#holds doors open for him and includes him in things and holds him steady i just . RIPS MY SHIRT OFF AND FALLS TO MY KNEES

[abbotjack]

Sticky Fingers, Quiet Mornings

part four of the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two ✧ part three)

summary : Jack Abbot was built for crisis—night shifts, trauma codes, war. But fatherhood breaks him in all the best ways. Told in twelve toddler phases.

word count : 9,321

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! toddler behavior and development, parenting themes, pregnancy (including trying to conceive), soft domestic smut, minor illness scare, marriage/relationship intimacy, emotionally vulnerable Jack Abbot.

Phase One: The Cling Era

7:04 PM on a Wednesday, and she thinks he’s leaving forever again

She doesn’t cry when he puts on his badge.

Or when he zips the fleece halfway up, or when he takes his coffee from the microwave with his non-dominant hand like he always does.

She waits.

Waits until he reaches for the door.

Then she breaks.

“No!” she wails, voice cracking. “No, no, no—Dada no!”

Jack stills mid-step.

He closes his eyes, shoulders stiffening as her bare feet slap against the floor behind him.

You’re standing at the sink watching the whole thing unfold like it has every night this week. Her in tears. Him halfway gone. You trying not to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Jack turns, just in time for her to hurl herself into his leg.

It’s the right one. The one that isn’t real.

She doesn’t know that yet.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters under his breath. He drops to a knee, balancing on the other like muscle memory. “Hey. Hey. Come on, bean.”

She’s sobbing now—small body shaking, cheeks red and hot, tiny fists grabbing at the front of his scrub top like she can keep him from vanishing.

“Dada don’t go,” she whispers. “No go. No go.”

He wraps his arms around her. Sinks the rest of the way to the floor.

You exhale and kneel beside them, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s back. You feel the tension in him—how he holds her like she’s a patient coming apart in his arms, like every second of this is costing him something.

“I can’t keep doing this to her,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re going to work.”

“She thinks I’m dying.”

“She thinks you’re gone. That’s different. And she’s one, Jack. She doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he leans down and murmurs something into her hair. You can’t hear what. Just that his voice shakes at the edges.

By 7:22PM, he’s supposed to be gone.

Instead, he’s lying on the couch with her draped across his chest, her hands tangled in the collar of his fleece. He still hasn’t put on his boots.

“I’ve got five minutes,” he mutters. “If I’m late, Robby can start the shift with less sarcasm for once in his life.”

“She’s going to wake up the second you move,” you warn.

“I know.” His hand moves gently up and down her back. “She always does.”

You sit on the arm of the couch and stroke your fingers through her hair. “Want me to take her?”

“No,” he says. Quiet but firm.

A pause.

“Jack…”

He looks up at you.

And it hits you—how tired he is. How deep under the surface this ache runs. The discipline keeps him standing. The darkness keeps him working. But this? This small body asleep against his chest? It’s the only thing that unmans him.

“She didn’t cry like this before,” he says. “Before she knew what ‘bye’ meant.”

“She cries because she does know.”

He swallows. “That’s worse.”

“Not to her.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything.

At 7:39PM, he finally lifts her.

She stirs but doesn’t cry, nose wrinkling as she blinks up at him like she can’t remember whether he’s staying or going.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Okay?”

She stares. Says nothing.

Then—like clockwork—she bursts into fresh tears.

Jack clenches his jaw, sets her down on the ottoman, and crouches to lace up his boots.

You hover behind her, one hand braced on her back.

She screams when he opens the door.

“Dada!” she sobs. “No. Dada stay. Dada stay.”

Jack freezes in the threshold.

His shoulders curl forward like someone’s punched him.

Then, without looking back, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

The door closes.

By 8:15PM, she’s asleep in your arms—still sniffling, exhausted, the front of your shirt damp from tears.

You get a text just as you’re lowering her into the crib.

I should’ve handled that better. I made it worse.

She calmed down. She always does. You made it worse by being someone she loves so much she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’ll be back before sunrise. Will you tell her that?

She knows. It’s why she screams.

I’d rather get shot again. This hurts worse.

He comes home at 6:56AM.

You’re already dressed—button-down tucked into slacks, second cup of coffee half-finished on the bathroom counter. The bedroom light is off, hallway dim in the early winter gray. You hear the door close, then the heavy sound of his boots being eased off.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks in slow—scrub top wrinkled, fleece half-zipped, exhaustion written in the slope of his shoulders. His bag drops by the bench. You meet him at the doorway, socked feet on the hardwood.

But he doesn’t stop.

He walks right past you and into her room.

You follow, quietly.

He kneels beside the crib and reaches one hand through the slats.

She doesn’t wake. But her body shifts instinctively toward the warmth, toward him, like something cellular inside her recognizes he’s home.

He stays there like that for a long time. Silent. Steady. Palm resting gently on her back like he’s holding something together—something fragile and unseen.

You watch from the doorway, still holding your travel mug.

After a while, he looks over at you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You cross the room, set your coffee down, and open your arms.

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER doc, man who finds comfort in the darkness but still comes home to the light—lets himself be held.

You wrap your arms around him like scaffolding. Let him breathe.

You hold him the way he held her.

Quietly. Fully. As the sky over Pittsburgh begins to pale.

Phase Two: The Nap Strike

Where Jack learns you can’t negotiate with toddlers—only surrender on your knees with crackers

The plan was simple: You’d sleep in. Jack would keep her occupied for the morning. Then you’d trade, and he’d crash until dinner. A peaceful, domestic arrangement—civilized, efficient.

But at 5:06AM, the plan dies.

Jack gets home early, for once—just before dawn, fleece zipped to his chin, exhausted but functional. The shift was unusually light. Just one drunk college kid, a laceration, a call that turned out to be a false alarm. He’d left before the sun came up, driving through a foggy Pittsburgh quiet that felt like it belonged to him. Like maybe he’d sneak in two hours of sleep before she woke.

But the second he walks through the door, he hears it.

Not crying. Not fussing.

Just one word, clear as a command: “Dada?”

He freezes. Keys in hand.

Then again: “DADA WAKE. DADA UP NOW!”

He glances at the monitor on the hallway table. Bright green bar bouncing. You’re still fast asleep, curled under the duvet, face soft, peaceful. Jack exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and nods like he’s accepting deployment.

“Copy that,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

By 5:18AM, he’s on the nursery floor with her in his lap, eating Cheerios dry from a plastic bowl.

She’s wide awake. Radiant with mischief. Hair like static. Onesie already unzipped halfway down her chest.

“You didn’t even try to go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles. “Didn’t even pretend.”

She offers him a Cheerio. He takes it. She laughs like it’s hilarious.

You don’t stir. You’ve been working ten-hour days, two audits back-to-back, and this was the deal: he takes the morning, you sleep until ten. She usually doesn’t wake until eight.

Today, she’s a menace.

At 6:01AM, Jack sends the first text.

target acquired status: hostile woke up demanding crackers and Bluey currently brushing my kneecap with her toothbrush

also i love her more than oxygen but i’m scared

By 6:47AM, he’s on his second attempt at a nap wind-down.

Bottle. Dark room. Soft hum of the ceiling fan.

She drinks three sips, fake yawns, and then—grinning—claps and yells “I WAKE NOW!”

Jack sighs and tries not to take it personally.

she is refusing to sleep just said “no nap daddy” and kicked her duck across the room i fear she’s possessed or worse toddler

You wake to twelve texts.

It's 9:13AM.

You stretch, blink blearily, and pad downstairs in your robe and socks.

The living room looks like a war zone: blankets piled like barricades, board books scattered like casualties. The TV is frozen mid-Bluey. A sippy cup lies abandoned under the armchair.

And Jack?

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair wild, t-shirt stained with what might be applesauce. The baby is climbing him like a jungle gym. He’s not moving. Just letting her.

You lean against the doorframe.

“She didn’t nap?”

Jack looks up. Blinks slowly.

“She screamed the word ‘no’ at me twenty-eight times,” he says. “I counted. Then she told me ‘Dada go to work.’ Like she was firing me.”

You snort. “That’s brutal.”

“She called duck a traitor. Then kissed him and apologized.”

“She’s learning emotional regulation.”

“She’s learning psychological warfare.”

You reach for your daughter. “My turn.”

“No.” Jack stands, lifting her off his shoulders. “I’ll try again. If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ve joined her cause.”

At 9:52AM, she finally falls asleep.

Jack manages it by holding her in the glider for a full 23 minutes—just rocking and breathing, watching her eyelids flutter and fight before finally dropping.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift his weight. Just sits there in the soft morning light, hands steady on her back, like he's still in the trauma bay, keeping vitals steady.

When you poke your head into the nursery, he just glances up.

“Got her,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

You kneel beside the chair. Press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She told you to go to work?”

Jack exhales. “Twice. Then smiled and said ‘bye-bye dada.’ Like I was already gone.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” he says quietly. “In that moment, she does.”

You reach up, tangle your fingers with his.

“She always wants you again after.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her—soft breath, small body, warm weight.

“She always comes back,” he murmurs.

You kiss his jaw. “That’s because you do, too.”

He falls asleep an hour later in bed, one hand still curled like he’s holding her. You slide in beside him, wrap your arm across his chest, and match your breathing to his.

Phase Three: “I Do It Myself”

Where Jack learns the real grief of fatherhood is not chaos—it’s watching her not reach for you

It starts with the shoe.

Saturday morning. You’re finishing dishes in the kitchen, the windows open to a Pittsburgh breeze that smells like wet concrete and spring.

Jack’s at the bottom of the stairs, crouched, holding her sneakers. She’s sitting on the fourth step, legs swinging, watching him with a look that’s already defiant.

“You wanna help me?” Jack asks, gently, holding out one Velcro shoe.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll do it together.”

She snatches the shoe from his hand and slams it on the wrong foot.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You sure that’s how it goes?”

“I DO IT,” she snaps, voice high and serious.

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright. You do it.”

You lean against the doorframe, towel in hand, watching this unfold with careful silence.

She starts working the Velcro. Tongue sticking out. Absolute focus.

Jack waits.

And then, when she finally gets it on—upside down, strap crooked, toes curled—she beams.

“I DID it, Dada!”

Jack nods once. “Yeah. You did.”

He smiles. But you see it—the flicker. The quiet ache behind the pride.

That afternoon, he’s quiet.

You’re folding laundry on the bed while he reads the paper beside you, still in black sweatpants and a t-shirt from some long-ago charity 5K. But he hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

You don’t push. Not yet.

It’s only when you come back with the second load that you catch him standing in the hallway outside her door, just… watching her.

She’s on the rug. Putting stickers on her duck. Quiet. Focused.

“She asked me to leave the room,” he says, not looking at you.

“What?”

“When I offered to help with the puzzle. She said, ‘Dada go. I do it myself.’”

You step up beside him. “Jack.”

“She said it twice. Not angry. Just… like a fact. Like she’d already decided.”

You rest a hand on his back. “She’s growing.”

He nods. “I know. That’s the job.”

A long pause.

“She still needs you,” you say.

He breathes out, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Just not all the time anymore.”

Later that evening, you catch him in the garage.

He’s standing by the workbench, holding one of her old shoes. The tiny white pair with the pink stripe she wore when she first learned to walk. You kept it because she scuffed the toes dragging them down the driveway after him.

He brushes a thumb across the sole.

You walk up behind him. Slide your arms around his waist.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like she’s already running. And I’m not supposed to follow.”

You hold him tighter. “You built her to run.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. But I thought I’d carry her a little longer.”

The next morning, she asks him for help again.

It’s small. Just a zipper. Her coat caught on the hem, stuck halfway up.

Jack kneels down, hands calm.

“You want me to—?”

She nods, silent this time. “Need help, Dada.”

He fixes it slowly. Carefully. Then stands.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods, blinking hard. “Anytime, bean.”

You watch from the door as she slips her hand into his. Just for a second. Long enough to steady herself on the step.

Long enough to remind him:

She’ll always come back.

Even when she’s learning to go.

Phase Four: The Sick Day

Where Jack learns that the scariest moment isn’t watching someone code—it’s seeing “she’s not okay” on your phone when you’re twelve minutes away from home

You almost didn’t go.

It had been one of those weeks. You were late every day to work, and Jack had picked up a last-minute double on Thursday that ran until dawn. You both looked like people hanging on by threads—but he came into the bathroom that morning, caught you half-dressed and towel-drying your hair, and said:

“We need a night.”

You looked up, tired. “You’re gonna fall asleep in the booth.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll be across from you while I do it.”

You smiled.

And that’s how you ended up here, in heels you haven’t worn since before her first birthday, brushing your fingers through your hair in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck while he drives you into Shadyside. He’s in dark jeans, a black dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Clean-shaven. Warm-eyed. His prosthetic shifts as he drives, but he doesn’t wince. He hasn’t said much since you left the house—just glanced over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say something,” you finally murmur, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he mutters. “But you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “This? It’s from before I even met you.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what it’d do to me.”

You grin, lean back. “You could say you like it.”

“I could. Or I could spend the next hour trying to focus on what you’re saying while imagining getting you out of it.”

You laugh. He does, too—quiet and real, the kind he only gives you.

The night is soft. Pittsburgh spring chill, but tolerable. The restaurant is warm. You share bread, clink glasses. He watches your hands when you speak. Brushes his knuckles against your wrist when he wants you to keep going.

“Your voice changes when you’re not exhausted,” he says suddenly, over dessert. “Like—lighter.”

“You saying I sound like a gremlin most days?”

“I’m saying you sound like you tonight.”

You blink. He’s watching you like he’s storing you in memory.

You can feel it—the weight of his want. It’s not loud. Not overt. It’s Jack. So it lives in the way his hand stays over yours too long. The way he watches you laugh like it’s a privilege. The way his voice drops when he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

You lean closer. “Do I really look that different?”

“No,” he says. “You look like the girl I married. Just… undistracted.”

You kiss him across the table, slow and steady.

He grins into it. “You’re not gonna make me wait ‘til we’re home, are you?”

“Oh, I am.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He exhales, drops his head, grinning.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

EMILY - BABYSITTER

hey she woke up crying really warm not calming down asking for Jack

Your blood goes cold.

Jack sits up instantly. “What?”

You hand him the phone.

He’s out of his chair before he’s finished reading.

“Jack—”

“Call her,” he says. “I’ll get the truck.”

He’s gone before you stand.

You fumble your coat on, call Emily as you hurry through the door. She answers quickly.

“She’s okay, just—she’s hot. She wouldn’t let me hold her at first. Then she cried for Jack and curled up. I took her temp. It’s 101.9.”

You’re already on the sidewalk.

“Okay. We’re on the way.”

Jack’s pulled up to the curb, window already down.

“She still crying?” he asks the second you get in.

“Not anymore. Just whimpering.”

He nods. Pulls into traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other already clenching his thigh. You reach over. He’s rigid.

“She’s had fevers before.”

“She’s never asked for me in the middle of one.”

“She just needed comfort.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But his foot presses harder on the gas.

You get home in seven minutes flat.

Emily opens the door before you knock. “She’s upstairs,” she says. “I’m so sorry—she was fine when you left.”

You’re already climbing the stairs.

Jack’s ahead of you.

He opens her door and everything stops.

She’s in her crib, curled in the corner, tear-damp and blinking. The second she sees him, her hands shoot up.

“Dada…”

Jack’s across the room before you can exhale.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says softly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

She lets out a sound—not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just a noise of relief.

He picks her up like she’s glass.

She melts into him. Tiny hands clutching his shirt. Face pressed against his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I got you.”

You hover nearby with the thermometer.

Jack sits on the glider with her still in his arms.

“101.6,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’m not letting go until it drops.”

You bring a bottle of Pedialyte. She won’t take it.

Jack hums low against her ear. “Come on, bean. Just a sip.”

She sips. Then rests again.

He holds her like that for forty minutes.

At 10:27PM, she finally sleeps.

Still on his chest. One hand tangled in his shirt.

You sit at his feet, watching her rise and fall with every breath.

Jack’s voice is hoarse. “She said my name like it hurt.”

“She needed you.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t here.”

“You came the second you could.”

“She asked for me. She asked—and I wasn’t already there.”

You press your head to his thigh.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly: “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You glance up. “Jack—”

“You made me want to forget we had a kid for a second. That’s how bad I wanted you.”

You exhale.

“But the second that text came in—” His voice cracks. “Everything else went quiet. My whole body just—locked in. I didn’t care what it ruined. I just needed her in my arms.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, your head pressed to his leg.

“She’s okay,” you whisper. “Because you’re here.”

He looks down at you.

And the look on his face—it’s not wrecked. Not broken.

It’s reverent.

Like he’s watching the two people he loves most in the world just exist, and it’s almost too much.

You reach for his hand.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

“In a minute,” he says. “I want to hold her a little longer.”

And so you leave them there—father and daughter, tangled in breath and heat and quiet.

Phase Five: The Hint

Where Jack breaks in the best possible way when you say five simple words: I want another with you.

You’re at Target on a Sunday afternoon. Late March. That kind of Pittsburgh cold where the wind feels like it might stay in your bones until June. Your daughter is in the front of the cart, legs swinging, cheeks pink, half a cheddar cracker crushed in her fist. Jack walks beside you, one hand on the handlebar, the other casually bumping your hip every few steps.

He’s wearing a black hoodie over a soft gray henley, jeans worn at the knees, the brim of his Pirates cap low over his brow. There’s stubble on his jaw and warmth in his voice every time he leans down to make her laugh. He looks tired—you both do—but it’s the soft kind. The good kind. The kind that means you made it through another week.

