – You can see the pleasure it gives him to say that. – My knee.

You can’t even help the scoff. – You’re wearing pants.

– I can take them off, if you want. – He's squeezing you know, eyes glinting with something almost possessive.

– That's funny. It's just gonna stain.

– Maybe I want it to stain. – He hums, hooking his right hand under your knees and pulling you closer. – Now, you get down there and kiss me.

You shake your head, laughing, but stay put. He doesn’t wanna play your game, might as well play by your own rules.

So you lean in a little closer, just enough that you can feel his breath hitch against your skin, and pull at the collar of his polo. Your lips land just where his had, on the collarbone, and Rafe chuckles lowly, humming with his hand in your hair, keeping you there until you pull away.

You watch the shape of your lips peek from under the cotton of his shirt, deep red and perfectly contoured. It almost seemed like a tattoo. – Your favorite ice cream now. – His fingers are still tangled in the strands of your hair, warm as anything, but still as a stone. – You are a man of hedonisms. You like it sweet, rich, flavorful. But, you are also very layered.

– Thank you.

– That’s nothing. My guess is something indulgent, that’s sweet but not too sweet. Some different textures, some contrasting flavors. A rocky road, if you will. – He smiles, defeated. And you know you read him like a book. – I told you I was good. If I may go a little deeper?

– Go as deep as you want.

– Your perfect rocky road is the dutch chocolate one, with hazelnuts, and marshmallow bits.

– Marshmallow swirl. – He corrects.

– Damn. – You snap your fingers, earning a laugh out of Rafe. – I’ve gotta give it to you, there is not a single thing in your list that is even remotely dubious. Everything is undeniably great.

– That’s who I am. Perfect all-round

You laugh. – Conceited, much?

– Honest. – He corrects. – Now you.

You’re shaking your head before he even starts. – This is not about me.

– You think you’re that hard to guess?

– You’ll never know, Rafe. I will never tell you. My mama always said, remain a creature of mystery. Otherwise people get bored and fuck off. – Rafe raises a brow. – Yeah, that’s it. That’s her whole philosophy.

– Sounds like a bitch. – You laugh, and he does too. You feel a little lighter. – But lets get into it. I wanna know you too.

– That’s too damn bad.

– That's not fair now, baby. You had an advantage.

– Oh, boo-hoo. – You grin. – Told you I would win.

– I still have to kiss you somewhere else.

You hum, tapping your finger on your chin as you smile. Rafe doesn’t even seem angry, his eyes just glint darkly.

You extend your hand. – As Rodrigo Borgia said to Caterina of Forli: Kiss the ring, bitch.

Rafe’s laughter echoes in your ear, low and rich with something dangerous as he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He leans in, lips inches from your hand, but instead of kissing your hand, he trails his mouth up to your neck.

– Careful, – You murmur, almost smiling as you press your palm to his chest, trying to push him away, but his lips keep moving against your skin.

– You said I had to kiss somewhere else. – He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to your back, pulling you into his body. His other hand is still entwined in your hair, gently tugging to hold you in place.

You roll your eyes, amused by his persistence. But just as you're about to push him off again, something startles you. His phone, tucked in his pocket, rings—a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the tension between you two.

Rafe groans, pulling away from your neck, a growl of frustration slipping from his lips. His eyes narrow. – No way, – He mutters, already diving in again.

You stop him. – Could be important.

He glances at the screen, and his irritation becomes palpable, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stares at the name flashing on the display. It’s his father. You can see it clearly from here.

– It’s him, – Rafe mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. The smirk he had on his lips fades slightly, replaced by an edge of annoyance. – Of course it's him.

You can’t help but feel the shift in the energy between you two, but you lean back, giving him space to take the call if he has to. – Go ahead. I should get back to work, my boss is really strict.

He shoots you a glare, but there’s something almost resigned in the way he looks at the phone.

– I don’t have a choice, do I? – He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before answering the call. His voice is low, almost cold as he speaks into the phone, and you can’t help but notice the way the playful, carefree Rafe fades with each word exchanged.

The call doesn't last long, just a bunch of monotone sounds from Rafe, who sits there, sulking, as you clean up and start chopping vegetables. When he eventually hangs up, there's an unsettling silence from him. Rafe sighs, his hand running over his face in frustration.

– Bastard. – he mutters, more defeated than you’ve ever heard him. He looks at you, his eyes softening, but the playfulness is gone. – Guess you got lucky this time, – He says, the words carrying a weight that wasn’t there before.

– No big deal, I can always beat your ass later.

Rafe leans back in his chair, and stands, coming closer. He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes distant for a moment as he comes up behind you, looking at your work as he leans his chin on your shoulder. – I have to go.

– It's okay. I'll catch up with you later.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. Instead his arms snake around your waist, face burying deeper into your neck.

You look over your shoulder, hoping Kareem is still far.

– Your father's gone, right?

The question stops you cold. The knife in your hand suddenly feeling heavy. – Yeah.

Rafe burrows in a little closer, breathing you in. – Did you ever wish he would drop dead? – A shiver tears through you as he remains there, holding you in that iron grip, as if he was physically grounding himself, as if his father might burst through the doors and try to drag him away.

You think about it, but you don't have to.

The answer is easy enough.

A thousand times.

Every time you walked into a room he was in, he'd sigh, heavy, as if your presence alone made the space uncomfortable. At some point, you stopped wishing you'd die, and transferred over that rage to him.

Whenever he scoffed at you, you prayed for a heart attack.

When he cursed at you, you wished he'd be mugged in the street.

When he grabbed you, when he'd pull you around, your thoughts got more violent. They worsened and worsened until the day he slapped you, and you found yourself laying on the floor, digging your nails into your hands as you thought about the knives you were always sharpening, sitting there in the drawer, completely unwatched.

You fed on that memory for a while. To the point that every time you saw him you were clenching your fists.

But had you meant it? – Yeah. A couple times.

Rafe doesn’t say anything else. He squeezes you one last time, almost as if plucking the feel of your body against his from that moment. You can feel him hanging onto it as he walks away.

His steps echo loud into the house, beyond the threshold you can step through, and you go through the motions almost robotically, cooking and prepping and cleaning as if it was gonna save you from the thought he’d left you with.