You’re there for laundry pods and maybe some coffee beans.

But you pass the baby aisle.

And your feet slow.

It’s instinct. Nothing urgent. Just that old ache. That memory of standing in this same aisle over a year ago, swollen and giddy and scared.

Jack clocks it instantly.

“What,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the shelves, “just gonna do a fly-by on the baby aisle and not tell me?”

You smile. “I forgot how small the swaddles used to be.”

Your daughter makes a high, delighted noise. Jack reflexively reaches out, rubs her shoulder with one big hand, gaze still on you.

You pick up a pack of socks. Newborn. White with a yellow trim. You run your thumb across them. They weigh nothing.

Jack watches the way your fingers still.

“You miss it?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Sometimes. Not the sleep deprivation. But the rest? Yeah.”

He takes a step closer. Lowers his voice to something rougher, more private. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

You hesitate. Then, with a breath: “I want another.”

Jack goes completely still beside the cart.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” you say quickly. “We’re just now starting to feel like ourselves again. Your schedule’s a mess. We’re barely keeping the house in one piece. But—”

“Say it again,” he says. Voice low. Almost hoarse.

“Jack—”

“Please.”

You look him in the eye.

“I want another baby. With you.”

He closes his eyes like you just cut through him.

Then he breathes out.

“Put the socks in the cart,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

You blink. “We haven’t gotten anything.”

“I don’t care.”

You glance at the cart. “What about coffee?”

“I’ll drink air.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re serious.”

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “You expect me to walk around and buy paper towels like you didn’t just say the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear?”

You toss the socks in the cart.

Back home, she watches a movie with her duck and some yogurt melts while you and Jack tag team bedtime. Bath. Lotion. Soft pajamas with the feet. You reads two books and brush her hair. She fights sleep until the second you turn on the white noise.

At 7:43PM, the house is quiet. Hushed like a chapel after the candles have gone out.

You close her door with care, easing it shut until the latch clicks into place. One last check on the monitor. One last scan of the nightlight’s soft glow on her face.

And then—Jack.

He’s already waiting in the hallway like he knew you’d come looking. Hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbow, bare forearms folded, shoulder against the wall. The low light from the bathroom casts his face in half-shadow. His mouth is tense. His eyes—dark, unreadable—don’t leave yours.

“You still mean it?” he asks.

His voice is low. Strained. Not cautious—just holding back something too big to let out in a hallway.

You don’t hesitate. “I meant it all day.”

A breath hitches in his throat. He nods once, the movement tight. Swallows hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he walks past you. Slow. Steady. Not dragging his feet, not rushing. Just… certain. Like he’s walking toward something he’s already chosen. Something that changed the minute you said I want another baby.

You follow.

Your bedroom is dim—streetlamp light bleeding silver across the floor through the blinds. The ceiling fan hums. One of his socks is still on the floor from this morning. The bed’s half-made. You couldn’t care less.

Jack closes the door behind you. Turns.

“You meant it,” he says again. Not a question this time. A quiet reckoning.

You nod. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Something shifts in him. Like tension letting go of the wire it was wrapped around. But it doesn’t unravel. It sharpens. Refines. Focuses.

Jack steps in. Crosses to you with the deliberate calm he brings to the edge of chaos. Hands at your waist. Palms warm. Fingers curling in slowly like he’s still making sure you’re real.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he murmurs.

“I think I do.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away. Not yet. Just stares—eyes flicking over your face, down to your lips, your throat, then back up again. Like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart.

Then finally—

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Intentional. A breath pulled between you. Tongue tracing your bottom lip like he’s tasting the weight of the words you said. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, over skin he’s touched a thousand times but still reveres like it’s holy.

You pull his hoodie off. Then the t-shirt beneath. He lets you undress him like you’re the only one allowed. The muscles of his chest tense when your fingers brush over the old shrapnel scar near his ribs. You trace it like always—gentle, silent, familiar—and he shivers like he did the first time.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He undresses you next. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Careful.

When he lays you down on the bed, it’s with both hands braced against the mattress. His knee follows, then the shift of his weight above you. His prosthetic comes off silently at the foot of the bed—second nature by now. He doesn’t draw attention to it. He doesn’t need to.

He settles between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, coaxing them open. You let him.

“Tell me again,” he says.

“I want another baby,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter closed like you just took the air out of his lungs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack groans—low and wrecked—and bends down to kiss your chest, your stomach, the inside of your hip. He takes his time. He doesn’t tease. He worships. Because that’s how he fucks when he’s in love. With reverence. With purpose.

He presses his forehead against your belly like he’s already imagining it growing inside you.

Then he comes up. Mouth to yours. Breath mingling. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s slow. Deep. Every inch earned.

He holds there. Doesn’t thrust. Just… feels. Eyes locked on yours. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek like he’s grounding himself in you.

“You want this,” he breathes.

“I want you,” you answer. “Everything. Always.”

He starts to move. Measured. Pressed in deep. Every roll of his hips a declaration. Every breath shuddered through clenched teeth. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight. You hold on.

You arch up to meet him. He sinks deeper.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he grits. “You always do.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I’m not gonna,” he swears, voice ragged. “I’m never gonna stop.”

Your bodies slide in sync, sweat beginning to slick your skin. His mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your mouth again. Every kiss hungrier. Every breath closer to breaking.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers. “Hearing you say that.”

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper back. “I want another baby.”

He groans—loud this time, broken—hips stuttering.

Jack changes pace. His grip tightens. He kisses you harder, needier. His hips grind deeper, deeper—until you’re gasping, clawing at his back, his shoulders, his sides. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer.

“I love you,” he says against your mouth. “God, I fucking love you.”

And then you’re coming—tight, trembling, body arching into his. He fucks you through it, breath caught in his throat, rhythm faltering. His eyes stay on yours until the very last second, until he’s gone too—coming deep inside you with a sharp gasp and a whispered, “That’s it—take it, baby—take all of me—fuck—”

His whole body shakes with it.

When it passes, he doesn’t collapse. He lowers himself gently. Holds himself over you, still buried deep, still trying to catch his breath.

You stroke the back of his neck. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your mouth.

Then he breathes.

Quiet. Steady. Like the war’s over.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Eventually, Jack brushes a strand of hair from your face and says softly, “We’re really doing this.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes shine. A little red-rimmed. A little overwhelmed.

But when he kisses you again, it’s not about doubt.

It’s about forever.

Because Jack Abbot doesn’t love with fireworks or grand speeches.

He loves like this.

With hands. With breath. With the quietest yes in the world.

And when he finally falls asleep beside you—arm slung around your waist, heartbeat steady against your back—it’s not the end of anything.

It’s the beginning.

Phase Six: The Leap

Where your daughter says it first—and Jack, who never needed proof to believe, still stands there like she handed him the future in one sentence.

It’s June now.

Since Target—since you stood in that aisle holding newborn socks like a secret you hadn’t dared speak—two and a half months have passed. You’re not pregnant. Not yet. And neither of you has said the word "waiting," but it clings to everything.

You’re still trying.

And Jack’s still Jack—stoic, steady, quieter when he wants something most. But he’s watching you like he might miss something if he blinks. His touches linger. His gaze trails. He always has his hand on your back now—the middle of it, the place he holds when you’re tired or overwhelmed or standing still for too long.

Your daughter is seventeen months old. Wild-haired, loud-laughing, stubborn as hell. And lately, her favorite word is why.

This morning, Jack gets home from a long night shift just as you’re cleaning up breakfast. You’re in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, hair still wet from your shower, your daughter padding around barefoot in a peanut butter-streaked onesie.

The moment she hears the door open, she lights up.

“DADA!”

Jack barely gets his boots off before she runs full-speed into his legs.

He drops into a crouch with a groan. “Hey, bean. Miss me?”

She nods solemnly. “Mama tired.”

He glances at you over her head. “That true?”

You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t sleep through the 3AM thunder tantrum, so... yeah.”

Jack smirks. Stands with her in his arms, presses a kiss to your cheek. “She kick you again?”

“She kicked you and then rolled onto my neck like a scarf.”

He winces. “That tracks.”

You hand him a mug of reheated coffee. He takes it, leans against the counter, and watches her toddle off toward the living room with her duck.

You lean into his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the top of your head. That’s how he says thank you for keeping her alive when I wasn’t here.

You hear her talking to her toys while Jack drains half the mug.

Then:

“Duck is baby. Duck is my baby.”

You smile.

Then:

“We get baby soon?”

You freeze.

Jack sets his mug down slowly.

You both glance toward the doorway at the same time.

She’s got her duck wrapped in a tea towel. Rocking it, arms clumsy but careful.

“We get baby,” she says again. “I help.”

You look at Jack.

He looks like someone took all the air out of his lungs.

“She say that before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“She say it to you?”

“No,” you whisper. “Not once.”

He stares at her for a long beat. Then turns to you.

“She knows something we don’t?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Jack steps toward the living room, kneels beside her, hands braced on his thighs. “You want a baby, huh?”

She nods.

Jack glances back at you.

You shrug, blinking fast.

He turns back to her. “You think you’d be good at that? Helping?”

She nods solemnly. “I give duck bottle. I share blankie. I help.”

Jack smiles. Not his ER smile. Not his fake one. The real one. The one you fell in love with.

“You’d be amazing.”

She looks satisfied. Goes back to tucking Duck under the towel.

Later, when you’re sitting on the porch with the monitor between you and Jack’s hand over your knee, he breaks the silence first.

“You think it means anything?”

“What, her saying that?”

“Yeah.” He stares at the sidewalk. “Think it’s a sign?”

You lean into him.

“I think she wants what we want. Even if she doesn’t really know what it means yet.”

He nods. Quiet.

Then: “I want it too. Still.”

You smile. “I know.”

His thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin.

“And if it takes a little longer?”

You look at him.

“Then we keep trying.”

He looks at you like you just handed him the whole world.

And maybe you did.

And tonight, in the thick June air, with your daughter sleeping and the windows open and the moon beginning to rise—he pulls you into his side like a vow.

And you know.

You’re already building something bigger than all of you.

Phase Seven: The Firecracker Phase

Where your toddler discovers volume, Jack works through sirens and trauma codes, and you find out you’re pregnant during the loudest day of the year.

It’s July Fourth, and Pittsburgh is already simmering by 7AM.

Jack left before the sun came up. The night shift blurred into a day shift—holiday coverage at the Pitt means more chaos, less sleep, and barely enough time to microwave a sandwich.

Your daughter woke up early. Earlier than usual. Climbing onto your ribs at 5:42AM and whisper-shouting: “MAMA! SUN! IT’S SUN!”

She’s eighteen months old, in her loud phase.

She yells at squirrels. She yells at blueberries. She yells when you zip her dress wrong and when the fridge door beeps too long. Jack calls it the firecracker phase. Fitting, you think. She’s pure sound and spark.

By 8:15AM, she’s stripped to a diaper and has climbed inside the laundry basket. She’s yelling at her duck to put on sunscreen.

You’re on your third glass of ice water and your stomach feels... off. Not wrong. Not sick. Just not yours.

You text Jack:

update: she’s arguing with the dryer. i think she’s winning.

He replies:

two chest tubes, one firework injury, a drunk guy threw up in trauma bay C. tell her to save me a popsicle.

You send back a thumbs up, then pause.

You walk to the bathroom, heart in your throat.

There’s one test left in the drawer.

It’s expired.

You take it anyway.

Your daughter is yelling “FIRETRUCK” at the top of her lungs when you see it.

A second line.

Faint. Blurry. Real.

You sit on the closed toilet and stare. Then laugh. Then cry. Then wipe your face because your daughter is now in the hallway, asking her duck if he wants juice.

You lift her. Hold her close.

She pulls back. “Mama? Why cryin’?”

You kiss her head. “Happy cry. You were right, baby.”

Jack doesn’t get home until after five.

He walks in, exhausted. He smells like antiseptic and sun.

She runs at him, barefoot, her little star-print shorts twisted sideways. “DADA!”

Jack drops his bag and lifts her like she weighs nothing. She screams with joy. He buries his face in her hair.

“How’d she do?” he asks.

You smile. “She only tried to drink from the hose twice. And she learned a new word.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Popsicle. But she says it like ‘pop-SICKLE.’ With a vengeance.”

He grins. “That tracks.”

You take her gently from his arms. “Go shower. I left something for you on the bed.”

He finds it when he steps out.

The test. This time, a new one. Two solid lines.

He stares.

Then walks into the hallway, towel around his waist, the test in his hand.

You meet him halfway.

“You sure?” he whispers.

“I bought two more. OB appointment’s scheduled.”

He drops the test and just pulls you into him. Breath hot, body warm from the shower, arms trembling.

“It’s real,” he says. Like he still needs the words out loud.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s real.”

You stay like that a long time.

Eventually, your daughter peeks around the corner and shrieks, “FIREWORKS TIME!”

Jack wipes his face. “Guess we’re not telling her yet.”

“She already knows.”

He looks at you.

You nod. “She said we were getting a baby. Weeks ago.”

Jack exhales a breath that turns into a laugh.

Then he kisses you once. Soft. Deep. Full of promise.

“Let’s go light a sparkler,” he murmurs.

And the three of you step outside.

Already a family of four.

Another heart, not yet visible, already beating between you.

Phase Eight: The Slowdown

Where the world doesn't stop, but you and Jack do—because everything feels a little heavier, a little brighter, and somehow more fragile than before.

It’s late-July, and the heat hangs thick over Pittsburgh like a wet towel.

The pregnancy symptoms are creeping in now. Not full force, not yet—but enough to slow you down. You’re queasy in the mornings. Lightheaded when you stand too fast. Jack keeps offering to carry the laundry basket like it’s a boulder.

He’s different now, too. Not dramatically—but in the little things.

He double-checks that the baby gate is locked even though your daughter hasn’t touched it in weeks.

He puts a pillow behind your back whenever you sit, even on the porch swing.

He kisses your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth and says, “Don’t overdo it today,” with the same tone he uses for bleeding trauma patients: calm, sure, absolute.

You don’t tell him you already feel overdone most of the time.

Your daughter has slowed, too—but only just. She’s still seventeen months of pure emotion, pure motion. But she senses something’s shifted.

She follows you more closely.

Climbs into your lap without asking.

Sits quietly beside you on the floor with her duck when you’re stretched out, trying not to vomit.

One afternoon, Jack finds the two of you lying on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. You in an old tank top and boxer shorts, your daughter curled against your chest like she’s trying to be smaller for you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, sweat still drying on his collarbone, keys still in his hand.

Then he steps forward, kneels, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up. “We needed the cold.”

He nods. “You both look good here.”

You snort. “We look like puddles.”

He shrugs, settles beside you on the floor. “Then I’ll melt with you.”

Later that night, your daughter finally falls asleep after an hour of climbing the crib like a jungle gym.

Jack comes out of her room and collapses beside you on the couch, one hand already reaching for your thigh.

He rests his head against your shoulder. Breathes in.

“How you feelin’?” he asks.

You exhale. “Like my stomach’s mutinying.”

He nods. “You’re still glowing.”

You laugh. “I think that’s sweat.”

Jack leans in. Kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower.

“It’s all glow to me.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

He’s serious. Not teasing. Just Jack—all warmth and ache and reverence.

You run your hand through his hair. “I love you.”

He nods. “I know. Me too.”

And in that moment, with your body sore, your baby sleeping, and the air humming with summer weight, Jack wraps his arms around your waist like it’s still March. Like he’s still shocked he gets to keep you.

You don’t talk about tomorrow. Or what’s coming.

You just stay there, quiet, in the stillness of everything new.

Because the world won’t slow down.

But for now, Jack does.

And he pulls you with him.

Phase Nine: The Echo

Where your toddler starts mimicking everything, and Jack learns that sometimes the future comes in twos.

It’s September in Pittsburgh, and your daughter is twenty months old.

She repeats everything.

Your tone, Jack’s sighs, snippets of overheard phone calls, the phrase “Jesus Christ” (which she uses while looking for her missing sock, and which Jack now pretends he’s never said).

It’s a mimicry phase. Every sentence you speak is an audition. Jack’s been calling her a baby parrot. You just call her loud.

Tonight, she yells “OH MY GOD” when she finds her duck in the laundry basket.

Jack glances over his shoulder from the kitchen. “That one’s you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She also said ‘bullshit’ this morning.”

He pauses. Nods. “Okay, that one’s me.”

She’s not just talking more. She’s listening. Watching. You can’t fake calm anymore—not when she sees through you. She knows when you’re sick, when you’re tired, when you’re worried. And lately, you’ve been all three.

It’s a Friday when Jack comes home early. You’ve both been waiting for this OB appointment all week.

“Ultrasound?” he asks, dropping his keys and pulling you in.

You nod. “Ten minutes and we need to leave.”

You kiss your daughter goodbye. She’s home with your neighbor and her favorite puzzle. You promise snacks when you’re back.

The exam room is quiet except for the hum of the monitor.

Jack holds your hand.

The OB clicks through the screen slowly. You watch the flicker. Then hear it: that heartbeat, strong and steady.

And then.

Another.

The OB smiles. “Well. That’s two.”

You blink.

Jack tilts forward slightly. “I’m sorry—what?”

She rotates the screen. “Two heartbeats. Two sacs. Two babies.”

You stare.

Jack says nothing.

“Twins?” you whisper.

“Twins,” the OB confirms.

Jack releases your hand. Then grips it again, harder.

“I need to sit down,” he mutters. “Am I sitting?”

You laugh, watery. “You’re sitting.”

He exhales. Runs his hand through his hair.