Work goes by smoothly, though your mind remains a wasteland. Kareem is quieter, too, after he returns, and he keeps looking back and forth between what he does and the doorway, a strange resentment burning in his eyes. You don’t meddle, your own spirits low after the talk with Rafe.

Lunch goes by in a blur, even without the chaos of lunch rush at a restaurant. You feel yourself drown out the noise around you, diving completely into the work. Your partner makes a couple comments here and there. He checks your roast, tweaks your reduction, analyses your vegetables. His smile is reassuring everytime he turns to you, tasting this dish and the other with the comically tiny spoon he keeps in a special pocket on his apron, and pats your back like a middle aged dad whenever the servants come in to take your trays away.

– You work quick. – He finally comments, finishing the plate you made for him, as Rose and Ward lunch alone in the dining room. – Every time I looked at you you were doing something else.

– You work quiet. – You smile back, and when he widens his eyes, you immediately clarify. – It’s nice! Like working with a zen master. I’ve never cooked for so long without someone screaming at me.

– Working at a restaurant kitchen makes you feel like the world’s gonna end. – He laughs, but his eyes fall back to the plate, suddenly darkening. – I actually used to have nightmares about burning entrees and being late on mains when I still worked at the bar.

You ponder what to say for a moment, clearly caught in a touchy subject. – I can tell you’re sleeping well, now. Your skin is glowing.

Flattery really does go a long way.

Kareem smiles, finishing his food in silence as you clean up, and the two of you don’t really speak much until the dinner prep starts looming closer.

Supper waits for no one, and Kareem snaps back into focus as the time approaches. — He’s methodical, you admire that in him. —So you follow his lead, letting routine take over, movements automatic as you prepare the kitchen. The momentary stillness gives way to the familiar rhythm of preparation—the clatter of knives, the hum of the oven preheating, the weight of expectation settling over you like a second skin.

You take charge of the entrees and the main dish while Kareem handles the sides. The lamb roast is yours to perfect, its success a quiet challenge, a second interview you refuse to fail. You roll up your sleeves, minding the ingredients you laid out, and get to work.

You begin with the prep, sliding the lamb onto the cutting board, fingers tracing the marbled surface, gauging its density, its fat distribution. A perfect cut. You reach for the boning knife, and trim the excess fat—just enough to allow the seasonings to penetrate deeper, not enough to sacrifice flavor. The rendered trimmings will be saved, melted down for later use. Nothing wasted.

Next, the seasoning. Garlic cloves are smashed under the flat of your knife, their oils bursting free, before you mince them into a fine paste. Rosemary leaves are stripped from their stems, crushed between your fingers, the scent sharp and green. You mix them with flaky sea salt and cracked pepper, the coarse grains binding to the moisture of the garlic. The mixture is worked into the lamb with steady hands, pressing into every groove, every fold of muscle, ensuring the flavors seep into the fibers of the meat.

The pan is already waiting, and you’re happy for the freedom of throwing a healthy dollop of butter on the iron without having to watch out for Anthony’s pretentious complaints. The sizzle is loud as you lay the lamb down. The heat grips the surface, searing it to a perfect crust, the scent of browning fat filling the kitchen. You tilt the pan, spooning the bubbling butter over the top, watching it soak into the herbs and garlic, turning the surface deep amber. When every side is sealed, you transfer it to the preheated oven, where the slow heat will coax out the tenderness, the juices locking in beneath the crisp exterior.

Beside you, Kareem dices vegetables with methodical efficiency, the rhythmic tap of his knife grounding like the hum of a monk deep in prayer. You glance over your shoulder, watching as he peels and slices carrots into thin ribbons, tossing them into a pan where melted butter and honey wait to coat them in a glossy sheen. He looks so peaceful, so in his element. It's almost cute. You catch the faintest scent of citrus as he zests an orange, preparing the glaze for the carrots, and there’s a moment where he looks up, meeting your eyes briefly before returning to his task.

Turning back to your own work, you begin assembling the entrees. You lay out fresh slices of crusty baguette, rubbing each piece with raw garlic before topping them with a blend of ricotta and herbs, the creamy spread flecked with chopped basil and thyme. Cherry tomatoes, roasted until blistered and sweet, are gently pressed atop each slice, their juices seeping into the bread. A final drizzle of balsamic reduction finishes the dish, the deep, tangy aroma curling into the already fragrant air of the kitchen.

By the time everything comes together, the kitchen smells like warmth, like the indulgence you and Rafe spoke of, and you find yourself praying this tops every memory of the lamb he had before, just to give you that reassurance. The roast rests, juices settling beneath its crisp, golden crust, while Kareem plates the sides—a creamy potato purée, the glossy, honey-glazed carrots, a crisp asparagus sauté with almonds. Dessert waits to be finished in the background, Kareem’s perfect pie crust resting easy beside the fresh-chopped peaches you left soaking in syrup, soaking up all the flavor until the moment is right.

You step back, wiping your brow, allowing yourself a moment—just one—to take it in. The meal is set, a quiet triumph, and for now, that’s enough.

Kareem slumps down on the chair as the echo of greeting and bickering in the room next door gives way to the hums and awes of enjoyment. – Who knew art could be so tiring, huh? – You say.

He looks up from his hands, an easy smile on his face, and nods. – “it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – The hum coaxes a brow raise from you as you wash your hands again.

– Okay, private school. – You laugh, and catch his shoulders shaking slightly as he watches you. – Care to enlighten the country bumpkin here before you?

– It’s a quote by Colin Murray Parkes.

– The actor?

He laughs even louder, delighted with your lack of poshness. – The psychiatrist. Didn’t you have psychology lessons in your school?

– Does the Outer Banks seem like the sort of place that would offer that curriculum?

– Well, no, of course. But you’re not from here, are you?

You gasp:

– Of course I am. – He doesn’t even pretend to hide his shock. – Born and bred in the OBX.

– Seriously, Routledge. Where did you learn to cook like this? Couldn’t have been here. – You let out an incredulous laugh, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t even find it insulting. – I didn't mean it like—

– I know. – You grin. – I learned how to cook because it’s the only luxury I could have, food can be elevated. It's the other things that are hard to come around. Sometimes I forget you tourons don’t read class cues like the islanders. I’m flattered you even considered the possibility of me being a kook.

– I feel like I’ve just been spoken to in tongues. – It's your turn to laugh again, the genuine bewilderment on his face a joke of its own. – Toro? Like bull?

– You’ve been living here for years and nobody taught you the hierarchy? – He shakes his head, earning more laughter from you. – I’m kinda glad. But here it is: OBX 101, brought to you by a Routledge. So the rich folk, inhabitants of the Figure Eight, this lovely little neighborhood we’re currently in, are the Kooks. Golf players, country club goers, the cream of the crop. Now they’re rich, but not rich like you’re rich.

– I’m not rich. – He pouts, and you have to bite back the brow raise.

– Says the man who had advanced psychology in his high school curriculum. You’re private school. Now, that’s not something to be embarrassed about. But, a pogue, the poor people of the island, the ones that live in the Cut, like me, we can tell.

– I think that’s just you. You get a good read on people. How’d you learn that by the way?

– My older brother who hated me kind of poisoned the well for me when it came to friends. I had to get my hands on whatever outsider I could reach.

Kareem’s brows furrow. – He sounds like a piece of shit.

– He used to be. We’re better now. – He seems unbelieving, but you don’t go any further. – Now you never told me where you’re from, but maybe I can guess you.

– I doubt that. – He says, the hum of his voice low and steady.

You tilt your head, and he smiles at you, signing for you to go on. – You’re a Texan, that much is obvious. By the accent, I’d say Dallas. And you’re a farm boy, clearly old money. Blue blood, boarding school bred.

– I’m from Highland Park. Which is, to your credit, in Dallas. – It feels good to be right. – But I’m not posh.

– Never said you were. – He’s the one raising a brow now, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Daniel, one of the servants, stands there, his face almost worried. – Mr. Cameron asked to see the chef. – Kareem swallows thickly, face suddenly void of all the playfulness he’d had just a moment earlier. But Daniel stops him again. – He asked for her.

You stop cold, heart hammering against your ribs. Daniel’s words echo in your head, but you don’t let yourself hesitate. Kareem steps forward, a steadying head wrapping around your arm. – Hey, don’t worry. Look, they probably just wanna compliment you. That lamb, it was great. Don’t worry about it.

– You don’t know that.

– Routledge, – It's almost pleading, the way he says it. A soft lull of a voice brushing against your ears as he tried to tranquilize you. But it doesn’t help. How often did things go well for you? You should’ve known better than to hope.

– I’ll be right back. – You murmur. Kareem tries to argue, but you’ve brushed past him before he can think to say anything else.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should, each step pulling tighter at the knot in your stomach. The hall seems to stretch around you as you reach the warm light bleeding in from the cracked door. You push through it, and immediately, the air thickens.

They’re all there.

It’s Rafe who holds your attention first. He’s leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face, self-satisfied. Like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s enjoying this.

Ward sits at the head of the table, relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Rose is poised beside him, her smile the perfect shade of contempt. Wheezie barely looks up from her phone, and Sarah… Sarah’s expression falls as she sees you, and she looks up from her plate with something can’t quite place.

Then your eyes shift, and you freeze.

At the opposite end of the table, just beside Sarah, sits your brother.

The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. His expression is cold, unreadable, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Your fingers tighten around the towel in your hands.

– Ah, there she is, – Ward's voice cuts through the silence, warm, approving. – When my son told me he had to fire the last cook, I didn’t think he’d go out and find us a new one. I doubted him, but I have to say, I was… pleasantly surprised. That was the best lamb I’ve had in years. Truly remarkable.

The words come out immediately, but no relief fills you as you speak. – Thank you sir. I’m glad you liked it.

– Liked it? Young lady, I loved this dish. I have to give it to Rafe, he’s ordered nothing but this for years, and I never saw the appeal, but, really, it’s fantastic.

Rose cuts in, a sharp drawl that shatters whatever sliver of gladness was building up. – Honey, you don’t need to be pedantic.

– But, I’m not, Rose. Really. Good help is so hard to find these days, especially on short notice. Very few people put their back into their work. And this, this is exactly that. Passion. I can tell you’re good at what you do.

– Thank you sir, really.

He smiles, gesturing toward his plate, then at Rafe, who’s still watching you like he knows something you don’t. – My son’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight. – He chuckles. – Lamb’s his favorite. But I’m sure you know that.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. – Yes, he did tell me that.

– She used to work at the Wreck. – Rafe hums, his eyes fixed on you, smiling from ear to ear as he swings a glass around. Scotch, by the looks of it. – She was a chef there. Some moron fucked up her order, and I… Well, I couldn’t think of never eating that lamb again.

You feign laughter, as demure as you can make it. – Yes, thank you for that. I really appreciate it.

– You already thanked me, – His grin is sharp, and he averts his eyes for a fraction of a second, gesturing for you to cut him another piece of lamb. You do, thankful for your steady hands and the heavy knife. – in the interview.

His father makes a sound of surprise. – You interviewed her? – He looks at you as you set the plate before Rafe.

– Yes he did. He was very thorough.

Ward seems pleased. – I’ve never seen this side of you, son. I’m glad to see you take an interest in what goes on in this house.

– What can I say? – Rafe looks back at you, signing to the bottle across the table. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you’re sure it's not meant to be fun for you. – I’m a proactive kind of guy.

Ward hums, taking a long sip of his wine as he watches you pour Rafe another drink. – I’m glad, son. I’m really glad. – You put the bottle back in its place, trying to ignore the gazes burning holes into your skin as you move to your original spot. – And what’s for dessert?

You hesitate only for a moment, wishing you could disappear. – Peach pie. It should be ready in ten minutes.

The reaction is immediate.

Ward smiles, slow and knowing, but before he can say anything, Sarah speaks.

– That’s Rafe’s favorite. – Her tone is cold, almost suspicious.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face smooth, your voice even. – Really? That’s a coincidence.