“Twins,” he says again.

You look at him. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just—I thought we were building a house and someone handed us a cathedral.”

You choke a little on your breath.

Jack stands. Presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then your stomach.

“We can do this,” he says softly. “Right?”

You nod. “We already are.”

That night, back home, your daughter sits between you on the floor, building towers of foam blocks.

Jack watches her.

Then glances at you.

“You think she’ll lose her mind?”

You smile. “Not at first. But once there’s double snacks involved? She’ll be on board.”

Your daughter drops her duck. Crawls into your lap.

Then turns to Jack.

“Two babies in Mama belly,” she says, matter-of-fact.

Jack blinks.

You freeze.

“How did—”

She pats your stomach. “I heard it.”

You and Jack look at each other.

He nods slowly. “Yep. Definitely yours.”

You laugh until you cry.

And Jack pulls both of you close.

Because now it’s real.

Because she heard it first.

And because Jack Abbot—who once found comfort in the dark—just got handed three reasons to stay in the light.

And he’s never letting go.

Phase Ten: The Stay-At-Home Phase

Where your daughter needs more of you than ever, and Jack Abbot—so stupidly, steadfastly in love—says the one thing you needed to hear.

It’s October now.

Your daughter is twenty-one months old and riding a new wave of toddlerhood: clingy autonomy. She wants to do everything herself but also needs your hands on her at all times. She puts on her socks (wrong), brushes her teeth (mostly the air), then turns around and demands: “Mama hold you.”

Not a request. Not a question.

She won’t nap unless you’re in the room. Won’t eat unless you sit beside her. Throws a shoe if you go to the bathroom without her.

Jack calls it her “velcro era.”

“She just loves you,” he says, watching her cling to your leg while you make toast. “Can’t blame her. I’m a little obsessed myself.”

You smile, tired.

It’s been weeks of juggling. You’ve been logging hours for work during naps, squeezing in emails between tantrums and laundry and diaper refills. Jack picks up extra shifts when he can, but even he can see it wearing on you.

One Wednesday night, after she finally falls asleep draped over Duck like a dramatic artist in repose, you and Jack sit on the back porch. The air smells like woodsmoke and damp leaves. Your tea goes untouched.

Jack runs a thumb over the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”

You raise a brow. “That’s never good.”

He grins. Then softens.

“I think maybe it’s time. For you to pause work. Just for now.”

You inhale. Let it out slow.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit.

“She needs you more right now,” Jack says gently. “And you’re exhausted. I can see it. You’re growing two more people. And still somehow doing it all.”

You blink, overwhelmed.

“I can carry this for a while,” he adds. “Pick up shifts. Fill in the gaps. I don’t care how many hours I have to pull. We’ve got savings. We’ll be fine. I just... I want you to breathe.”

You study his face. The sincerity. The kind of love that never asks you to earn it.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” Jack says. “This is us, right? We adapt. We show up. And right now, showing up means me making space for you.”

You lean into his chest. His arms wrap around you like they were waiting for this exact moment.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” you whisper. “I’ll take the leave.”

Jack kisses the side of your head.

“Good.”

The next day, your daughter won’t let you out of her sight. She drags a blanket onto your lap while you answer your last work call and pats your belly. “Mama stay home now?” she asks, wide-eyed.

You smile, nod. “Yeah, baby. I’m home.”

She beams. Climbs up and holds your face in her hands.

“Love you, Mama.”

You cry right there in the middle of the floor.

Jack comes home to find you both asleep under a pile of stuffed animals.

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a photo.

Later that night, he slides into bed behind you. His hand rests gently over your belly.

“You didn’t step back,” he whispers.

You shift, tuck your face into his shoulder.

“You stepped in. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

You fall asleep to his heartbeat behind you.

And the tiniest kicks just beneath your ribs.

Because Jack Abbot is in love.

With you. With her. With all of it.

And he’s not letting go.

Phase Eleven: The Season of Yes

Where your daughter becomes opinionated about absolutely everything, calls Jack "Jack-Jack" like the toddler from The Incredibles, and everything in the house is louder, funnier, and more loved than it’s ever been.

It’s November now.

Your daughter is twenty-two months old and firmly convinced she is the executive director of the house.

She chooses the playlist in the car (“No sad songs! Only happy happy!”). She picks everyone's breakfast item (“Mama gets toast. I get 'nana. Jack-Jack gets pancake, only pancake, that’s it.”). She vetoes your outfit choices, corrects Jack's driving from the backseat, and calls meetings with her stuffed animals that last longer than your actual Zoom calls.

The name “Jack-Jack” started last week after you let her watch The Incredibles. It stuck immediately.

At first, she shouted it mid-bath: “JACK-JACK GET THE TOWEL!”

Now it’s part of her daily vocabulary. “Jack-Jack, open juice.” “Jack-Jack, watch me run so fast.” “Jack-Jack, no more peas. Too squishy.”

Jack pretends to grumble. “I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack,” he mutters once, trying to sound stern as she runs through the hallway yelling it. But you catch the smile he hides behind his coffee every time she says it again—especially when she giggles right after. He secretly loves it. Loves all of it.

You’re four months pregnant, the twins growing faster than expected, and while you’re finally past the nausea, the fatigue has made a comeback. Your daughter seems to sense it.

This morning, you woke up to her whispering beside your bed: “Jack-Jack say let Mama sleep. But I miss you.”

You blinked awake, found her already climbing up beside you with Duck under one arm and a banana in the other.

She snuggled close. “I hold Mama.”

At the farmer’s market that weekend, she picks a small crooked gourd, declares it “my pet baby,” and names it Sandwich.

“This is Sandwich,” she tells the woman selling cider. “He go home with us now.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “We adopting produce now?”

You shrug. “We already adopted Henry the pumpkin.”

Jack nods solemnly. “You’re right. Can’t leave Sandwich behind.”

She carries it in her arms all the way back to the car.

That night, Jack makes dinner while you lie on the couch with your daughter stretched across your belly, talking to the babies through your shirt.

“I gonna teach you dancing,” she says. “But no jumping until Mama says.”

She pauses. Then calls toward the kitchen: “Jack-Jack! Babies hear me?!”

Jack leans into the doorway with the spatula still in hand. “They definitely hear you, kid.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Me sing for babies?”

Jack winks. “It’s their favorite thing on Earth.”

Later, she insists Jack wear a crown made of pipe cleaners and old stickers. He does. He wears it the entire time he does dishes, and for the full length of bedtime storytime.

She curls up beside you while he reads, thumb in her mouth, and whispers: “I love Jack-Jack.”

You kiss her forehead. “Me too.”

That night, Jack joins you in bed long after she falls asleep. You’re curled on your side, one hand resting on the curve of your belly.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He nods. “Just... full.”

You shift to face him.

“Not just your belly,” he adds. “I mean me. This whole house. Her. You. Them.”

You smile sleepily.

“You okay with being Jack-Jack forever?”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Best name I’ve ever had.”

He kisses your hand. Then your stomach. Then your cheek.

“We’re saying yes to everything these days,” he murmurs.

You nod. “That a problem?”

“Not even close.”

The wind rattles the windows softly.

Your daughter shifts in her sleep down the hall.

And Jack wraps himself around you like gravity.

Phase Twelve: The Birthday Girl Phase

Where your daughter turns two, you skip the party, and Jack Abbot becomes her favorite travel buddy, bodyguard, and forever person.

It’s January in Pittsburgh, grey-skied and salt-streaked, and your daughter is officially two years old.

No balloons. No cake-fueled chaos. No distant relatives asking if she remembers their name. Instead, you and Jack book a cabin two hours north—a hush of pine trees and snow-heavy quiet, where the only agenda is stillness and each other.

The morning you leave, Jack is up before you. Already dressed. Already double-checking the bag of snacks and backup onesies and ginger chews you swore you didn’t need. The air outside is cold enough to make your breath visible, but he’s working barehanded as he loads the trunk, face flushed pink, shoulders set.

Inside, your daughter sits on the floor beside her little suitcase narrating to Duck. “Duck need socks. Duck need book. Duck need warm blankie. Mama too.”

When Jack steps back in, she yells like a general: “JACK-JACK DRIVE US! IT’S TRIP DAY!”

He looks at you over her head and mouths, “Tour guide. I’m a damn tour guide.”

You smile. “You’re also the emotional support pack mule.”

He grins. “Sexy.”

The drive is quiet. Frozen fields, iced-over rivers, sleepy back roads. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Your daughter hums in the back seat. You doze off somewhere past Zelienople.

The cabin is tucked between trees and lined with old timber and big windows that pour light across the floors like syrup. There’s a stone fireplace and a kitchen just small enough to feel like a movie set.

Jack puts a hand on your back. “Not gonna lie—I’d live here forever.”

That afternoon, you make grilled cheese while Jack carries your daughter around the cabin pointing at everything like a museum guide.

“This is the couch. This is the magic fire place. This is the cabinet Mama says not to slam. This,” he says, lifting her over his head like Simba, “is Duck’s kingdom now.”

She shrieks with laughter.

Later, you all eat lunch in socks and pajamas. She demands to sit on Jack’s lap and feed him bites of sandwich. He lets her. Doesn’t flinch when she wipes mustard on his cheek.

You don’t tell him, but you take a photo.

That night, she curls into his lap beside the fire, wrapped in a fleece blanket and sticky with marshmallow from the lukewarm cocoa he stirred just the way she likes.

“Jack-Jack, you read,” she mumbles.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t Mama read last night?”

“She tired. Babies make her sleepy. Jack-Jack do it.”

He looks at you. You nod.

He reads slow, voice like gravel dipped in honey. When she falls asleep on his chest, he keeps going. Finishes the book in a whisper.

Hours later, the fire is low, and you’re both curled under a blanket, your legs over his, your head on his shoulder. The twins kick once, low and soft. Jack feels it.

He shifts, then slides off the couch to kneel in front of you, forehead pressed gently to your belly.

“We don’t need perfect,” he murmurs. “We just need this. You. Her. Them. The quiet.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “We have it. We have everything.”

He looks up. His eyes are glassy in the firelight.

“You give me too much,” he says.

You shake your head. “I give you us.”

He kisses your belly. Then your hands. Then your mouth.

And that night, you fall asleep wrapped in all of it.

At dawn, your daughter wakes and yells across the cabin: “JACK-JACK MAKE PANCAKES! IT’S STILL MY BIRTHDAY!”

Jack groans into the pillow.

“I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack.”

But he’s already up.

Flipping pancakes in his boxers. Singing a song he makes up as he goes. Smiling like a man who’s realized he’ll never be alone again.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Because she’s two now.

And he is completely, irrevocably, hers.

[writingunderneathawillow]

first base

summary: Bucky and you have to go undercover as a married couple for a mission. In order to soothe your nerves, he shows you that kissing him is not a big deal. Or is it? content warnings: fluff, mutual pining, handsome bucky hehehe, kinda suggestive but really tame, pretty angsty (mentioned character death, but the person’s made up), female reader word count: 2k a/n: today i looked up how the whole first base, second base, etc is defined and that gave me the idea for this :) also it’s been around since the 1940s (ish) this was supposed to be super cute and fluffy but i just love angst so much and i couldn’t help myself

The dress that wrapped itself around every curve of your body was surprisingly comfortable. Its satin flowed smoothly and pooled like a waterfall around your legs, allowing for plenty of movement which eased your nerves a little. Still, you felt the blood pounding in your ears as you applied the dark crimson to your lips and blended out the sharp corner of your eyeliner. The person that stared back at you in the mirror had little resemblance to you. Gabriela Alderton, your alias for the next few days, was dressed up in expensive silks, owned a purse that was sold for more than what you had saved over the last few years and wore jewellery that your yearly salary could not finance. That included an engagement ring, which sparkled on your left ring finger. The band was made out of heavy gold, engraved with details so fine that only someone in your close proximity would be able to see it. The diamond that adorned the centre of the ring was so massive that it almost looked cheap again. Almost. S.H.I.E.L.D. or, much rather Tony, didn’t play when it came to undercover missions. One wrong detail, one off-hand comment could end every involved agent’s life. And you knew that too well. Which is why you had taken the time to craft a fully in depth, flushed out and comprehensive profile of your made-up personality, detailing little things such as Gabriela’s electives in middle school (badminton and pottery). A knock on your door detached your scrambling mind from listing any more childhood details under your breath and you walked over to the entrance to your bedroom, turned the knob and opened. Your throat constricted when you saw who stood there, waiting for you. There was no moment in time where Bucky had ever been unattractive – and you had lived with him for a few years now, seeing him bloodied, beaten up, hauled through dirt and grime and passed out on the couch after exhausting missions. But the way his anthracite suit jacket smoothed itself across his shoulders, not yet buttoned up and therefore allowing a glimpse of the pressed silk shirt – it just wasn’t fair how handsome he was. “Hello,” he said quietly. His own eyes darted over you, and you saw how he swallowed, the bump of his Adam’s apple quivering as he took in your dolled-up face, drinking in every inch of your powdered skin. His gaze dropped and wandered further down, assessing the hold of the fabric on your body and if you had had it in you to rip away your eyes from his face, you would have seen how his fingers twitched in a suppressed attempt to reach out for you. “Hi,” you replied, your cheeks warming under his steady evaluation and you opened the door further, beckoning him in. A sound, that was half sigh, half grunt tumbled from his throat as he entered your bedroom. The material of his pants stretched over his thoroughly trained thighs when he walked and despite the material surely being sturdy and expensive beyond your comprehension, you saw the faint outline of his leg muscles shifting. “So,” Bucky began, fumbling with something in the inside pocket of his jacket. It took him a few tries to grasp it and when he opened his palm, you saw a shining gold wedding band that matched the engagement ring on your left hand both in aesthetics and opulence. “You already got the other one, right?” The question was unnecessary as Bucky stared at the jewellery decorating your finger. An expression that you didn’t quite have the words for was plastered across his face, a mix of anticipation and… longing? You raised your hand, palm facing your face, and wiggled your finger. “Yeah, Stark gave it to me at breakfast. Told me to get used to it.” “Hmm.” His one-worded response left his feelings towards that open to interpretation but there was a timid smile on his lips, as if he might not mind the idea of you getting used to that ring and the connection that intertwined him and you along with it.

“Well, we’re… ‘married’, so you need both,” he mumbled, now shifting the ring in his hand so that he could hold it between pointer finger and thumb.

Instinctively, you stretched out your hand, resting it against his free one and let him ease the ring onto your other finger.

It fit perfectly. There was no danger of it slipping off or cutting off your blood supply, as if it had been melded to your measurements from beginning to end.

It was just as heavy as its counterpart, despite the lack of diamond. It seemed simple, a thicker band than what your mind usually connected to the words ‘wedding ring’ but the feelings it triggered in your heart threatened to affect the standards you had set for your own expectations for marriage.

“It’s beautiful,” you replied as you took notice of the heavy silence that filled the room.

The apples of Bucky’s cheeks took a slight pink hue, and he cleared his throat before replying.

“You think so?”

He looked at you, a glimmer of something you didn’t know how to place in his stare.

“Yeah, Stark did a fine job picking it out,” you answered, softly contracting the muscles in your hands which causes both rings to reflect back to you.

“I chose it.”

Your attention snapped away from the jewellery and landed right on him.

A sheepish smile ornamented his face, along with a deeper shade of pink on his face.

You had to take a few short breaths to compose yourself, to not let yourself melt.

“Oh.”

He hummed a soft response, not words but not a distinguishable sound either and just kept looking at you.

“Well,” you continued, “You seem to know my taste a lot better than I do. It really is beautiful.”

A proud smile snuck onto his face, lighting up the grey storm in his eyes to adjust to a soft blue.

Despite the calm that he brought into your room and mind, you felt your blood pressure pick up again as the clock ticked closer to 6 p.m., signalling that it was almost time to go down and wait for the driver who would pick you up and drive to the gala.

Bucky noticed your anxious shifting, the way you paced up and down the room in heels would wear you out and give you blisters before even arriving at your destination.

“You ok?” He asked and reached out, his metal fingers wrapping around your wrist. His hold was gentle, and you would’ve been able to free yourself from his grip at any time if you had wanted to. But you didn’t.

“Just nerves,” you replied, letting him still your movements.

“You’ll do great, doll. You don’t oughta worry.”

The term of endearment made the butterflies in your stomach practice summersaults and you almost closed your eyes to calm yourself.

Instead, you twirled the wedding ring, letting it circle around your skin a few times.

“I just…,” you began, trying to find the words to express what you felt without giving away too much but your mind struggled to make up a sentence that afforded that.

Bucky observed your stuttering and something seemed to click in his brain as his eyes softened.

“Is it because of… because of the last time you went undercover?”

The question hung heavily in the room, and you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his face as you nodded.

The last time you went undercover, it had gone beyond sideways.

Your work partner, your long-time friend and one of the best agents you had ever known, hadn’t made it out because of two mistakes.

“I read the file, you know? Two weeks ago, Sam gave it to me. I feel like you should know that, so that you are aware that I’m… prepared.”

Bucky’s words didn’t have the effect he had intended.