John’s voice echoes then, chilling your blood to ice. – Funny, right? It’s my dad’s favorite too. But she knows that. That why she makes it so well.

Ward doesn't miss a beat, even as Rafe turns to glare at your brother. – You two know each other?

John answers for you. – You could say that. – The earth could just split open, and swallow you whole. – Y/n is my baby sister.

– Really? – Ward’s laughter is deep, but somehow not incredulous. – And she’s Rafe’s friend. God, what a small world.

– Looks like it's getting smaller. – John adds. His stare burns into you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t let yourself look away first.

Instead, you square your shoulders, holding onto the only thing you can control—the steady rhythm of your breath, the knowledge that you belong here, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.

– Yes. Well, I’ll go check on that pie, and I’ll bring it out soon enough. – You say, voice steady.

Ward nods, pleased. – Good. We’re looking forward to it.

As you turn to leave, Rafe’s voice follows you, low and amused.

– Good job, newbie.

You don’t stop. You don’t react.

But your pulse thunders in your ears all the way back to the kitchen.

Kareem is already there, watching you closely as you step inside. – You okay? – His voice is low, cautious, but the concern is obvious. He nears you as if he’s cornering a wounded animal, warm hands landing on your arms like he’s afraid you’d bolt.

You try to nod, but the motion feels stiff, forced. Your hands are cold, even in the warmth of the kitchen. Kareem notices. He steps forward, brows furrowing as he reaches for your wrist. – You’re pale. Come— C’mere. Sit down for a sec.

Before you can respond, the kitchen door swings open again.

John walks in.

The air turns sharp. Kareem’s hand drops as your brother steps inside, his expression unreadable but heavy with something darker. He doesn’t look at Kareem. Just you.

– You have anything to say? – His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. – You already lied to me this morning, wanna get it out already?

Your pulse stumbles.

– John, please. I’m working right now.

Kareem straightens beside you, eyes flicking between the two of you. – Sir, you’re not supposed to be here—

– No. – John cuts in, still staring at you. – This doesn’t concern you, okay man? This is family business.

– Don’t talk to my boss like—

– I’ll talk if I fucking want to!

Kareem doesn’t hesitate, his hand resting on your shoulder for a split second before he steps in front of you. – This is not a therapist’s office, sir. She’s working, and you’re not supposed to be back here. So please, leave.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez

[meazalykov]

the number on my back, and in my heart

vivianne miedema x reader

requested by @jackiesunshines from her old blog

summary: a hard launch on the pitch was not expected from either of you

today is a different day. something different from the games you play for the national team and for manchester city. 

this game against the netherlands isn’t just any friendly for you. for the first time, you’ll share the pitch with viv, your manchester teammate, your girlfriend, you confidant, and the woman who’s quietly become the center of your life recently.

vivianne had joined manchester three months ago, leaving arsenal after a bunch of chaos and borderline abuse from the coach. the move had been a fresh start for her, but not an easy one. to be honest, vivianne did not want to leave arsenal at all. however, she needed to leave after no renewal was offered. 

so, when you were the first to make her feel welcomed at manchester.. well the one that was not already her dutch friends like jill and kerstin… it was no hard to catch feelings for you. 

you were steady,  and grounded, something viv needed. 

your relationship had blossomed quickly but naturally, like it was always meant to happen. vivianne was your opponent many, many times while she played at arsenal, but you would have never guessed that she would be your girlfriend at some point. 

your calmness balanced her intensity, and her quiet devotion gave you a sense of belonging you didn’t know you were missing. the two of you fit together seamlessly, even if you hadn’t said the three special words out loud yet.

standing in the locker room before the match in bingoal stadium, your heart thrums with nerves. you fiddle with the hem of your jersey, trying to shake off the weight of the occasion as sam is beside you talking about the matcha she had this morning. 

this match is just a friendly, you remind yourself through sam coffey’s talk. deep down, you know it’s more than that. it’s the first time you’ll play against vivianne as a opponent… and not with her as a teammate.

when you step onto the pitch with the captains band, as lindsey is getting rest on the bench, you try to not let your emotions show. the dutch fans are loud over your thoughts thankfully, their sea of orange vibrant against the evening sky. 

you scan the field and spot her near the center circle. even from this distance, viv is beautiful. she’s a force, her presence undeniable. 

when her gaze briefly finds yours, she offers the faintest of smiles…a shared moment you thought you would not have during this match. 

the first half is controlled. the netherlands presses hard, with viv helping their attack like the player she is. you watch her closely, both as an opponent and as someone who knows her game inside and out. 

every move she makes feels calculated, every pass precise. you can’t help but admire her, even as you work to shut her down in the mid.

at halftime, the score remains 1-1. the same player on the netherlands scoring both. in the tunnel, your eyes meet hers again and there’s a glimmer of something playful in her expression. 

she doesn’t say anything, but the corners of her mouth twitch, and you know she’s enjoying playing this match just as much as you are.

the second half brings more intensity. the netherlands pushes for the lead, and vivianne comes close to scoring twice. 

in the 86th minute, you spot lynn making a darting run down the left and thread a perfectly timed pass through the dutch defense. she takes it in stride, coolly slotting the ball past the keeper. 

2-1, usa.

when the final whistle blows, relief washes over you. it wasn’t an easy game, but it was a good one.

you make your way around the pitch, exchanging handshakes and hugs with players on both teams. when you reach viv, she’s already waiting after she handshaked with naomi, her jersey untucked and a playful smirk on her face. 

“swap?” she asks, holding out her hand. 

you nod, pulling off your popsicle blue kit and handing it to her. she does the same, and when you take her orange jersey, you can’t help but smile. 

it smells faintly of her perfume, a floral one with amber undertones.

the cameras are clicking and recording, capturing every second of your interaction. 

however, it’s when vivianne drapes her arm around your shoulders and leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head that everything seems to freeze. the world narrows to just the two of you, the noise of the stadium fading into the background.

you glance up at her, your cheeks warm. 

“you’re making this really obvious, you know.”

“maybe i want to,” she murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

the walk back to the locker rooms feels heavier than usual. part of you doesn’t want to leave her, even though you know it’s only a matter of days before you’re back in manchester together. 

outside the stadium, as the team buses line up, you find her hand and squeeze it gently.