Instead of soothing your worries, it upset you. “It wasn’t his fault. He was prepared. I was the one who messed up,” you snapped at him. Regret flooded your veins immediately but the tears that threatened to spill held your tongue in place, hindering you from apologising for your tone. “That’s not what I meant and I’m sure that it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. You pulled the wedding band from your finger and held it in your hand, right under Bucky’s nose. “I made two mistakes. Two. They cost him his life that night.” You fumbled with the ring, took a deep breath that did nothing to help you relax and asked: “Do you have to return this after the mission?” Bucky nodded and before he could elaborate, you said: “Tell Stark to yell at me, not you.” Then you smacked the piece of jewellery against the table – once, twice. The third hit it took was from being thrown against the wall. The super soldier didn’t stop you – sure, he looked at you like you had lost your mind, but he didn’t try to intervene. Once you had properly let your anger on the ring, you picked it up and held it up again for Bucky to inspect. It was still beautiful, not bent, but slightly scuffed up. “It needs to look like it’s been sitting on my finger for longer than a few hours. We’re not newlyweds after all,” you explained, your voice trembling slightly. Bucky hummed a response, his eyes still fixated on you as realisation dawned on him. “Is that how they figured it out? That you guys were undercover?” He asked, his eyebrows knitted together while unease lingered on his face. No, not unease. Worry. Not for himself, but for you. “That was part of it,” you admitted then and placed the band back in its rightful place. He stayed quiet, leaving it up to you whether to open up further or keep it bottled up. You, surprising both yourself and him, continued in a quiet voice. “We had been friends for… for years. His name was Christian. And we carried out so many missions together, recon, gathering intel, anything. We had gone undercover before, but as business partners, not a couple. When Fury gave us that… that goddamn mission, Christian laughed, saying it’d be easy. And it was, everything went smoothly until the man we were spying on pointed out my ring. We tried to brush it off, saying that I had just gotten it cleaned and took great care off it. But he didn’t buy it. So, Christian did the only thing he could think of, and he kissed me. I froze.” You recounted the painful memory with a tremble, both in your vocals and your hands. Bucky listened, his palms resting inches away from your arm, almost as if he wanted to reach out to you, to ease your pain. “They shot him before I could look him in the eye, and he was… he was gone before he hit the ground.” Sympathy filled Bucky’s eyes. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t an attempt to convince you that it hadn’t been your fault. It was compassion. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that,” he whispered and sighed softly. You looked up at him, blinking away the tears. His face was just inches away from yours and you could feel his breath brushing up against your cheek. “I don’t want to freeze again. I don’t wanna mess this up again. I just… I was so close with Christian, but we were just friends, and it threw me off. I didn’t know how to react and I…,” you trailed off, your eyes flickering down to his lips. “You’re not gonna. We just gotta… get some practice,” Bucky murmured, and his hand came up to your cheek. “Hit first base or what?” Your question was supposed to come off as a joke, but it was a breathless plea, your fingers found themselves at the base of his neck, softly brushing up against his hair. “I can’t believe people still use that metaphor,” he replied and then he pressed his lips onto yours.

thank you for reading :) gentle reminder that likes are more than appreciated but comments and reblogs make the dream work part 2 out now

[nezuscribe]

𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

summary: once childhood friends with the crown prince, you find yourself in a troubled situation when he calls for you to help him around with his daily duties as the king to be. he seems to have forgotten everything, forgotten who you even were. but as the palace's most loyal servant there's only so many things that you can tolerate, including the prince.

warnings: 18+ mdni, slight angst misunderstandings and just not talking shit out, minor panic attack/overall anxiety (with comfort), eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, gojo is a certified munch

word count: 14.1k (sorry)

note: i can only write gojo in a royal setting now so that’s that. i really liked writing this fic so comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

jjk masterlist

it all started with that night.

when the air was biting, cold and harsh. the moon offered so little of her light as you ran across the open foyer, feeling your tear stained cheeks more than you had back in the ballroom as you could barely feel your heartbeat, not stopping until you were out of the grand double doors, running as fast as you could through the gardens until you were sure everything and everybody was far behind you. 

you continued for a little more, finding yourself at the foot of the rose gardens, your chest heaving up and down, sweat dotting your forehead. you were sure the rouge that you had so carefully dotted onto yourself was ruined now, but that was the least of your worries. 

you place a hand on your chest, catching your breath, looking behind you to make sure that nobody had followed you outside. most nights, such as ones like this, you enjoyed the freckles of stars above you, but now, all that filled your mind were the events of moments ago. 

the staring, the judgment. 

“is everything all right?” 

your head snaps around, your eyes wide in shock as you find a man standing behind you, a careful feet away so as to not startle you even more than he already had. you couldn't make out his face in the darkness, but with your blurry vision, you doubt you could make out your own reflection.

you nod feverishly, trying for a smile that was shaking and quivering as you turn away for a second, patting your cheeks dry as you try out for a weak laugh. 

“yes, t-thank you,” your voice cracks, your lips trembling and your breathing heavy. your uniform and apron was sticking tightly to your skin and everything seemed as if it was tilted on an axis. you felt like the world was spinning in the opposite direction, and had it not been for the strong  hands behind you that steadied you upwards, you were sure you would’ve fallen down. 

“miss, are you sure everythings alright? surely i can call for a-” the man stops when you shake your head quickly, just realizing how much trouble you were going to be in if your superior ever saw you missing from your post. 

“no, thank you, i, i have to go,” you try to stand up again but stumble, grateful that he still had a steady hand on your elbow, “i apologize, i don’t know why i’m so dizzy.” you say, holding your head in your hands, trying to ease your temple with the thumping it was doing. 

“would it perhaps be because you ran through the entire courtyard in a matter of seconds?” his voice is low yet teasing, and you should be embarrassed and mortified that somebody saw you, but you feel beside yourself tonight and laugh, nodding along.

“perhaps,” there’s a small smile on your face, but the gentleman chuckles along, helping you stand comfortably, making sure you didn’t need him until he was absolutely sure you wouldn’t topple over. 

“are you not enjoying the festivities?” he remains a good distance away from you, though you’re glad he’s given you some space. 

you swallow thickly, rubbing at your eyes and cheeks to rid them of the tears but they just seem to be non-stop. 

“the festivities aren’t the problem,” you sniffle, hiccuping as you laugh wetly, “i just seem to be too sensitive for the likes of them.” you say the last word with some weight.

you thought that after all these years, after all the times you proved you’re more than your lineage, somebody always manages to bring it up. 

he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, the only sound that you can hear is your shuddered breathing. 

“take in a deep breath,” his words are soft, but your head snaps up, confused. 

“it’s a breathing exercise,” he explains further, gently, “one in, one out,” he places a sturdy hand on your back, one that was too close for if a chaperon were to ever see you in such a compromising position you would be ruined, “we’ll do it together, i’ll count.”

your eyes are squeezed shut, but you mimic your breathing to his rhythmic breathes, your mouth open as small puffs of air fill your collapsing lungs. it takes a while for this sort of breathing pattern to take effect, but it helps you to calm down a bit. your nerves are still erratic, but it’s better than before. 

“there you go,” his voice is soothing, calming, something you’ve never heard before, something you’ve never known you’ve needed.

there’s a few beats of silence, your eyes squeezed shut until you finally open them again to get a good look of who this stranger was. 

“i have to thank you…” you trail off, your breath catching harshly in your throat when you're met with those familiar eyes, the same ones you see in the paintings you are set to clean each and every day, the same ones that look at yo with childish joy when he used to chase you around the courtyard when you were children. the infamous white hair, a tale telling of his lineage, and the countless medallions on his suit.

you don’t know what to do, and you take a tentative step back. all the feelings of fear, of embarrassment, of dread coming rushing back, but ten times worse. 

“sato…y-your highness, i,” you stagger backwards, “i…” you’re at a loss for words, your breaths coming out erratic again. 

he reaches his hand out for you to take again, his brows furrowed in confusion with you sudden change of emotions, growing into even more confusion when he gets a better look at you, memories rushing back at the strange familiarity of your face, but you don’t know as you scrunch your uniform between your fingers, muttering some unintelligible words under your breath as you bow hurriedly, brushing past him as you speedily make your way back to the palace, breaking about every protocol you have been taught since your first day there,

blissfully unaware of just how much your life was about to change.

—

the life of a palace maid is a bustling one, full of daily duties that fill your time from the moment you wake up to the moment you put your head down to rest. dusting the staircases, making sure the royal portraits are in tip-top shape, and, of course, tending to any of the needs the royals themselves need. 

you were lucky in your position, not too close to the top where any slight mess up could be your undoing, but far up where you could enjoy the more tedious and rewarding of tasks that others, such as the kitchen workers or the stables servants, may not have the luxury of having. you count your lucky stars every day that you’re not stuck cleaning fru-fru’s (the king's prized horse) droppings. 

“there really are no breaks,” lydia muttered under her breath, folding the freshly cleaned linen sheets as you gave her a look from under your lashes, warning her to be careful with her words, never too sure of how alone you two could be, “what? it’s just the truth.” 

you snort, not disagreeing with her because it was the truth. there had been royal balls upon endless balls, countless gala’s and feasts for the past couple of months. the prince was finally rumored ready to take on a wife, and all the eligible bachelors and their mamas have flocked to the scene, ready to become part of the gojo family. 

the last one had been all but two weeks ago, the same one where…you couldn’t think of it too much, glad that nobody else was there to witness your trivial breakdown. all except the prince, of course, but you hadn’t been beheaded yet so you never mentioned it to anybody. 

but, despite the last social gathering being so recent, another one was about to take place in a week. everybody could feel their hands splitting raw at the thought of cleaning the palace once again, but it was all in a day's work. 

“though i must say, you always seem to find a way to entertain yourself through all these surely grueling events,” you tease, a knowing look in your eyes as an unmistakable blush takes over her cheeks. 

“well!” she exclaimed, laughing under her breath as she fanned herself with her gloved hand, picking up another sheet to fold, “if a young man displayed his notable affections towards me, i would only be mad not to entertain them.” 

“you’re such a flirt,” you giggle, careful to keep your voices quiet so that nobody would come and break the two of you up. you were fortunate enough to spend most of your time with your closest friend, but if anybody ever got a whiff of just how much the two of you enjoyed folding bed sheets or tidying up the king's study. 

“there have been countless events, and yet, there is no wife,” she says this more as a statement rather than anything, “do you think it’s because the prince is cruel?” 

she was right about this, too. it was more often than not when lydia was wrong.

it had been a couple months of trying to set the prince up with his rightful match. women from corners of the earth, places you’ve never heard of, have found their ways to these balls and galas. of course, the palace did all they could to quell the rumors on why it was taking their beloved prince so long to find a wife, and yet, they could do so much. the rumors were beginning to grow, and none in his favor.

you laugh uncomfortably, hoping that nobody could hear the two of you in this closet. 

“the prince? cruel?” you shrug, feigning indifference. 

he wasn't cruel when you met him. 

and he never was crue all those years agol, or at least from what you could recall. 

because before there was lydia, there was satoru. 

so many years ago, you and the prince were childhood friends. he somehow introduced himself one of the days you were cleaning the castle, your uniform still so large seeing how it was made for a teenager and you were yet to reach six, so you were swallowed by it. but he didn't seem to care much about who you were, rather the fact that he was able to find somebody around his age, happy to have a friend that didn’t have to practice fencing with. 

the two of you were close, as close as a prince and a young maid can get. 

you never had a semblance of a normal childhood, but for those few years that you had known him, he offered you some normality that you would've never expected from the crown prince. at nights, when the two of you would meet up in a spare closet, he’d unravel a satchel full of bread and sweets, things he had stolen from his dinner table, knowing that your meals were often far smaller than his. 

he didn’t seem to forget you, even as he grew in his adolescence. he’d still find you wherever you were, a bright smile on his face as you gave yourself a quick break, running around the gardens with him as you squealed, trying not to get caught by him as he tried to push you down into the river nearby. 

but, you tended to be more level-headed than him, and easily foresaw the day that came when his advisors found out he had been befriending the servant girl, more specifically the daughter of the town courtesan, and before you knew it, you had been swept away, promised to never mingle with him again. they couldn’t strip you bare of your position at the palace, knowing that you worked for far less than others asked for and longer than most did, but they changed your place, your rooms, and you barely saw him again. he soon forgot, and you counted yourself lucky that you were still able to have a memory to latch on to. 

“or perhaps he’s unlikely to even take a wife. he may prefer his time spent with multiple women, if you get what i mean,” she continues, your thought coming back into focus as you suddenly realize what she just said, swatting her with one of the towels while saying such an unbecoming thing about her prince. 

“or maybe he’s taking his time,” you give her a pointed look for being so crass, “he might be holding out for a love match.” you say, your gaze focused on your nimble fingers as you fold the sheets as if it were second nature, your body moving faster than your mind was. 

she snorts, rolling her eyes at your romantics. 

“you can’t-” she goes to say something but is crudely cut off by the doors behind the two of you swinging open. 

your necks snap around as you are instant to stand, bowing deeply to whoever it is that walks in, looking up only after a brief pause. 

a part of you tenses upon seeing the housekeeper, miss lottie, entering in. her graying hairs were pulled back in a tight bun, the uniform that all the maids wore ironed to perfection. though she may not be as in her youth as she once was, her face was void of wrinkles, a feat, considering her position. 

two men who you had never seen before walking in behind her, standing on either side as she motions for the both of you to introduce yourselves. lydia bows once again, saying her name, and you do the same. 

“these are the last of my girls, gentlemen,” she starts with a sigh, massaging her temple, missing the confused look you and lydia shared as she offered no explanation for what was happening, “these are the only other maids in my department that wear this uniform.” 

the two guards look at you and lydia top and down, their eyes racking over your features, your postures, your faces. you felt sweat prickling at the back of your neck, your hands growing clammy as your mouth dried. 

surely, it can’t be.

“her,” one of the guards raised his gloved hand to you. 

“her?” lydia cries out loud, earning a disapproving look from miss lottie, but the old woman seems to be just as confused as you and lydia. 

“come with us,” the other one says, opening the door further, not seeming to care about your stupified state as you grip onto lydia’s wrist as tightly as you could.

you couldn’t speak, couldn't breath. you felt like you did that night, the same dreadful feeling that filled your veins and your lungs, keeping you from taking in the air you so desperately needed. 

“gentlemen,” lydia takes a step forward, trying to shield you with her body, “i’m sure whatever it is you’re after, she,” she points her head over to you, “is certainly not it.”

this is it, you tell yourself, they’ve finally tracked you down. 

the two guards don’t pay her any mind, don’t even address nor speak to her as they push her aside, wrenching your hands away from her as they try to move you forward, trying to move you away. 

“miss lydia, please,” miss lottie almost seems to beg, has her brows furrowed in puzzlement as to what was happening, her mouth agape as she watches them take you away. 

you feel your mind go hazy, your vision turning blurry as you dumbly follow the guards out of the room, the muted shouts of your friends growing softer and softer behind you as you walk through the halls you[‘ve been walking through for nearly your entire life, 

not knowing if it would be your last. 

—

the three of you walk for a while, and it doesn't help that nauseous and sinking feeling that you have growing in the pit of your stomach. your eyes darted around, your cheeks heating up in an uncomfortable flush when you caught the glances the others servants and maids gave, the way they began instantly whispering behind their gloved hands or one another as to what could be happening. 

you quickly looked down, watching your steps. if you weren't ruined after whatever this was, the gossip that was to circulate about you surely would.

they lead you up a spiral staircase, through the east wing, and after some time, the walls and the floors begin to grow unfamiliar to you. these are the places that even you weren’t authorized to clean, places that only the most trusted and known people were allowed to be. 

you peek around through the corners of your eyes, trying to take it all in one last time. there is more gold encrusted into the painting, the wall decorum, the ceiling. it’s more grand than you even thought the palace could be, and had it not been for your doomed fate, you would’ve tried to savor it more. 

the guards in front of you suddenly stop in front of a door, and you almost bump into one of them had you not stopped yourself milliseconds before. 

one of the guards raised his fist, knocking once, letting his hands fall behind his back. 

you wait with baited breath until you hear a muffled, “come in,” from behind the door, and the other guard turns the knob, the door swinging wide open. 

the two men come in before you do, their bodies hiding the view. you stay outside, your hands shaking, waiting until further instruction. 

the guards are speaking to the person inside, their voice mixing with each other in your muddled head, and you feel your eyes begin to wet. all of your hard work, all the sacrifices you’ve made along the way, every sleepless night devoted to securing your rank and your future were now going up in flames. 

“why didn’t you tell her to come in?” the first voice grows a little louder, “come in, miss,” he calls out, and you take in a deep, shaky breath. 

you take a slow, tentative step inside, and then another one. your feet pad in quietly, your head ducked down in respect but also because you couldn't have these people seeing you like this, it was mortifying as it was. 

you bow, knowing that you were in the presence of royalty from just the atmosphere of the room alone. you go down as low as you can, almost kissing the floor with your nose. 

“you men can go now,” the voice, an all too familiar one, says. 

you hear their heavy footsteps behind you, the door shutting with a thud. 

“you can stand,” the prince says, his voice less loud and commanding. 

you slowly rise, still keeping your head down, your eyes meeting a desk, some papers, and when you finally look up, the prince. 

his smile quickly drops when he sees your face, quickly moving away from his seat as he rounds the table, making his way over to you as you quickly wipe away at your tears. it was breaking your etiquette protocol for how you were to act if you were to ever come face to face with royalty, but you don’t see any point in acting in such a way when this is somehow quite similar to your first encounter. 

“are you hurt?” he quickly asks, standing a foot away from you, his eyes darting around your body as you quickly shake your head, sniffing as you stand as perfectly still as you could. 

“were my guards rough with you?” he looks behind himself at the door, “i will have a word with them immediately-” 

but you shake your head again, swallowing thickly as you dip your head down once, going to speak. 

“it was not the guards, your highness,” you feel like time is stopping as he stares intently at you, “i just have an apathy for being too emotional at times.” you try to joke, but with the way your heart was beating so loudly and erratically, it drowned out any humor you may have been trying for. 

“is it perhaps because you’ve been called to the prince's study with no reason or explanation?” he jokes, his eyes look at you from beneath his long lashes and you laugh wetly.

“perhaps,” you accept the handkerchief he gives you with a small thank you.

you wipe at your tears, quickly composing yourself with taking a couple of more steady breaths, and you were glad that the prince was at least giving you this time to look a little more presentable until he sentenced you to your punishment. 

“right, well,” he claps his hands together, a small smile on his face as he inches backwards until he’s able to sit on his desk, not caring for the slue of papers underneath, “i’m glad i was finally able to find you.”

find you?

you don’t say anything, your eyes taking him in for the first time, and for the first time, the rumors were correct. 

he was positively gorgeous. 

the veil of night hid a lot of his features, leaving only the more pronounced things for you to see. not only that, but you had been sworn to keep away from him, the last time you were really able to see him was years ago. 

but now, illuminated under the light from the large windows to the side of him, you can see him as clearly as you possibly could. his eyes were striking and stark, a blue that you could only get if you looked at the sea and saw all the colors mixing around together. his lips were plump and pink. his jaw was sturdy, but that could’ve been said along with the rest of his body, no longer looking like the lanky little boy that you were used to envisioning. though he donned a simple white button up, the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing just how strong he was. everything about him exuded radiance, the spectacularity that only comes with being the crown prince. 

you try to focus yourself again, and try not to melt under the way he noticed you staring too hard, his smile turning into something far more teasing.

he wets his lips, sitting up a little bit straight, pushing himself off the table just a bit so that he could be closer to you. 

“my name is satoru,” he extends his hand outward, and you stare at it. 

oh, a part of you sinks, he doesn't remember you.

“shake, please” he says as if reading your mind, “my hand isn’t infected with a fungal disease if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

you quickly nod, feeling sheepish as your hands slowly raise from where they were resting on your crumpled apron, fingers gently and barely there as they glide against his palm until your hand is enclosed in his, fingers curling around his as you shake. 

his palm is soft, unlike yours which had grown rough and riddles with scratches and cuts from over the years. he shakes firmly yet gently, not too harsh unlike the other men whose hands you’ve shaken before, making it somewhat a point to not only bruise your skin but to show off their strength as you look at them with a sneer. 

you don’t let go until he does, not wanting to seem rude or improper, and your hands quickly fall back down to your sides. you’re aware of the stains of food and dirt on your white apron, the way it is held together through stitches and intricate sewing. it’s a stark difference to what he’s wearing, even if simple, but the quiet opulence is what differentiates the two of you so easily. 

he waits patiently and you suddenly realize that he’s waiting for your name. you said it quickly, your eyes darting to him as you bow your head again.

“as i said,” he continued, his head turning as he looked out the window, taking in the scenery, “i have been trying my best to find you ever since, well, i’m sure you remember.”

“i was told by…miss marla scott, is it?” he asks, and you nod, miss lottie, “that you are one of, if not, her best girls.”

you nod again, not knowing what to do. he was going on about this as if all those years ago were a figment of your imagination, as if your childhoods weren’t linked together the way you recall them being. that could be for the best though, seeing how you could be in trouble if anyone were to remember. 

“i’ve recently had to do away with some of my valets, they didn’t meet my expectations.” he scratches his jaw, looking back at you, his eyes simmering as you look at him from beneath your lashes. 

“i would like for you to be my maid.” he finally said, his fingers playing with the ring on his middle finger, twisting it back and forth as it caught and reflected the sunlight. 

there’s a beat of silence, a moment in which the two of you just look at each other. 

you almost laughed in shock, your brows shooting upwards in surprise, hands interlinking themselves as they rested on your queasy stomach. 

“p-pardon,” you swallow dryly, “pardon me?” 

he waves it off, his eyes playful, obviously understanding that you weren’t expecting this and he runs a hand through his arctic hair. you intently watch his every movement, waiting for him to burst out into laughter and to say that this was all one big joke, one meant to set you up into a trap. 

“you’d have to make my bed every day, make sure my room is clean. my office,” he motions to the room around the two of you, “as well. anywhere i am, you are. i’m not a particularly messy person, but i like the assurance a maid provides.”

“your highness,” you breathe deeply through your nose, a puff of air coming out as you smile shortly, “i am more than honored, but i’m not sure i’ve been trained the way a personal maid has been trained. i would hate to disappoint you,” you chose your words carefully, but he waves it all off with his gloved hand.

“you will be taught. after all, you are the best, are you not?” his eyes crease around the edges, waiting for you to simply nod once again, and you do, slowly. 

“but, your highness, i…” you trail off, failing silent and running out of words as you find yourself sputtering under his gaze. you’re usually one who’s easily composed, your back straight and shoulders pressed backwards, but you feel it all slipping away. 

“why me? i surely couldn’t have made a favorable impression the first time we met, your highness.”

he looks at you for a moment, brief, fleeting. 

“you’re human, it happens,” he simply says, his eyes flickering a different shade, “my mother always tells me that we forget to exhaust the capabilities that connect us together,” he rubs in between his brows, soothing the crease, not going any further into his explanation when he looks up at you, his smile debonair, “now, do you accept?”

you suck in a breath. 

one nod. 

yes. 

—-

you were quickly swept away from your normal routine of things to become the princes maid, something that you could barely even get out once lydia was able to ask you about what had happened. you can remember the looks you received after walking to your new quarters, a private room for the first time in your life, by the people who judged you the first time around, feeling a little victorious with your single back packed with the three changes of clothes you owned. 

you spent days going over what was to be expected of you, and it all felt like it was a joke. 

it was too simple, too easy of a job with an even simpler explanation from the prince as to why you were even here. 

“his highness wakes up early, so you will need to be up before he is,” one of the ladies who was briskly walking around the princes caves explained rapidly, “and his nighttime schedule is, well, hectic, which means you will have to be with him until he goes to sleep.”

you blink, trying to get that all in as you take mental notes of everything you are being taught. 

“and during the day? where should i be?”

she looked up at you as if you were an idiot, as if that was the most obvious question you could’ve asked. 

“by his side, of course, you are to ensure his highness is always comfortable. your role is beyond making his bed or simply cleaning up after him. it’s making sure that our prince is at ease when he is to one day become our king.”

you never thought you would be standing behind the door of the prince's chambers, waiting for him to wake up, but your life always seemed to have a different plan waiting for you than what you’d expect. 

it’s better than you’d expect it to have been, too. at first, it was difficult getting used to the prince and his way of doing things. he would act rash sometimes, acting without thinking of the consequences. he was playful, he loved laughing. there were times when you’d be standing a good distance away from him when he’d be having dinner with families of women who were there to marry him, diplomats that talked just to bore it would seem, and you’d catch his wandering eye, suppressing a smile that seemed to quirk up on his face as well. 

it wasn’t long before you found yourself speaking more freely around him, keeping some of the pleasantries, but regarding him more as a friend, just as you would with lydia. 

he would often spend hours away in his study just talking, telling you about his daily outings and the struggles he was having with finding a wife. whenever you offered your thoughts or opinions he listened thoughtfully, his gaze heavy and caring.

though he may not have remembered your ancient friendship, you did, and an old part of you feels like it’s coming back after all those years. the naive part that was just happy to have a person to talk to, somebody that wouldn’t look at you in disgust or pity. 

but you bring your focus back to now, listening intently, waiting to hear the bed sheets ruffle and the floorboards to creak as he makes his way out of his bed. 

after a couple of weeks of doing this you’ve become somewhat familiar with the prince's way of doing things, and just as you thought he was going to sleep in, you hear the bedsheets ruffle with movement. 

“your highness?” you call quietly, “may i come in?”

there’s a loud yawn, something unintelligible, and then you hear the go ahead for you to go. 

you slowly open the door, making sure not to be loud as you bow politely, closing the door before you as you set the tray of cold water and fruits down on the nightstand near his bed. 

the prince prefers to eat something before he breaks his fast in front of his family and the watchful eyes of the palace, enjoying these small moments he has with himself. 

“good morning your highness,” you greet, lighting the candle as you look behind your shoulder to see the prince groggily running at his eyes, yawning once again as he waves tiredly to you. 

why he chooses to wake up before the sun is even in the sky is beyond you, but you would be mad to question the choices of the prince. unfortunately, he seems to be waking up even earlier than the times you were told, so every morning you find yourself getting up at the crack of dawn to make sure you’re up before he is. 

“did you sleep well?” you walk around the bed, setting down some fresh sheets and clothes for him to pick out, opening the curtains as you watch the sun just barely peek out from the horizon. 

“well enough,” his voice is deep, filled with sleep, and you're glad your back is momentarily turned so that he couldn’t see the way a smile threatened to poke its way on your face. 

“i’m glad to hear,” you turn around, catching him briefly taking a swing of water, savoring its coolness, and you try not to look too long at the droplets that roll down his chin, splattering on his thigh, “would you like me to go through your events set for the day?” 

he glances at you from over his cup, blinking as he wordlessly tells you to continue. 

“today, you are to meet with the king's advisors after you break your fast, but i doubt they should take too long. at noon, you have a lunch meeting set with the lady dower and her daughter,” you quote from memory, “and afterwards we are to swiftly get you ready for tonight's ball.” 

he groans loudly, opposing this, and you smirk, your eyes trained on him as he sets his water down, sniffing as he stands up, stretching his arms above his head. you feel like a fiend, with the way you quickly avert your gaze from his toned stomach, the happy trail of hair that leads…

your eyes shoot up at him, glad that his were still screwed shut, another yawn escaping his lips as he leans his head side to side, cracking his neck.

“i’ve already met with the lady dower,” he almost whines, his nose wrinkling at the thought, “what do they want this time?” 

“a ring, probably,” you mutter under your breath, but he hears, a chuckle falling past his lips as he nods along, tsking as he shrugs. he obviously doesn’t want the dower girl to be his wife, and you could only feel sorry for how tense the meetings going to be. 

he picks up a cube of melon, popping it in his mouth, humming at the sweet taste. he offers the bowl to you, just as he’s always done, but you politely decline, just as you’ve always done. you may have become friendly with the prince, but there is still some semblance of protocol that you’ll force yourself to follow. 

“is this chocolate?” he pipes up, looking at the tray a bit more closely, holding up the little sweet to the light. 

“you’ve mentioned how much you like them, and the kitchen has been making a plethora of them for the ball, so i thought i should snag you some before they're all gone.” you explain, and he turns it around, shooting you a thankful, genuine smile. he sets it down, most likely saving it until the very last moment.

“will you be there? tonight?” he asks, filling up his glass with water once again. 

“not down there with you, your highness-” 

“how many times have i told you to drop the titles?” he chides playfully, cutting you off as you sigh deeply through your nose. you’re terrified of calling him by his name too many times in private, and slipping up in public, knowing just how bad it would turn out for you if that were to happen. 

“not down there with you, gojo,” you say his last name with extra weight, just a little bit of sass, and he rolls his eyes, “i am to help out elsewhere.” 

he nods in understanding. 

“could you be down there?” he picks up a piece of watermelon, fashioned into a sphere, eating it as you sputter, brows furrowing in slight confusion as you open your mouth, shut it, and then open it again to speak. 

“unless i am serving, i would not be allowed,” you explain, following behind him as he moves away from the bed, quickly making the messed up sheets as he makes room for you. you’re supposed to wait until he’s out of the room, but in your growing friendship with the prince, you find it amusing the way he flutters away. 

he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and you look behind your shoulder to see him deep in thought. 

“i’ll find a way.” 

“what-” 

“i’ll see you later,” he exits his room, shutting himself in his bathroom as the other servants are their, waiting with his bath drawn, leaving you there to gape in silence. 

—-

gojo somehow stuck to his word, finding a way for you to be near him by the time the ball arrived. 

you felt overwhelmed, your senses were going hardwire at the sheer size of everything. it was one thing to be part of setting up the decorations, or to view it from afar behind a pillar, but to be part of it was something totally different. 

there had been a couple balls since you first started your new position, but this happened to be the first one that you had gotten clearance for. of course, you weren’t a part of the crowd, hidden somewhere in the midst of servants and servers, but you were nearer than you’ve ever been. 

they even dress you up in more fashionable servant clothes, knowing that if you were to wear your tattered uniform it would easily give it away that you weren’t one of them. you didn’t have a job for the evening other than to make sure that the prince was comfortable, so you tried everything you could not to let him out of your sight. 

you found yourself searching for lydia in the crowd, but she had told you that she’d be in the kitchens, having to help out with the food they’d be sending out, and so you doubted you would be able to catch a glimpse of her amongst all the chaos that is hidden to their eyes. 

the prince, despite your best efforts, kept getting drowned in by the sea of people and ball gowns. every time he twirled a girl around for a dance he was hidden by a wave of colorful fabrics, and you’d have to squint to see his white hair peeking out.

you tapped your fingers on the railing you were leaning against, trying to soak it all in while you had the chance. you had heard of the royal balls and just how extravagant they truly could be, but you never thought you’d have the chance to see one in its entirety. 

“i don’t believe we’ve met,” 

your head snaps to your left, eyes widening in surprise at the stranger that had somehow slithered their way next to you without noticing.

“i apologize, i didn't mean to scare you,” the man says with an apologetic laugh. you huff out a small sound, shaking your head as you bow your body a little bit, watching as he bows his head in turn.

“no apology necessary, uh, mister…?” you pause, realizing that you actually haven’t even seen his face before, let alone heard of his name.

“fushiguro,” he finishes for you, the scar on his lip quirking upwards as he settles himself on teh railing, looking down at the scene below you as he shoots you a small look, “but i’d prefer it if you’d call me toji.”

you duck your head down, smiling as you repeat your name, feeling heat pricks at the back of your neck. he’s certainly handsome, and most likely higher ranked in title with the expensive material he fills out well. 

you’ve seen him around, most likely from afar. his face is familiar, and you’re sure that he’s had to have at least another one of these balls considering the fact that he’s given up mixing with the ton. 

he surely has to note that what you’re wearing is on par with what the other servants and maids are, but he doesn't choose to comment.

“i’ve started a little bet with myself,” he says, his voice deep and gruff. you take a second to look him over thoroughly, noting the way his hair is messy and looks undone, black as the night. his eyes shimmer green, but turn more olive toned in the light, and he has a smile exudes an air of confidence, “would you like you partake in it?”

you smile, looking at him from the side. 

“i thought they taught you better manners than to introduce yourself with a bet when you first meet a lady.” 

he chuckles, shrugging his shoulders as his eyes glint. 

“thought i already told you my name?” he’s smooth with it, and you’re not used to this. 

you don’t say anything for a second, your chest moving as you take in a necessary gulp of air. you normally try not to think too much in gojo’s flirtatious personality, because he seems to be like that with everybody he’s ever met. but this is new. 

“see,” he leans in, your arms touching as you both lean a bit over the railing, and he’s lower this voice to a whisper so that nobody else can hear, “i bet that our little prince is setting his eyes on the young lady in the red dress, but i also bet that he may be mulling over the one in the green shawl.” his fingers slyly point to the two of them, and you crane your neck a bit, standing on your toes as you try to get a better look. the man, toji, isn’t incorrect in his observations. gojo has danced with miss corden almost three times at this point, and another two with miss ahura, but you remember that he only favored these two more because they tended not to step on his shoes when dancing. you suppress your smile, choosing to indulge him in his little bet.  

“i say miss ahura has a better chance,” you say and he watches as gojo twirls her around on the dance floor, “her family is far more affluent and i hear that she has riches beyond comprehension in persia.” 

“are you saying our prince is covetous? the sacrilege,” his voice is full of mirth and you hide your little giggle behind a gloved hand, your elbows lightly hitting his as you keep your eyes trained down below. 

the waltz comes to an end, the violinists lifting their instrument off from their shoulders as they prepare for the next piece, the ladies and gentlemens who had just danced bowing to each other as they separate. 

you watch for gojo, watch as he moves to the end of the floor, accepting the drink one of his companions had waiting for him as he delves into conversation. he takes a sip, nodding along to whatever it is that is being muttered in his ear. 

he looks up for a second, his eyes scanning around for something. he’s careful not to attract attention to this fact, but you see him scan the entire room, the different floors, his eyes squinting as he tries to narrow his vision. he looks around for a couple more seconds, looking and looking until he finds you. 

a brief and quick smile takes over his face when he finally sees your face, your own lips tugging upwards as you give him a small wave. his eyes fall to the man besides you, his smile falling as well, and toji grunts. 

“are you familiar with the prince?” he asks, obviously catching this, and you gnaw on your lips in apprehension, confusion. 

“barely,” you mutter, not giving him too many details, watching as gojo looks away just as quickly, as if he had never seen you and you swallow thickly, wondering what brought on his sudden change in emotions. 

or why he even looked for you in the first place. 

“barely doesn’t warrant the prince looking for you,” toji whispers in your ear, “‘think you know him a little better than you give yourself credit for.” 

—

after the ball, gojo didn’t speak much to you when the two of you were back in his chambers.

he tended to get tired out by the end of balls, but you found yourself lonely without the endless stories he came to you with, the way he’d relive some of the events just as he was going to bed so that he wouldn’t forget them in the morning. 

but he was strangely quiet right now, didn’t say anything as you helped him shrug off his coat, hanging it up in his closet as you bite your cheek, feeling some odd tension radiate off of him, something you’ve never felt before. 

“did you enjoy the ball?” you asked, standing near his bed as he shuffles around, kicking off his boots as he scrunches his nose in distaste. 