“i’ll see you back home,” you say, your voice soft. 

she nods, her eyes holding yours like she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment. just as you’re about to step away, her lips form the words you’ve been longing to hear.

“i love you.” 

the world seems to tilt for a moment, her words sinking into your chest and settling there, warm and steady. 

you don’t hesitate, a smirk tugging at your lips as you reply.

“i love you more.”

she laughs softly, shaking her head like she doesn’t quite believe you, but you can see it in her eyes….she does. 

masterlist

[alyakthedorklord]

Omg literally it would be SO cool if you wrote the rest of the playboy bruce trying to kiss the justice league without them realizing it (I know you said figure it out but the way you wrote it was so good and funn I would love it if you gave maybe a couple of scenarios)

Lmao honestly executive dysfunction is kicking my ASS rn and it was intended as a prompt. I will try tho, definitely taking inspiration from the others who responded to the post because I love them.

If you haven’t, go check out the notes on the OG Post above! @britcision, @ivywing, and @help-i-need-a-cool-username all had amazing additions and @foursixtwonineoh-pieces-of-lego wrote a fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48325771

As did @scrapcheck, still in progress

And Devilhorn!

Anyways LONG post under the cut

Hal Jordan

Hal is first to prove a POINT, as @britcision decided. Also because the bastard made it waaaay too easy. Remember- Hal was Joking. He genuinely thinks Batman isn’t going to try, because he’s way too straight-laced boring.

So when he’s at a bar in Coast City, and he sees this absolutely ravishing man lounging casually against the wall, bar lighting making him practically glow (he CALCULATED that) subtle makeup making his bright blue eyes pop as he looks Hal up and down… Well. Hal makes the first move.

Hal: “All on your own, handsome?”

Bruce, with “Mastermind” by Taylor Swift playing in his head, smiling sweetly at Hal: “Care to change that?”

They start talking. Hal doesn’t recognize Bruce Wayne at ALL (canonically he does not know who Bruce Wayne is, a point brought up by @help-i-need-a-cool-username) so all he knows is Bruce is a single father who works at a company he inherited from his parents, which is just (brucie voice) “so much less interesting than a test pilot!”

Bruce, grimacing internally but wrapped around Hal’s arm with the awed and interested eyes in full effect: “you have such a nice voice, tell me more about planes…”

He KNOWS what a fuselage is, thank you, Jordan. Whatever. He gets to gush about his kids, when its his turn to talk, good enough tradeoff. He can survive Hal Jordan’s bad pick up lines and pretend he’s into them. At a certain point Bruce breaks and kisses him just to shut him up. One down.

Diana Prince

I looked it up- kissing in Ancient Greece wasn’t always considered romantic, but also a greeting between two similarly-ranked people. Therefore, I think Diana would be pretty chill with kissing and honestly an easy target at a gala if Bruce plays respectful/clumsy/earnest himbo starstruck with the tall pretty woman, just a peck would make him the happiest man alive. But I wanna go a little more in depth.

Now, I’ve seen Flash and Martian Manhunter save Bruce and/or his kids and Bruce lays one on them, but honestly I think it would work well with Diana too, because she loves kids. Dick and/or Jason (whichever you want to imagine, I want them to team up screw canon) are WAY to excited for this, they’ve got a little script and everything.

WonderWoman, a kid in each arm, delivering them back to their tearful guardian: “Here we are, Mr. Wayne. Whole and healthy.”

Dick, playing into his role eagerly: “Oh my gosh, Bruce! Bruce we got saved by a princess! It’s like a fairytale! Except, you know, the princess is the hero this time, which is so freaking cool!”

Bruce, tears of gratitude rolling down his face (and he knows how to still look perfect while crying, its a skill): “I’m just glad the two of you are safe, Chum.”

Jason, big baby blues in full effect, absolutely asked Wonder Woman to be his mom earlier (to set groundwork, no other reason): “You know, usually the princess and the hero gets a kiss at the end of a fairytale, Bruce. But this princess is both. So how will she get a reward?”

Still choked up with relieved tears and now laughter, Bruce looks up at Diana and smiles: “Well, if the Princess wants a reward… then I would be a fool to refuse.”

Bruce kisses her on the lips, Dick and Jason both kiss her cheeks, Diana leaves charmed and amused by the sweet family. Such a good father, humoring his children and thier little fascination with her, so very respectful…

Two down.

J’ohn Jones

Okay, martians are telepathic. So this goes one of two ways, at some sort of charity or something-

Option 1, Batman is a realist: the charity event is a masquerade, and he wanders over to where MM is while thinking “it would be so funny, give me this.” As loudly as he can. And Martian Manhunter, who appreciates the audacity, gives him a kiss. (I don’t like this one because it technically breaks the rules of the bet, bc MM knows it’s Batman, but eh)

Option 2, Batman is a different breed: he manages to up the ante with his Himbo Persona. Creating a “slippery void” mental facade that blocks of his real thoughts and makes him read as really just that stupid. This would require functioning with two trains of thought at once, and making sure that the Martian can only read the surface level, “oh, this one is pretty” “I really wouldn’t mind kissing him” and other such decoy thoughts, instead of “target is approaching, signs of interest present despite this not being his natural form-“

Bruce also researches and copies Martian courting styles and copies them “by chance,” catching MM’s attention. (He offers him Oreos)

Martian Manhunter: “this man… he is so empty headed and yet clearly kind and willing. I would not take him for a life partner, but for some simple fun as he seems to desire…”

(Edit: Maybe, if B is confident enough, he lets through his loneliness. Missing his parents, wanting affection, an ache so strong it’s like a physical wound. J’onn feels the same ache for his lost family, and decides to try this human’s strategy to fill that void. Either way…)

Batman 3, League 0

Barry Allen

I’m strangely blank when it comes to the Flash let me just spitball and let it snowball

As I said above, people have had him save Bruce, had Bruce seduce him at his workplace while taking a tour, I even saw @help-i-need-a-cool-username have Dick set up a petition for Bruce to kiss the Flash. (An idea that I personally think would also go really well with Superman lmao.)