“it was like any other,” he says plainly, yanking his tie off as you grab it from his wordlessly, folding it up so that it wouldn’t crease.

“did you like dancing with miss ahura?” you don’t know what’s going on, why he seems so rigid, “she looked beautiful, did she not?” 

he shrugs passively, not answering as he rummages around his drawers, dropping down his cufflinks in a pile with the rest of his gold ones, not knowing that a single pair of them would most likely feed you for a year.

“would you like a midnight snack? i saved some truffles for you,” you dig into your pockets, bringing some out that you had snagged from the desserts table and had wrapped in a napkin, something akin to what he used to bring you all those years ago, waiting eagerly all night to show him, “these even have some gold on them, i’ve never seen-” 

“i have chefs at my disposal,” he mutters as he unbuttons his shirt, “i don’t need truffles covered in lint.” 

your smile fell at the bite in his voice, the way it seemed to grip it’s claws around your lungs, squeezing the air out of them. you silently pocket the napkin.

“of course…i apologize,” there's a bitter taste in the back of your throat, catching his eyes momentarily. you see the way they shift, how his mouth parts open, and then he shuts them again. 

you can feel his stare as you shove your other hand back into your other dress pocket, this one with a miniature tart that you had so carefully tried to preserve throughout the evening from breaking, and feel a heavy weight settle on your chest. 

“i have your bath ready,” you point to the bathroom, ducking your head down as you bow, “i will see you in the morning, your highness.” 

you left  quickly, feeling foolish as you trekked down the stairs to your own room, feeling your heart slow down as you shut your door, shedding off the wretched costume that had you feeling as if you were something worthwhile for once. 

—-

for a while after that night, the two of you share brief conversations, sentences kept to a minimum as you bring back the cordiality that you had begun to shed off for a while. if he noticed it, he didn’t comment on it. after some days passed, and days turned into a week and a half, he barely even looked at you, and you took it as a sign that he had tired out of the small friendship and was looking elsewhere for momentary entertainment.  

tonight, you found yourself standing in the corner of his office, eyes darting around as you waited in heavy silence as his quill scratched on the parchment beneath him, dipping it in ink every now and then as he mumbled unintelligible words under his breath. 

his head rests in his hands, throwing his head back in frustration at whatever it is the document is telling him. 

his head falls down, his eyes slowly opening as he looks up at you. 

your brow raised slightly in questioning. 

“i need you,” he says, eyes widening slightly at his slip up, “i-i need your help.” he clears his throat harshly.  

he ushers to the papers in front of him, and you inhale deeply, making your way from the corner that you’ve hidden yourself in as you cross the room, your steps careful as you round to his table, standing at the edge as you stay quiet. 

“here,” he bites out, “come here.” he needs you next to him, and you have to control the urge to roll your eyes as you move, shuffling so that you were standing near his chair, looking down at the piece of paper that he’s been mulling over for the better half of an hour. 

you look at it, mouth parting open as your brows scrunch up as you focus, trying to ignore the way his eyes were burning into the side of your face. 

“i don’t understand, your highness,” you finally say, leaning away from him, “what am i supposed to be looking at?”

he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling as he sets the paper down, leaning back in the chair. 

“it’s a letter of inheritance, who gets what after the father dies,” he explains, “but the signatures don’t match up. does it seem forged to you?” 

you look again, looking at the two signatures laid next to each other, the way the letters curved, which ones swooped, tilting your head, trying to see it from a different angle. the more you looked at it, the more disingenuous the signatures seemed. 

“they might be,” you briefly look at him, his stare burning if you look too long, “but i’m not sure, your highness.”

his face hardens for a second, and you move away, going back to the end of the table as you bow, taking your leave to the back of the room until he speaks again. you pause, looking over your shoulder to him. 

“care to look again? i have a feeling that you have a knack for schemes.” his lips are pulled back in a smile that doesn't meet his eyes, miles away from the usual smile you see from him, and if not for the benign expression, his words surely made you stumble. 

“excuse me?” you bite back quickly, your nose flaring as he scoffs, shaking his head as if he expected this reaction. 

“you’re shameless with it, aren’t you?” he’s alluding to something, and it’s driving you crazy. all the stares you’ve shared this past week, the silent exchange of aggravated words that grow only in size the more the two of you simmer. even when you were young, your arguments were resolved quickly.

“with what?” you snap, the accusations he’s throwing at you with no reasoning swarming your mind, clouding your judgment, your way of carrying yourself as you throw all etiquette out the window. 

“i can only wonder what ploys fushiguro played out for you, but i wonder even more which ones tempted you the most?” 

your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and you make a sound in the back of your throat, one of shock, one of clear surprise. was all of his unspoken anger because of…him? the man you met during the ball? surely it can’t be. 

you gape, the candle flickering away in the same beats your heart was going at, illuminating his stone cold face as he stands up from his chair, moving slowly to where you were. you try to stand tall, but you can’t match up to his height.

“you,” your jaw clenches, eyes searching his to see if he was joking, “you’ve been treating me like i’m, i’m,” you stutter, your chest constricting, “the shit you wipe off your shoe because you think i’m scheming with s-some man i met for the first time?” 

his expression flickers for a second, as if suddenly realizing what he was saying.

“as if you don’t know who he is,” he collects himself, a sneer making its way on his face, “as if you don’t know what they’ve done to us-” 

“i don’t!” you cut him off, a shocked laugh escaping your lips, “i don’t know who he is! i just thought he was being friendly!” 

gojo pauses, his eyes searching yours for any traces of lies

“come on,” he scoffs, “you know how the zenin family-”

“who, who’s the zenin family?” you exclaim, watching in real time as the facade and things he’s been convincing himself of aren’t true. 

“the,” he stutters, his face scrunching up in confusion, “the zenin…? how do you not know…?”

“because i’m a maid!” you shout, not caring if others behind the door could hear you yelling at their prince, “because i’ve spent my entire life working here! i keep my head down and i do what i’m told, a-and i keep to myself. forgive me for not knowing about your royal affairs, your highness!” 

he’s rendered silent, lips pulled into a thin line. 

“but you only care about yourself, right? the sacred prince who had everything given to him his entire life,” you continue, feeling your own pent up frustrations spewing out. you know that you’re going to lose everything after this anyways, so you don’t care about the repercussions now. you can’t bring it in yourself to care.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with some unidentifiable emotion as you roll your eyes. 

“i don’t? tell me, do you even remember me?” you hate that you’re losing touch of sensibility and making it personal, personal about your own feelings and how your mind can’t wrap around the fact that he simply forgot who you were or how much he affected you, “or are your cares about the people who work for you so fleeting that you barely know our names? is my replacement coming in a week, two weeks?”

“stop,” he bites out, his eyes dark, a storming brewing on the endless sea they offer, “you don’t know-” 

“what i’m taking about…right?” you finish for him, “because i’m just the simple maid who you took in as your toy because you wanted to poke and prod around at her and see if she cries again? see if you could fix something for once-” 

“stop,” his voice is different, and your hairs stand up because it’s not his. it’s lower in pitch, deep, commanding. you shut your mouth, fingers flying upwards, but it’s too late, you’ve said too much, and there’s no going back. this is it, you’ve finally sealed your fate. 

his head falls down for a second, licking his lips as he looks at you with a look that freezes your blood. it’s not like him, and you know that this was it. 

“get out,” he mutters. 

“i…” you take a step back.

“get out,” his voice is thick, nostrils flaring, cheeks red with underlying emotions that are threatening to leave, “get out and never come back.” 

your eyes shine with tears, tears that you refuse to shed, tears that you don’t know are for what, but you nod once, your lips trembling as you bow down to him, your last shred of respect, and turn for the door, shutting it as you run down the corridor, run for the only thing you think can save you in the moment, and don’t look back. 

—

the wind is biting and unforgiving on your skin as you ride through the night. 

you lean forward on the horse, hoping it can go faster as it sprints through the open field, your eyes watering as you shout for it to go. 

you packed what you could, wrote your note to lydia and escaped through the stables, glad  to know that louis was guarding the horses tonight, glad to know that he often drank himself to sleep. 

you knew you were in too deep. you had crossed the crown prince, your ending surely wasn’t going to be good. and so call it what you will, cowardice, fear, survival, or just something you seem to have down to your roots, but you fled. you took a horse and went as far as you could, looking over your shoulder every other minute to see if anybody was running after you. 

they would at some time realize that one of their horses was missing, as well as the prince's personal maid, and easily connect the dots. 

it was late, and you were glad that the night was offering you the darkness and protection you needed. you could hear thunder rumbling a distance away, the clouds looking even more irate than they usually do. rain, you noted, even more protection that you desperately needed.

“please,” you plead, with what you don’t know, “please, hurry.” 

the horse, as if understanding you, seems to pick up its pace, going even faster than before. your cheeks are freezing, your hands going numb from both the cold but from holding onto the reins with all your might, and the sad excuse of a cloak you have on for both warmth and concealing your face, does nothing for its intended purposes. it’s flimsy and the hood is swept by the wind, and you sniffle, tears wetting your chin as you try to compose yourself for just a bit more. 

you feel an ounce of joy when you see the yellow twinge of lights from the valley below, the small town that you once used to live in coming more into focus, and feel some sense of happiness. you would camp there for the night and leave at dawn, going east, north, anywhere away from here. 

or at least that was your plan until you hear the thump of hooves from behind you. 

your heart drops, head whipping around as you see another horse coming in from behind you. you can’t see the rider, but you suspect more are behind them. they’re shouting something, but with the wind roaring in your ears you can’t hear anything. you turn around, whipping the reins again, leaning even more forward as let out a sound of desperation. 

it’s a race to survive now, something that you won't do if you lose it, and you feel your body turning into ice, everything is going too fast. 

the rider behind you is gaining speed, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they finally catch up to you. in a split moment you try to evade them, twisting the reins of your horse in one direction, not seeing the bush that was in front of you. 

in another moment you’re up in the air, losing all of your feelings as you're thrown down with a harsh thud. 

in the next moment, things going to black, your lids flickering as you try to stay awake, one of the last things you see being the blurry face of the rider,

and those eyes that you think about every night. 

—

the next time you open your eyes it’s to a bright light. 

you ground, rubbing at your face as your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, your head ringing as you attempt to sit up, only to feel strong hands gently pushing you down. 

there’s a voice, somebody speaking, but it’s all mushy in your brain, words melting together as you shake your head, trying to get the blinding light away from you. the voice grows a little bit closer, a little more clearer, and after a couple of seconds you’re able to make out what the person is saying.

“please rest, i’ll get the doctor,” the voice is familiar, and you reach out with slow fingers, trying to grab onto something, anything.

“n-no,” you murmur, your voice slurring, “no doctor.” 

“you need a doctor,” the voice says firmly, “wait here.”

“no,” you say again, a little stronger, and the person stops moving, “s-stay…please,”

your fingers reach out, trying to latch onto a piece of their clothing, and instead find their hand. it’s warm, soft, and it quickly closes around your cold one, trying to warm it up. 

you know this hand, know this voice. 

“i’m sorry,” you mutter, and wonder if your voice is even something that can be heard by the human ear with the way it sounds foreign even to you, “i’m, i’m sorry about everything. about what i said.”

his hold on your hand grows tighter, his thumb moving up and down on the back of it in a soothing back as his other hands run across your forehead. 

“no,” he simply says, “you don’t-”

“but i said-” 

“everything that should’ve been said,” gojo finishes quickly, “but i need to go get you a doctor, check if you don’t have a concussion or worse. he checked for…other things,” he swallows thickly, not able to say what terrible words the town physician told him when they brought you into the small inn, the words that turned his skin transparent and nearly ripped the heart right out his chest, “see if you’re doing okay.”

“i don’t have a concussion,” you tell him him, finally able to blink without shooting lights and on your final squint you finally see him, sitting right next to you, his hair disheveled and face clammy, “i’ve had concussions and this isn’t a concussion.” 

his brows furrow but you wave it off, sitting up so that you could rest on the head board behind you, not letting go of his hands. you’re not even sure he would let you if you wanted to, with the way he was grasping on as if his life depended on it. 

you groggily rub at your face, glad that the thumping in your head is dying down, gracefully accepting the glass of water he offers you. you chug it down, feeling the droplets wet the chemise you’re wearing, but can’t find it in you to care.

you look around the room, wondering if you might actually have a concussion because you’ve never been here before, and it certainly doesn’t look like it’s part of the palace. 

“we’re at an inn,” he explains as if reading your mind, “it’s the closest place i could find.” 

you nod wordlessly, looking away from him because it feels raw, the emotions, the events from before, everything. 

he senses your disposition and his hold on your hand loosens for a brief, flickering second. you hate the feeling. 

“i shouldn’t have assumed,” he whispers, your eyes still focused on the patterns on the bed sheet, not knowing what would happen if you looked at him, “i shouldn’t have thought any of it. i just saw you and saw him and…it got in my head. it got a hold of me and for that, i’m sorry.” 

your fingers curl into his hand. 

“but, i, um,” he stammered, stuttering the way he used to when he was a little boy, something they surely worked on seeing how it rarely came out anymore, “i wanted you to know that i do remember.” 

your head snaps up, the bed creaking at your sudden movement, your mouth slightly open in surprise. 

“what?” your question is breathless, akin to the boyish, nervous, and small smile on his face. just like he used to smile when you chased him up a tree, telling him to get down or else you’d be in big trouble as if he were your responsibility.

“you used to wear a uniform that was so huge, you’d trip whenever you’d walk. you loved the fruit pies i’d bring, but you hated the ones with the pine nuts. you’d always call me ‘toru because you couldn’t say your s’s properly and you made me a doll with some fabric you found around the rooms.” 

his thumb rubs on your pulse point, a melancholy smile on his face. 

“you named him fru-fru,” your voice is barely above a murmur, “and you kept him on your-” 

“nightstand,” he nods, “but i had to move him to my study because he was getting too fragile, i couldn’t move him too much.”

you wipe at your cheeks, sniffing as you feel a strange warmth fill your chest, filling an emptiness you didn’t know was there. his eyes shimmer, wet with tears threatening to spill, and for the first time since you met him that night, you feel like you’ve never been closer to somebody than you are now, souls interlinked together, twisting and turned as they grew with time. 

all the emotions you’ve been latching onto or forcing down are coming up at once and you feel overwhelmed, not knowing how to handle them together. 

“why…why did you act like you didn't know me?” you finally ask, wiping at your chin with the palm of your hand as you sniffle, “why are you telling me all this now?” 

“because all this time i thought you had grown to hate me,” he mutters, “you just stopped speaking to me one day and no matter what i tried to do you never responded. i sent you letters and i visited your quarters and i even went to that scary lady,” you laugh wetly, knowing that he was referring to your old head-maid, the one that terrified him as a kid, “but they all acted as if you had forgotten about me. at some point i convinced myself that you left but when i saw you running across that field i just knew, i knew it was you.” 

you shake your head, the tears coming on even harder. all those years when you had to act passive, act as if you didn't know him just so that you wouldn’t lose or jeopardize your position or life, pretending that the one friend that made your days that much brighter was a passing thought to you. 

he leans in a bit, wiping at your cheeks gently with his thumb as you lean into his hand, watching as you quickly wipes at his own reddened cheeks, brows scrunching up together as you whimper.

“they f-found out,” you choke, “about us. and they knew who i w-was and who my mom was and they told me to never speak to you again,” your words come out broken, “and i left little piece of my clothes outside your door at night, ones with drawings or things i thought you’d know but every morning they would be gone. i,” you cry, your voice sputtering as you crawl closer to him, into his open arms, “i could never forget you,” your voice cracks, muffled by his chest, “you were the only f-friend i had,” he pulls you in tighter, his arms around you encaging you in a warmth that you so desperately needed. his chin rests atop your head, and you can see the way he struggles to get his own breaths out, the tears that he struggles to hide. 

“don’t cry,” he pleads, begs, holding onto the last scrap of composure he had left, hating hearing your cries or seeing your tears, “please, please don’t cry,” he pulls himself away from you slightly to look at your face, to dry your cheeks as you hiccup, “you’re killing me tonight, you know that right?” 

you try to laugh though it comes off as a snort, savoring the way his fingers trace your face, your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, the corners of your eyes, trying to savor every bit of you as if they’ve been starved for an eternity. 

“tried to run after you after what i said…” he can’t find it in himself to repeat his wretched words, “only to find you gone. you have no idea how much of a mad man i was, ordering everybody to turn each stone inside out until they found you. then that stupid stable boy kept yelling out that a horse was gone and i thought surely you wouldn’t be foolish enough to run away, ‘specially not when a storm was coming but…”

“i ran away when a storm was coming,” you finish for him with a quiet chuckle, feeling your body heating up at the way he broke into an instant smile when he heard the sound. if only you knew the things he’d do to hear it again, to see you happy would be his three wishes if he was ever asked.

“and you were going fast,” he traces your cheekbone, his words filling the large and empty room, “so, so fast. and when you fell?” he takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his chest, setting it on his heart as you feel it thumping quickly underneath your palm, “was about to take you to the doctor and tell him to give you this,” his fingers curl above yours, his forehead resting on yours, your noses breaths away from each other, “it didn’t matter to me anymore, it doesn’t work right without you.”

you feel lightheaded like you need him more than you need oxygen, your eyes falling onto his lips, not knowing that he was mirroring your exact same motions, the two of you working in tandem like a machine and its little bolts, not working without the other. 

“would it perhaps be because you can’t live without the chocolates i sneak in for you?” you try to joke but it falls flat in your head, but he still huffs out a laugh, nose nudging yours as you lean in impossibly closer.