Anyways, I think it would be funny for Bruce to take it slow with Barry. For the irony of it all. Because Batman is doing this to prove a POINT. So he’s in central city, spots Barry coming his way, and “accidentally” slips right into his arms. Ooh, or covered in coffee, like a wealth disparity drama base script, and Barry’s like “omg i am so sorry let me pay you back.” And bruce is all “this shirt costs (stupid amount of money)”

Barry: (fear)

Bruce, rolling with it rn: “yes, it is horrendous, isn’t it? Hows this- I’m in central city for a day. You can pay me back by showing me around?”

He then proceeds to string barry along on an honest to god DATE for shits and giggles. They go clothes shopping, they go to restaurants, Bruce pays for a big meal bc this is after a fight or something and Barry got hurt, his speedster comrade needs to EAT, damnit.

After all this, he gives a cheeky smile and lightly smooches Barry. “Thanks for the fun day, Mr. Allen.”

Barry, bright red and goo brained: “hah- mmhmm. Yeah…”

Batman 4, League 0

Oliver Queen

This one… Oliver is on guard. He’s twitchy and suspicious, turning down men flirting with him, people are starting to notice. But Bruce? Bruce just walks up at a party while “tipsy” and lays one on him. Straight up. He wants to show just how EASY it is. Because Oliver doesn't even register it. He just laughs and goes: “Hey Brucie! Miss me?”

Batman 5, League 0

Dinah Lance

Of course, immediately after above, he turns and pouts at canary.

Bruce: “Dinah darling, you are a saint, I don’t know how you put up with the mess he’s got on his face. He was so much nicer to kiss when we were in (fancy private school name drop) together and didn’t have all this nonsense.”

Dinah, laughing at Ollie’s offended noises: “Oh, I don’t mind it. He’s a good kisser.”

Bruce: “Of course he is, I taught him. Care to compare?”

Dinah: “Don’t mind if I do.”

Batman 6, league 0

Clark Kent

For Clark, Bruce is originally talking to Lois before he turns his eyes on a quiet Clark and croons: “So, Miss Lane, does this lovely specimen have his own questions, or is he arm candy? And if he’s the latter, can I either tempt him off you, or secure an invitation?”

Lois, an excellent friend who will absolutely set Clark up with the hottest bachelor in Gotham: “Well, Mister Wayne, I’ve got all I need. Clark, take a page from my book and honeytrap a good quote out of him, hm?”

With an obnoxious wink, she pats a spluttering Clark on the shoulder, and leaves him with a very smug Batman.

(Bonus Superbat- Clark and Bruce’s conversation is going REALLY WELL and to the point where both of them seem on board with more than a heavy makeout when Bruce puts a hand on Clarks chest.

Bruce: “Stop.”

Clark, freezing immediately: “I’m sorry, did I go too far-?”

Bruce: “No, no. I think I might be though. See, I have all of you now, and I’ve won the bet.”

Clark: “What are you- oh. Oh- HUH?”

Cue sudden and shocked revelation, Clark’s mind going a hundred miles an hour, and then skidding to a stop on- he only did this for the bet. He’s not really interested. He stopped because I went too far-

Bruce: “You only consented to a kiss without knowing my identity. Right now, I’d like to do more, if you’d let me.”

Clark has the dial-up tone ringing in his ears, he has no idea whats going on anymore, the hot billionaire and his reclusive teammate aren’t quite slotting into place, because he wants both but rhey’re so different but they’re the same but-

“Yes.”

Lois doesn’t get Clark back that night and she is delighted.)

Anyways, final results:

Batman: 7

League: 0

Reveal:

Batman talking shit about their secret identities again, Green Lantern is scoffing about it again, says something along the lines of: “You still think you’re sooooo great, huh? Hows the bet going, spooky?” Fully expecting Batman to get huffy with him.

Instead, Batman smirks.

He leans in

And purrs: “So you didn’t notice?”

The League freezes. The implications are dangling over their head. Did he… did he really?

Green Lantern, absolutely terrified: “No. no, there’s no way…”

Batman: “Oh, there absolutely was a way. I’d say you were a good kisser, but honestly? I think it might have been the euphoria of getting you to shut up.”

He turns on the rest of the league, still smirking. “I have kissed every single person who consented at least once in the time since the bet was made. Two of you with tongue. And no one has called me out on it. Now that you know it’s happened, you should be able to figure me out, so whoever can tell me my real name first, wont get thier story used as an example in the brand new “how to avoid honeypots” seminar.”

(If bonus superbat, B shoots Superman a Look and goes “except for you, superman, because I told you my name.” Which just ends up distracting everyone else until they get THAT story)

Diana wins bc she matched up the boys to the robins. Everyone else gets their stories told in excruciating detail. Batman rates them by kissing ability and how obvious he was on his approach. Oliver gets docked points for “texture.” Dinah gets docked points because “i griped about the exact same thing in and out of costume, how did you not notice-“

(Different reveal below)

@chaos-n-kindness @she-went-that-way @geekonaleash @redh00dsbf @howabouticallyou

[gale-gentlepenguin]

I really love Athena’s and Odysseus’ falling out in “My Goodbye”. Because this isn’t a case where one person is completely in the wrong. Both of them have gripes with eachother and it’s clear it’s been boiling up for a while.

Athena is correct, being a warrior of the mind means you are strategic and need to make calculated decisions. Odysseus sparing the cyclops was a stupid decision. And she is right to call him out on it. She warned him about how he was straying from the warrior of the mind, mindset. And it will only result in more dead friends

But Odysseus also puts out a good point. It’s so easy to judge when she isn’t the one on the battlefield, she’s immortal, she has no concept of dying or mortality. She isn’t the one that has to kill the babies or watch her comrades die because of one mistake. What good is being her student if he is haunted by his actions

Athena tells him that she is not his friend, she was his mentor, and it’s clear she was wasting her time with him. (Petty insults here)

Odysseus comes out saying “I know what IM fighting for, you’re just fighting for notoriety.” And his big finish is “Hey if you are so wise, why are you the one who’s alone?” Basically saying that’s what her teachings left her. All alone.

This struck a nerve, and Athena went with a more cold approach, and she basically goes.

“You will regret your decisions. I was your brains. And you won’t realize it soon because you are just a man.” Basically as a way to say he is narrow sited. And then she leaves.

Now after that, she basically went no contact with Odysseus for 10 years. Which to a normal person is a long time. But to Athena, it’s more like 10 minutes. Basically to her, she just had that arguement and realizing “Ohhhh I might have been a bit too harsh.”

Odysseus meanwhile was struggling. Which she was right about. But to his defense, most of those struggles weren’t his fault. It was his crew being stupid. But even after all that. He does call out to her in his darkest hour. Showing how he does wish for her help. How he misses his friend/mentor.

This is also why her relationship with Telemachus was great, because while Odysseus was learning ruthlessness. Athena was learning empathy and compassion. In a way, her arc was the reverse of Odysseus. She realized a warrior of the mind could have emotions, could be caring but also strong. emotions Tempered their decisions.

So when Athena gave her all to save ody in god games. She appealed to mercy of Zeus. She made a passionate plea for him. Something that the old calculating and by the numbers Athena wouldn’t have done.

Athena was changed by Odysseus and Telemachus. Athena even changing her vision of the world she wants. A world of understanding.

So her meeting with Odysseus in “I can’t help but Wonder” is such a touching bittersweet moment. It’s two old friends reuniting and seeing themselves on different trajectories. But having a mutual respect for eachother. There were no apologies given, because they weren’t needed. They both had their next steps set up and they wished eachother luck.

[writerspirit]

Chapter I

Pairing(s): Melissa Schemmenti x Fem!Reader

Series: Schemmenti Family Agenda

Synopsis: After a student makes a comment to Y/n, Melissa takes into consideration what the next steps in your relationship should be.

Themes/Warnings: Fluff, Angst (please let me know if there are any warnings to be aware of)

A/N: I first wrote this part in an early morning surge of energy. I've already started on part two, so be on the lookout for that. I've also started an outline for an Agatha Harkness/Agnes x Fem!Reader w/ "magic baby" trope.

WC: ~ 2.15k

Having kids wasn’t something you thought to ever be on the agenda. It never was with you and Melissa. Both you and her being elementary teachers for Abbott, the only kids you two ever talked about “having” were your students. It has been a nice flow between you professionally. You being the other first grade teacher in the school, a good amount of kids in your class progress to your wife’s classroom in their following school year. These handful of kids are called by the other teachers as the “Double Schemmenti” kids, which you and Melissa find endearing.

These little aspects of your life at Abbott make being a teacher for these kids the best job anyone could ask for. Not to mention having the role of being these kids’ mentor, even sometimes their parent, is a gift in itself. So, whenever babies were a thought, it was more of a subtle whisper, rather than a thought-provoking idea.

That is until Melissa walks into your classroom after school one day to find you with one of your students playing with the deck of cards she so graciously lent for the room. 

“Hey, honey,” she smiles, making her way inside.

“Mrs. Schemmenti!” Aspen squeals. “Mrs. Schemmenti is teaching me how to play Kings in the Corner. It helps with my counting.”

“That’s great, sweetheart.” The redhead looks over at his hand and smiles. “Maybe next year you’ll be able to get a good grasp on poker so that you can beat all the chumps at the table.”

Aspen gives her a quizzical look. You, a furrow of the eyebrows, telling her to test the waters. She mouths a ‘sorry’ along with a low smile. Bringing her attention to your cards, she chuckles. “I don’t know, Mrs. Schemmenti. I think the kid’s hand is just enough to rattle you outta luck.”

Aspen’s smile turns to a little dance in place, in anticipation for his next move. 

You bring yourself to feign a sigh. “I think you might be right. I just can’t believe Aspen is so good already, and it’s his first time playing.”

Melissa shuffles back next to Aspen, who glances at her before she nods. “Take her down, kid.”

He rushes for a card before calculating his line of moves to play. With what seems to be one swift motion, his cards disappear from his hand and onto the floor with the others. “I got ya, Mrs. Schemmenti! Victory is mine!”

You giggle along with him. “You got me!” You and Melissa dance with him, doing your own little dances in place. Once he’s seemed to settle down from his victory dance, you help him pick up the cards.

“Why don’t you practice your shuffling while I talk with Mrs. Schemmenti?”

He nods. “Okay. I’ll go sit at my desk.”

“Okay.”

“He’s a quick little guy, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is. Smartest kid in the class. Maybe the smartest I’ve ever taught.” You peek at him, seeing if he’s focused on the cards in his hand, which he is. “His mom is working a little late today. The divorce hasn’t been easy for either of them, so I told her that I can stay with Aspen a little later than the allotted time for pickup.”

Melissa sighs. “Don’t I know it. Divorce is tough. I can’t imagine the added stress of having a child during the process.”

You quickly take a look at your watch. “You don’t have to wait up for me. Janine and Ava have step practice today, and I’m sure I can catch a ride with one of them if you want to go home. I know you have grading to get done.”

“I can wait here with you and the little guy. Grading can wait a little longer, and besides, I don’t want you catching a ride with either of ‘em as long as I’m here. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew I’d been responsible for another Janine car ride migraine.” Her lips perk up into a smile.

"I swear if I hear another lecture on the benefits of different colored highlighters, I’ll–"

“Mom!” Aspen squeals, getting out of his seat and running to his mother’s arms. She lays a soft kiss on his head.

“Hi, Aspen. How was school?” Dina’s eyes turn from his to yours. “Was he okay?”

You nod. “The little champ beat me in Kings in the Corner.”

“And I know how to shuffle now. So now I can help you when we play Uno.”

“Great job, honey. And I’m sure now you can help me beat Grandpa when he comes to visit next week.”

Aspen seemingly lights up brighter than before. “Grandpa’s coming? Yay!” He envelops her in a hug.

“Honey, why don’t you grab your things so I can talk to your mom?” Your eyes quickly glance at his belongings that sit on and around his desk. 

“I’ll give you two a minute.” Melissa moves towards Aspen. “I’ll help him get his things.”