“perhaps,” he answers, his face lit by the single candle behind the two of you, “but it could also perhaps be because i love you so fucking much.” 

and you whine, tired of waiting, moving the single bit you needed to connect your lips together and fall forward on his lap, your hands shooting up to his shoulders to use as much needed stability. 

he groans, a sound from the back of his throat, from deep within him, his hands moving up to hold onto your waist as you move into him, kissing him with such fervor that you felt like you were going to die without feeling his lips on you.

it was so messy, the way your teeth clash against and noses bumped against each other, but it was what you so desperately needed. he was moving fast, his lips kissing against the corners of your mouth, down you chin as they found your neck, his smile growing as you throw your head back, fingering digging into his white strands as you tried to pull him in even closer. 

you let out breathless sounds, sounds that you never knew you could make, but it seems to spur him on, planting wet and sloppy kisses on the column of your neck as she sucked, marking you up so that later people would know that you were his and his alone. 

“gojo, i,” your eyes screw shut at the feeling of him, “feels so good,” you say breathlessly, moving closer up on his lap, feeling his hands tug at the flimsy chemise you have on, fingers slowly tugging it down, giving you time to push him off if you wanted to. 

he looks up at you, his eyes needy, desperate, just as yours, and you nod, needing him to not stop. 

he continues, pulling it down so that you're bare before him, nipples pebbling in the cold air as you go to cover up, suddenly realizing just what is happening, feeling shy, never like this in front of anyone before. 

“we can stop,” he muttered against your lips, pressing a small peck to them, “we don’t have to do this now, we have all the time in the world,�� he teases as he tugs your chemise up but you grab his wrist, stopping him as you shake your head. 

“no,” you tug it down a little bit, “i’ve just,” you take in a deep breath, “just never done this before.”

he chuckles, eyes flashing darkly for just a quick second as he kisses along your jaw, leaving your skin shining in the limited light.

“good,” he murmurs, “‘cause i think i’d have to exercise my grandfather's way of handling people if somebody else saw you like this.” you laugh shortly, tugging sharply on some of his hairs as he looks up at you, eyes full of devotion that you’ve only dreamed about. 

“beheading people for just seeing my tits?” you’re more crass than he is in some places, a sign of the different language you’ve heard growing up in the circumstances you’ve had, but he doesn’t care, likes it in fact. 

“i’d burn down villages if anyone saw these,” he cups them in his hands, thumb flickering over your nipples as you suddenly arch into him, head falling back, “you’re so perfect,” he whispers into your skin, his lips hovering on the slope of your breasts as he takes time to admire your chest, “so beautiful,” you would’ve smacked him if not for the way he took one in his mouth, leaving you no time to think of anything else as a moan escapes your lips, the first of its kind.

“damn you gojo,” you moan, hearing his chuckle vibrate through your tits as his sucks on your nipple, tugging it with your teeth as you feel your stomach heat up, growing more and more wet as you buck up on his thigh, “you t-talk too much,” you shudder, eyes rolling back when he presses his flat tongue on your areola, his other hand massaging your other tit until he switches, leaving it glistening his his spit.

“yeah? then where do you want this mouth, hm?” he looks up at you with his eager eyes, just wanting to please you, and you feel like you’re becoming an addict, your cunt growing more and more wet as riding his thigh proves to not satiate the hunger. 

“d-down,” you can’t think clearly, “please, need you so bad.” 

“where?” he plays with you, pressing his hand against your stomach, “here?” 

you shake your head, feeling needy and not in the mood to play around, not knowing where your sudden surge in confidence was coming from as you grab his wrist, leading it down to your cunt as you hide your face in his neck, whining. 

“h-here, ‘toru, need you here,” he throws his head back, a sound coming from somewhere in his chest as his name falls from your glossy with spit lips, tugging the ends of your chemise up to your stomach as he stares at your bare pussy. 

he pushes you back gently to lie on the bed, nestling between your legs as he savors the sight.

you cover your face with your hands, hearing him laugh at your expense, keeping your thighs spread wide open with his hands as he presses tantalizing kisses on the insides of them, each one closer and closer to the unbearable heat. 

“wait,” you mutter, confused as to what he was doing, watching the way he snapped up, worried eyes finding your confused ones, following your stare down to his growing bulge. 

“i thought…?” all the stories lydia would tell you didn’t start this way, usually beginning his the man pulling his dick out and being done in a couple of minutes, “do you not…?” 

satoru breathes easy, laughing as he shakes his head, resting on his haunches as his palm rubs against your soft thighs. he looks so pretty like this, with his hair going haywire, some of it in his face, some of it messily pushed back. there’s a pink flush to hit face, his lips plump and shinning with spit. 

“trust me, you have no idea how bad i want to feel you,” his eyes are so dark that you wonder if they’re even blue, “but i’m not going to do it in your condition. i don’t want to hurt you any more-” 

“but,” you whine but he shakes his head, pinching your soft skin as you wince, hitting him with your knee as he rolls his eyes. 

“i promise you’re going to like this,” he rubs softly against where he pinched you, smoothing the skin over, “do you trust me?”

“yes,” you mutter, watching as he breaks into a smile, “better not disappoint me though.”

“fuck, you’re such a minx,” he groans, spreading your lips open with his pointer finger, his dick aching at the sight of the string of arousal that connects them together, at the clear shine and wetness from just how much you needed him, “you’re actually going to be the death of me.”

“then hurry u-up ‘toru,” you say, “don’t die on me now,” your fingers were cutely curling in his hair, and he’d be an insane lunatic if he made you beg any more than you have, diving in as if you were actually his last meal before he died. 

your mouth falls open in a silent scream, the feeling unlike anything. he sucked on your clit, moving up and down from your cunt, wanting to taste your saccharine wetness on his tongue to back up. he was so messy, so loud, and you felt like you were going to overheat, felt like everything was fogging your vision. 

it felt so good. too good. his tongue dived in and out of you in a way that had you gripping his hand and the sheets under you, your leg around around his shoulders as you bucked into his open mouth, your wetness smearing all of his lips and chin as he ate you like a man starved for years. 

“o-oh my god,” you mewl out, eyes rolling back as you felt one of his long, swift fingers slowly pushing into you, his lips still sucking on your clit as you felt like you were actually entering heaven. 

“not god,” his voice is muffled, “just ‘toru.” you would have laughed if you could, your smile instantly dropping when his finger pumps in and out.

your toes curl, leg around his shoulder pulling him in closer if that was even possible. if he were to die right now he’d had the giddiest smile on his face, happy to have you dancing around on his tongue. 

everything about this was shameless and you wondered if all your good deeds were finally catching up to you. 

you don’t even care if the people sleeping next to you, above you, under you, or even at this inn could hear you, because when he put in his middle finger you screamed, back arching off the bed. 

“so good, fuck, ‘toru, i,” you could even form a complete sentence, “feel so good,”

“yeah?” you nod feverishly, “fuck, you taste amazing, love this so much, love you so much,” he’s babbling with his words too, his nose sometimes accidentally rubbing against your clit, bringing you all the much more pleasure.

sometimes when you look down to see him you moan helplessly, your chest heaving at the way he’d rut mindlessly into the bed, his dick hard and swollen and achy from eating you out, about the burst from just your scent alone. 

your stomach tightens and you feel an unfamiliar thing deep in the pit of your body, growing taut with each swipe, each like, each kiss he would give you. it made your moans more breathy, your words less understandable, and you felt like you were slowly going to go insane, losing all sense of reality. 

“‘toru, i, i don’t know,” you’re sputtering, nails raking into his hair, your free hand grabbing onto your tits, the bed sheet, his shoulders, anything to help you ground you back down to earth, “i feel, f-fuck, oh my god, i,” 

“you got this sweetheart,” he encouraged you, his words honeyed, “come on, let go for me, you can do it,” his thumb which had found its way to your clit was speeding up, his tongue and fingers taking turns as they pounded into you. 

you felt that rope getting together and tiger, about to snap at any moment as you whined, tears escaping from the corners of your eyes as your lips huffed out puffs of air. 

“i, f-fuck, i’m ‘gonna, oh…” you whine out loud, the line snapping, your orgasm crashing through you as your mouth falls slack. 

it was mind numbing, the way everything went white, the way you tightened around his fingers which were slowing down. you creamed around him, leaving his skin shiny with your release, your pussy still pulsing seconds after as you try to catch your breath, still seeing white behind your lids as your tits move up and down with each haggard breath. 

he presses on last kiss to your fluttering clit, hands massaging your quivering thighs as you slowly yet surely come back down to reality, each second passing bringing you back down with him. 

“good?” he teases, his smile coy as you cover your eyes with one arm, lightly pushing him with the other. 

“fine,” you mutter, peeking over to see him positively glowing, a stupidly large smile on his face when he sees you finally looking at him, pressing the fattest kiss to your lips as you squeal, eyes fluttering for a second as you taste yourself on him, parting your lips mindlessly to let his tongue slither in.

you whined against his lips, fingers curling around the collar of his open tunic, pulling him closer to your naked body, feeling your tits press up against his chest, everything so perfect that you wondered if you were dreaming. 

“wait,” he muttered, pulling away from you, a string of spit connecting your lips together as you sit uop a little, you brows scrunched in confusion as you watch him sit up from the bed, walking over to the vanity as he rumages around the drawers for something. 

he pulls out a small cloth, holding it up in victory as he grins, walking over to your nightstand as he wets it with soem water, crawling back into bed as he settles back in the middle of your thighs, gently pulling them apart as he starts cleaning you. 

it’s all so intimate and so loving. you feel like melting watching his focused gaze, careful to be soft and slow, knowing that you’re a little stretched out, and pat it as best he could, cleaning around your thighs as well, throwing the cloth to the side as he climbs back up to you, pressing a loving kiss to your temple. 

you shrug the rest of the chemise off, riddled with your essence and sweat, and pull the covers up, feeling the sudden chill now that satoru’s no longer eating you out like both your lives depended on it, and a silence falls over the room. 

“is this a bad time to tell you about my horse laundering scheme with fushiguro?” you ask, your eyes shining mischievously as satoru whines, hiding his face in your chest as he pulls you closer to his body. 

“you’re so evil,” he says against your skin. 

you laugh, the sound going straight to his heart, his smile hidden. 

but you fall silent and when you don’t speak he looks up, his eyes searching yours. 

“what now?” you whisper, your fingers carding through his hair, feeling its softness, “i don’t…” you trail off, biting your lip as every other emotion that you had tucked away comes crawling back. 

his finger finds its way to the middle of your browning, easing the crease that was forming. 

“now you become my wife…if you would like to, of course…” 

you search his eyes to see if he’s joking, but you only see honest sincerity in that sea of blue, his cheeks pink as he blushed. 

“really?” you can barely say it without a giddy smile making its way on your face, one that he glows brightly at. if only he could bottle it, save it for when the universe collapsed and was in need of light. 

“really,” he promises, holding you tightly to him, not wanting to ever let you go again, needing you next to him so that he could make sure his heart was working, to make sure that he was actually alive and that this wasn’t all a dream. 

“i’ve loved you since the moment i saw you, ‘toru,” you whisper, nodding off to sleep as a yawn escapes your mouth. 

“is that because i used to try to swoon you with food?” he whispers, his drowsy eyes finding yours as you sleepily giggle, kissing the tip of his nose as you curl into his heat, a smile on your face when you say the last words before you finally head off into sleep. 

“perhaps.”

[cosmicdahlias]

And They Were Roommates

Logan Howlett x Reader

MINORS DNI

Your roommate, Wade Wilson, brings home an alcoholic Canadian bastard with knifes in his knuckles. After a month of putting up with him, an argument between you two goes in an unexpected direction.

tags: hard drugs mention, marijuana mention, alcohol usage, age difference, enemies to lovers, slapping, claws, hate fucking, mdom/fsub, breeding, degradation, praise kink, belt usage, choking, p in v, knifeplay (counting claw usage as knifeplay lmao), blood, creampie, possible impreg, aftercare, oral, multiple orgasms (emphasis on multiple), overstimulation

i’ve recently started watching the xcu movies after deadpool and wolverine dropped on disney+ and MY GODDDDDD have i been missing out!!! i’ve been an mcu girlie for so long (plus deadpool). the x-men movies are so fun but alsoooooo uhhhh hugh jackman as logan??? HELLO??? i need this man biblically like it’s not even funny. i have yet to watch logan (2017) but i’ve seen edits on tiktok and WHOA MAMA talk about a silver fox!!! also fun fact male wolverines bite down on the female’s neck during mating and i couldn’t resist including that in this fic. animalistic logan is THE BEST logan 👌

You were Wade Wilson’s friend turned roommate. You first knew each other through your other roommate, Althea, a blind woman who went by Al. At one point in time you were Al’s dealer before giving up that life once you got your degree and found steady employment. You never dabbled in the devil’s dandruff like Al did, as with the rest of gen Z, your drug of choice was weed. Your friends often asked why you chose an old woman and a mutant in his forties as roommates, but honestly rent was cheap and that was all you cared about.

You hadn’t seen Wade in a few days, he mysteriously disappeared during his birthday party. Neither you, nor any of his friends had any idea what had happened to him. You knew he’d kinda hit a rough’ish point in his life, giving up his assassin alter ego by the name of Deadpool for becoming a car salesman. You wondered if he had gone off on some sort of bender, but you honestly didn’t know.

You had just gotten off of work and opened the door to your apartment. Getting home took longer than expected, half of your street was cordoned off, from the damage looked like a bombing was the cause. You sat on the couch and pulled out your phone, trying to see if the local news had covered what had happened when door unlocked and swung open.

Wade walked in, sporting the iconic red suit you hadn’t seen him wear in six years. He was carrying the most… unique looking dog you’d ever seen and he was accompanied by a man with a rugged appearance who was wearing pants of similar material as Wade’s suit and nothing else. The stench of blood permeated the room.

“Al, I’m back.” Wade said.

“She’s out. Dude, where the hell have you been?” You asked.

“Oh no big deal, just saved the entire multiverse from total annihilation. I’m Marvel Jesus now.” Wade answered.

You elected to ignore his explanation. You never knew why you asked what he’d gotten up to whenever he wore that suit, none of it ever made a lick of sense to you.

“Who’s the dog?”

“Her? This four legged scrotum is Mary Puppins, or as I like to call her, Dogpool. Something… unfortunate happened to her last owner, so I’m her papá now.” Wade said cheerfully.

Knowing him, he definitely had something to do with whatever happened to her previous owner, but that wasn’t what you were asking about.

“Cute, but I was talking about the washed up Abercrombie & Fitch greeter next to you.”

The man rolled his eyes.

“Ohhhh, yeah that’s Logan. He’s gonna be crashing here for a while.”

“Wait, hold the fuck up. You disappear for days and you just show up in the suit you haven’t worn in years, reeking of blood, telling me some shirtless dude who also smells like blood is gonna live here like it’s no big deal?”

“Well funny thing is he doesn’t exactly know anyone else around here, not really his fault since I had to pull him from his universe and bring him here to save ours. May or may not have done so to a choir rendition of Madonna. You know, typical multiverse stuff and whatnot. I mean we’re Disney property now and that’s the horse they’re beating to death at the moment.” Wade answered.

Once again ignoring the exposition dump, you continued to protest.

“You can’t be serious, Wade! This is a two bed apartment. You and Al already share a room, so where the fuck are you gonna put him?”

“Isn’t that a couch you’re sitting on?” Logan scoffed.

“Oh perfect, so I can’t even use the goddam living room anymore?” You asked, growing even more irritated by Logan’s input.

“Jesus, you’re just a fuckin’ princess, aren’t you?” Logan huffed.

You glared at him before turning your attention back to Wade.

“Do I literally not get a say in this like at all? Even though I live here and pay my share of the rent?”

“Look, I promise it’s temporary. Just until he gets his footing in this universe. It won’t be so bad, I mean look him, total eye candy.” Wade said, gripping Logan’s face and turning his head to you.

Logan gave him a look that could kill. Long metal claws sprung out from just below his knuckles. Your eyes widened.

“THE FUCK ARE THOSE?” You shouted.

“Riiiiiiiight, so those are adamantium claws. They ain’t vibranium, but hey, can’t always be the number one. He’s a bonafide animal, in more ways than one, maybe you’ll find out for yourself.” Wade said, you could tell he was winking underneath his mask.

“The fuck do you mean by that?” Logan growled.

“Yeah, what?” You asked.

“Hey, I know sexual tension when I see it.” Wade retorted.

“I literally just met him.” You said.

“Yeah and with Hugh Jackman’s face and body, the time between introduction and need for face riding is a matter of seconds.” Wade said.

You gave a quick glance at Logan. Sure, he was incredibly attractive, but you sensed a sort of emotional unavailability that put you off. You had standards.

“You know my type and he’s not it, Wade.” You insisted.

“Forget type, he’s THE Wolverine. You know how many fanfics people read about this guy? Lookin’ at you, reader.” Wade said.

“Whatever, I’m not getting into a debate over my preferences for men.” You said, walking to your room and slamming the door.

“I think that went well.” Wade said.

-

A month had passed and much to your dismay, you were still being forced to share the apartment with Logan. At the very least he’d upgraded to wearing a shirt instead of walking around with his top half exposed.

After getting home from an exhausting shift at work, you opened the fridge, looking for the bottle of wine you saved for those evenings after a particularly long day. It was nowhere to be seen and you immediately knew who the culprit was.

“For fuck’s sake, Logan!” You shouted.

You headed to the living room to confront what was supposed to be your temporary roommate who sat on the couch.