“Thank you for everything. Really, you’re a lifesaver.” Dina lets a sigh leave her lips. “He’s really been doing great through this whole thing.”

“No disruptions, no problems. I wish I had his positive attitude all the time. And hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind getting beat at cards. He’s a smart kid.”

Dina smiles.

“I’m ready,” Aspen says. He walks up to meet his mother’s side, where she places a hand on his shoulder. “Mrs. Schemmenti?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“You’re gonna make a great mom one day,” his smile widens before he says his goodbyes to you and Melissa. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, kid. We’ll see ya,” Melissa adds. She turns to you. “Ready to go?”

“Mhm,” you grab your bag’s handle, but it’s quickly taken away from you when the older woman grabs it. “Melissa, I can carry my stuff.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” She smiles as you grab hold of her arm.

Walking out of Abbott, you both send smiles and your own goodbyes to a few colleagues. Your hand never strays from her arm, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“So what are you feeling like for dinner?” She asks.

“Are you asking because you feel like cooking, or are you asking me because you want to just order takeout?”

She chuckles. “I was actually asking because I could go for anything you wanted to cook.”

“Enchiladas, then.”

“Well, they’re your signature.” She places a kiss on your temple.

When you reach the car, she walks with you to the passenger’s side, opening the door for you. “My lady,” she smiles watching you take your seat. She hands you your bag, and closes the door.

You reach over to the door and pull the door handle for her. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“Anything for my girl,” you say. Her hand instinctively rests on your thigh as she starts the drive to your shared home. You move a hand to graze her arm.

“So,” Melissa starts up a new conversation when you hit upon a red light. “Aspen gave you a really nice compliment there, huh?”

“What?” You take a moment to think back. “Oh… yeah, he’s a really sweet kid. I hope you get to teach him next year. I mean he already loves you.”

Melissa turns the music up a bit, as your favorite song plays. While you’re jamming, she hums along, singing the words in her head. Unbeknownst to you, Melissa is thinking harder than she’d care to admit to about Aspen’s words. Had you given any thought to having a child of your own? She hasn’t expressed any interest in having a mini Melissa since she was younger, when her sister had her first baby.

As if the memory played out word for word, she remembers how crushed she was when, while holding her then baby nephew, Joe completely shut down the idea of growing their family. 

As if you know she needs a distraction of sorts, you speak up, taking her out of her thoughts. “Oh, honey, I think we need to stop at the grocery store. Is that okay with you?”

She nods and forces a smile for you.

– – – –

Melissa’s hand never leaves the small of your back while you push the cart. Along the journey of getting the ingredients necessary for your dinner, she looks around every aisle that you walk through. Almost finished with the aisle you two are currently in, you start your way towards the registers. As you wait in one of the lines, Melissa picks up bits of the couple’s conversation happening in front of her, talking about their excitement in welcoming their own bundle of joy in seven months. 

“Melissa?”

“Hm,” she turns her attention towards you.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been almost quiet since we left school. The only times I ever experience quiet Melissa is when you’re scheming. Well, that or you’re planning someone’s meeting with justice.”

“I’m fine, hon.” She places her hands on either side of your waist, and places a few light kisses on your temple. “I’m perfect.”

– – – –

“Amore,” she starts.

“Hm,” you hum, sipping your wine.

“Nothin’.”

“Baby,” you reach your hand and place it gently on her own. “What’s up?”

She has a glint in her eyes. One you’ve only seen two other times – when she was too nervous to ask you to be her girlfriend, and then again when she asked you to be her wife. By this, you know she has got something big on her mind.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her voice not leaving a low tone. She focuses her attention on her plate, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Okay…” you start. “But I will. You have the look.”

“What look?” Her eyes bounce to you, now wide, awaiting your response.

“You’ve only ever looked at me twice like that before, and both times they were because you had something big to get off your chest. Now please…” You place your hand on her thigh. “What is it, Melissa?”

“You ever thought about maybe… I don’t know… it’s just us here. And sometimes I feel it. The… space.”

You stay silent, trying to piece together what she’s going on about. Was she getting sick of you? Was this marriage too much for her? She doesn’t skip a beat though. Her rambling is starting to sound like she is convincing herself of something, in hopes you’ll say what’s bothering her, so she doesn’t have to. That’s when in the midst of your spacing out, there is only one sentence that makes you freeze.

“Maybe an addition to us wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“You want to have a baby,” she can’t tell by your tone if you were stating it as if it were a fact, or rather forming it in a question. “Like… a baby.”

“No, wait, I didn’t say that,” her voice rises in pitch. “Per say.”

You wait a minute, in case she has more to say. “Okay…”

Crap! May day! May day! Retreat! Her thoughts tell her.

She downs the beer that is left in her bottle. Her hands grab for your plates and starts her way to the kitchen. “Just forget I said anything.”

“But, Melissa–”

“Please, just forget it, Y/n.”

– – – –

After dinner, you and Melissa snuggle up on the couch. Your face is nestled in her neck, giving soft kisses where you know she loves them. This would usually lead to you ravaging each other until the sunrise spills through your curtains. Tonight, however, doesn’t look like that is in the cards for you.

Your hand begins drawing patterns on her thigh, as you continue your kisses on her skin. “Your thoughts are loud tonight, my love.”

“Hon,” Melissa whispers, her voice almost impossible to hear over the television. As if on cue, the Dancing With the Stars theme sings for you. “Look, the show is starting.”

The rest of the night is much quieter than usual. Adding to your worry, Melissa doesn’t seem as enthusiastic about the episode as she usually is. There’s no yelling at the television, rarely a chuckle, and not even a snack to go with the episode.

As the episode ends, Melissa breathes a heavy sigh. “Ready for bed?”

You take a look at your phone which reads the time. “Yeah,” you say with simple directions. “Just… give me a minute and I’ll be up.”

She nods as she rises off the couch. She makes sure to place a gentle kiss on your cheek before heading upstairs.

At the sound of Melissa ascending the stairs, you quickly grab your phone. Opening your Contacts app, Barbara Howard’s phone number is already in view for you. With a second to think on a decision, a sigh leaves your lips, and the clicking of the power button shuts the device off.

Sleep on it. Whatever it is.