“Christ, what now?” He groaned.

“Where the fuck is my wine?”

“Hm? Oh that? Yeah, it’s gone.” He answered dismissively, almost like taking time to respond or even look at you was beneath him.

“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your barely functioning alcoholic ass away from my stuff?”

“Didn’t see your name on it.”

“I specifically told you not to touch that fucking bottle multiple times.”

“Must’ve not been able to distinguish what you said from your typical bitching, I usually just tune that shit out.” He said, still not making eye contact with you.

“Jesus you really have no respect for anyone.” You spat.

Logan stood, coming in way too close for your liking.

“Respect? That’s a really funny word coming from someone who doesn’t respect themselves enough to not wear short little skirts like the one you’re wearing, bending over all the time to show off that ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh you fuckin’ heard me. You think I don’t see what you’re doing with the clothes you wear, or when you come out in the morning in nothing but a shirt and panties because you think I’m asleep and won’t notice?”

“Back the fuck up, the hell do you mean by ‘think’ you’re asleep?”

“I barely sleep enough as it is, I’m awake the second I hear your door open. You have any idea what seeing you like that does to me?”

You blushed.

“You’re fucking disgusting.” You said through gritted teeth.

“Please, you do it because you hope I’m watching you. I see the way you look at me. You can say you hate me all you fuckin’ want, but I can smell your goddam pheromones from across the room. I’ve been around for over two centuries and have more than enough experience to know when someone wants me. Especially when they’re acting like as much of a slut as y-“

You slapped him hard across the face. Logan immediately responded by pushing you up against the wall, unsheathing his claws and holding them under your chin. Neither of you said anything, the only sounds being a mix of him and you panting in anger.

Fuck, you had really grown to hate him, but something about his claws so dangerously close to you was playing into your kinks. You stole a glance down under, holy shit he was hard. You grabbed him by the face, kissing him aggressively. His claws retracted and he let his hands travel to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Mmf- fuckin’ knew it.” He said between kisses.

Logan picked you up by the underside of your thighs and carried you to your bedroom, his lips never once leaving you. He threw you down onto the bed, pulling your shirt over your head and unhooking your bra, tossing it aside. He took in the sight of your exposed chest.

“You’re such a pretty little thing, babygirl.”

His rough, calloused hand cupped your breast. He leaned down and you gave a yelp as he bit and tugged your nipple.

Logan chuckled. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

You kissed him as you pulled his shirt off and traced your fingers along the dip between his abs. He unbuckled his belt, unzipping his jeans and slipping them off. Your eyes widened at the size of his cock, he laughed at your reaction.

“Yeah, like it don’t you?” He smirked.

“How the hell am I supposed to enjoy this if you’re gonna tear me in half?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want it like that, I can tell you like it rough.”

“That’s a bold assumption to make.”

“Yeah? Keep telling yourself that.”

Logan pulled off your skirt and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of your panties, slipping them down your legs. He looked at your pussy with pure animalistic lust.

“Fuuuck babygirl, look how wet you already are for me. You got it that bad for older men, huh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You retorted.

“Oh I don’t have to, the way you’re dripping says more than enough.”

“Just shut up and fuck me already.”

You laid back on the bed with your head against the pillow and Logan flipped you over on your stomach, pulling you up to your hands and knees.

“No, you don’t get missionary. You act like a bitch? You’re getting fucked like one.”

Logan reached for his belt, he raised it, bringing it down sharply on your ass, making you squeal.

“This is what you get for being such a fuckin’ brat. From now on you call me ‘sir’, understand?”

“Like hell I will.“

He lashed you again.

“Keep talking back and see what happens. Now, what do you say?”

“Y- yes sir.”

“There you go. I’ll be nicer if you listen to me… maybe.”

Logan looped the belt around your neck.

“I’m keeping you on a leash in case you continue making smart comments.” He smirked.

“As if that’s gonna shut m- hrrrk!”

He pulled it tight, the leather dug into your skin and constricted your throat. The most you could get out was a strained moan.

“Got nothin’ to say to me now, huh? C’mon, tell me how much you hate me.” Logan mocked as he pulled harder.

You looked back at him and mouthed “fuck you”.

He laughed. “Oh I will.”

He pressed the tip of his cock against your slit for a fraction of a second before sharply forcing his full length deep inside you, causing you to cry out as his intimidating girth stretched you wide. He began to fuck you at a ruthless pace, the sounds of your yelps and squeaks filling the room.

“Poor thing, am I hurting you? It’s okay, I’m only fucking you senseless.” He teased.

His free hand gripped your ass, nails digging into your skin.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight. It’s like your little pussy was made for my cock.” He grunted.

Logan leaned down, sucking your neck, leaving mark after mark, his hand letting the belt loosen.

“You’re gonna look so pretty all marked up by me.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Are you seriously giving me hickeys? Really? What are you thirtee- ngh!”

Logan pulled tight on his belt again, keeping you from finishing your snide remark.

His thrusts became more aggressive, and as much as your feelings about Logan confused you, his cock felt incredible. You moved yourself back on him and he growled in approval.

“Yeah that’s it, take this fat cock like a perfect little slut. So good for me.”

He let go of the belt, both hands moving to your hips. His pace became punishingly fast and brutal. Between his growls and the way he fucked you like a dog, he honestly seemed more animal than man.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ breed you, I don’t care if you’re on the pill or not.”

You whimpered and tightened around him at his words. He smirked.

“Oh you like that?”

You nodded.

“Yeah? You wanna get knocked up? Tell me you want it, babygirl. Lemme hear you say it.”

“I need you to cum in me, get me pregnant. Please.” You begged.

He stopped his thrusts with only his head remaining inside you. He grabbed you by the throat and pulled you up against him, pressing his chest to your back.

“Please, what?” He commanded.

“Please, sir.”

He shoved you down onto the mattress and slammed himself fully back inside you, immediately resuming his vicious pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl.”

He panted like a wild animal, his claws slowly extending as he grew close.

“S- shit, sorry. Happens sometimes.” He said.

You tightened around him.

“Use them on me, hurt me, sir. Please, I need it so bad.” You whined.

“Goddam, you’re a fuckin’ freak. Aren’t ya, babygirl?”

He raked his claws down your back, you moaned obscenely loud as pearls of blood formed from the long slits he’d created. The mere sensation of it all immediately caused you to cum on his cock. The feeling of you pulsing around his shaft pushed him over the edge. He grunted as he buried himself to the hilt and leaned over, biting down hard on your neck, capillaries breaking under your skin. His cock throbbed with every rope of cum he shot into you.

“Fuuuuckin’ Christ, it’s not often I find someone that’s as into the hardcore stuff as me.” He chuckled.

Your whole body shook and you collapsed onto the mattress on your stomach. Logan removed his belt from your neck and got off the bed.

“Stay there, don’t move.” He said, pulling on his jeans and leaving the room.

He returned five or so minutes later with gauze, a roll of medical tape, and a wet hand towel.

“Had to really dig around for some of this stuff, when two out of four roommates regenerate there’s not a real demand.“

Logan got back onto the bed, sitting next to you.

“So what’s it like? To not heal immediately?” He asked as he dabbed at the blood on your back.

“I dunno, I never really thought about it. I guess you just deal with the pain for a few days, weeks, or months depending on what it is until it’s fine again.”

Logan chuckled.

“Sometimes I forget just how fragile everyone else is, until the world reminds me of it again and then…” He trailed off.

You could tell there was a heaviness to the latter half of his words, you knew why. Wade had told you that in Logan’s universe (a concept which took weeks for you to fully grasp) every single one of his fellow mutants had been murdered. You didn’t know the details, but you didn’t need to for you to understand why he was the way that he was. You looked up at him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You said softly.

“What do you-“ his brow furrowed. “What did Wade tell you?” He growled as he covered his claw marks with gauze.

“Don’t get mad, I just- I wanted to know why you act like-“

“A dick?” He scoffed, pulling out a few inches of medical tape from the roll.

“Like someone with severe trauma.”

He went silent and looked away from your gaze as he finished adding the last line of tape to secure the gauze.

“…You’re all patched up.”

You moved to get up and dress yourself, but Logan wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you back onto the mattress.

“No, c’mere. Lay back for me.”

“Do I still have to call you ‘sir’?

“It’s alright, you can call me ‘Logan’ again. This is about making you feel good, not me. I think I owe you one for being such a good girl.”

You laid with your head against the pillow and Logan began to kiss his way down the length of your body until his head was between your thighs. His lips were so close to your pussy that you could feel the heat of his breath.

“Didn’t peg you for the kinda guy that gives head.”

“You thought wrong. I’m eating this pussy until you’re shaking for me.”

His lips met your clit, his tongue rolling and circling it. You moaned and tangled your fingers in his hair.

“Fuckin’ Christ, your scent is addictive.” He growled against you, making you shudder as the deep vibrations went straight to your clit.

You bucked your hips and he moved his hands to them, keeping you in place.

“Eeeeasy there. I know it feels good, but you can’t move around like that if I’m gonna eat you out, babygirl.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them at just the right spot to absolutely send you over the edge. Your breath shuddered as you tightened around him.

“That’s it. C’mon, be a good girl and cum for me.”

You gripped his hair harder as you came undone on his tongue, pulsing around his fingers.

“Fuuuuuck, Logan!”

Your back arched off the bed, he pressed a hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“No, I’m not done with you yet.”

He continued sucking and licking your clit, his fingers fucking you hard and fast. You shook, feeling a second orgasm build. Your head cocked back as all of the nerves in your body ignited in pleasure for a second time. You expected Logan to remove his mouth, but he kept going.

“Fuck, I can’t stop. You’re just too goddam perfect when you cum.”

You moaned loudly, your clit throbbing in his mouth as you came for a third time, cursing like a sailor and writhing against his tongue.

“You doing good there, babygirl?” Logan asked.

“Uh-huh.” You murmured.

At some point everything went hazy and you lost track of just how many times he’d made you cum. The more you had, the quicker the next one came, until it was one immediately after another. You were a shaking, stuttering mess.

“L- Logan, I ca- an’t keep going. I- it’s too m- much.”

“Shhh, you’re okay. Just one more time, I promise.”

He pumped his fingers relentlessly, his tongue working your clit at an equally vigorous pace. Every muscle in your body tensed as the most intense orgasm you had ever felt in your life rocked you to your very core and everything went white for a moment.

“Ohhhhh godddd, Logan. You’re gonna fucking kill meeee.” You groaned.

Logan moved himself to get on top of you, kissing you deeply.

“I’m sorry babygirl. I know I pushed you hard, but you did so well for me.” He whispered softly, holding your face in his hand and stroking your cheek with his thumb.

He laid next to you, pulling you to him, his chest pressed against your back as your post orgasm haze finally subsided.

“Never saw you as the cuddling type.” You said.

“Depends on how I feel about whoever I’m fucking, and unfortunately for me I’m starting to actually like you.”

“And what did I do to deserve that?”

“Well, you’re still a total bitch, but you’re actually pretty sweet when you want to be. I like you that way though, makes things interesting. I’ll admit when you slapped me I got so fuckin’ hard.”

“So, you’re saying I should slap you more often?”

“I’m not saying no, but just expect to lose the ability to walk after I fuck it out of you.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Good. Now, there’s something you should know. Regeneration doesn’t just mean that I heal quickly.” He said, pressing the hard bulge in his jeans against you.

“Holy shit, so… we could fuck all night without stopping?”

“Exactly.”

“Then what the hell are we doing just lying here?”

Logan turned you onto your back, getting on top of you.

“Attagirl, let’s fuckin’ go.”

-

The two of you spent the whole night fucking like rabbits nonstop. When morning came you made your way to the kitchen. Logan followed, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you from behind as you made yourself a cup of coffee. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, taking in your scent.

“I hope you know I’m never gonna get enough of you.” He said, his hands traveling underneath your shirt to your breasts.

“I swear, you’re hornier than a dog that hasn’t had his balls chopped off.” You teased.

“Yeah and you love it.”

“There you go with the assumptions again, you’re so right though.” You purred, turning to him.

“I know I am.”

His lips met yours and he lifted you onto the counter. You laced your fingers in his hair and wrapped your legs around him. Both of you were too focused on each other to notice the sound of a door opening. Wade walked out from the room he shared with Al carrying Mary Puppins.

“Judging by the NC-17 noises I heard all night I’m guessing you two had fun.” Wade said, causing you to jump and pull away from Logan.

“For fuck’s sake, do you not know when to leave people alone?” Logan huffed.

“Oh c’mon peanut, you know boundaries aren’t my forte. It’s my toxic trait.”

Logan glared at him.

“Alright alright, I can take a hint. Just try not to get any fluids on the appliances. I certainly don’t mind a little Wolvie in my coffee, but I don’t think Al would appreciate it.” Wade said, heading back to his room.

Logan turned his attention back to you, his lips brushing against yours.

“Now, babygirl, where were we?”

[megapteraurelia]

the car hummed softly in the quiet, dimly lit parking lot, coming to a smooth stop in front of the restaurant beneath a row of swaying teeth. the headlight cast long shadows over the pavement, your skin bathed in a warm glow.

before your boyfriend even had time to unbuckle his seat belt, you reached for the handle.

"don't."

his voice cut in; low, sharp, and unmistakably serious.

your fingers froze, but they itched to wrap around the handle, and when you looked over your shoulder towards him, he was already turned towards you, eyes steady and brows furrowed, jaw tense like he was holding back something wicked, "you know better than that."

"it's just a door," you muttered, the barest of a small, defiant grin on your face at his incessant need to take care of every tiny part of you, but he was already out of the car, moving around to your side of the vehicle. the door opened with slow precision, and slender fingers appeared right in front of you.

his hand was warm, large, and they found the lines of your own with a cocky ease, like he had done so a thousand times and would do so a thousand times more. a quiet gentleness in the way his other hand pressed a hand to your lower back to guide you flush to your body, his nose tickling your ear, breath hot against your neck.

"you opening your door like that," he murmured, his voice in a low timbre, "means one of two things."

your breath hitched, chest brushing his.

"either, you forget how this works or you want to be reminded. badly."

"i wasn't—" you started, but he pulled you tighter towards him, his scent making you heady, surrounding you like warm dusk after a long summer day, like a memory you never wanted to let go of.

his fingers traced possessive, deliberate shapes against your spine, "i think you were."

lips found your temple, soft, so at odds with the edge in his tone, "you're mine and i take care of what's mine. that includes all those little things you're trying to fight me on, and if you go around taking control like that again…"

his voice trailed off, and there was a wicked smile curling at his mouth, the corners of his lips twitching up as his hand found its way up your back to your neck to squeeze softly, once, "then i'll just have to take it back. inch by inch."

you were dazed, swallowing hard, completely disarmed as he held the restaurant door open for you, but the way he sent you a heated glance over his shoulder had your breath quicken, wishing for the evening to go by much faster so you could get home already.

MATSUKAWA ISSEI; sawamura daichi; IWAIZUMI HAJIME; akaashi keiji; MIYA OSAMU; kuroo tetsurou; NANAMI KENTO; geto suguru; ; HIGURUMA HIROMI; gojo satoru;

TAGLIST | @takes1 @classicalelephant @kameyyy @pomigranit

[deansbeer]

JUST NEED YOU

minors do not interact.

꒰ beware! includes ╱ smut, fem!reader, gentle eepy sex, whimpering, unprotected sex (wrap ur shit), soft praising, mentions of exhaustion.

꒰ ‎@ kari is typing! this was collecting dust in my google docs, and i just had to share <3 i never posted it before because i was focused on other things! so yeah :)

you're half-asleep when the door creaks open. the soft shuffle of boots on hardwood reaches your ears, followed by the heavy thud of a duffel bag dropped just inside the doorway. the clock on your nightstand reads 2:38 a.m. and still, you manage to rouse at the sound of him. it's instinct by now — your body always knows when dean's home.

you don't get up. you don't need to. the bed dips moments later under his weight, and the familiar scent of leather, gunpowder, and a hint of old motel soap clings to him like a second skin. he's quiet, careful not to wake you all the way, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in thick, tired waves. the kind of weight that only comes from a long hunt — the kind that leaves bruises on his skin and deeper ones somewhere you can't always reach.

his rough palms find your bare thigh under the sheets, and he exhales shakily, forehead pressing against your shoulder. you hum, still hazy with sleep, but your hand moves to rest gently over his where it clutches your hip.

"baby…" he breathes, voice hoarse and frayed, like he hasn't spoken in hours. maybe he hasn't. "can i—fuck, i just… i need to feel you."

you blink sleepily, heart aching at the desperation in his voice. there's no heat behind the words, not the usual flirtation or cocky edge — just exhaustion. longing. like maybe the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely is the thought of being inside you, even if only for a moment.

"yeah," you whisper, barely audible. you reach back to brush your fingers through his hair, damp and messy from the rain or shower, you can't tell. "of course, my love."

he doesn't waste time. he slips out of his jeans, the rest of his clothes discarded in a lazy heap on the floor. his hands aren't steady — they tremble slightly as he pushes the covers down and climbs over you, slotting himself between your legs like he's done a hundred times before, only this time he's quiet. reverent. like he's scared you'll vanish if he blinks too long.

you're already wet for him — the kind of natural readiness that comes from loving him, wanting him, knowing him this deeply. he groans softly when he slides in, inch by aching inch, and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

"shit," he whispers, body shuddering as he bottoms out. "babydoll, sweetheart… you feel so good. always so good."

you wrap your arms around his shoulder blades, legs parting wider to cradle him closer, letting him have you however he needs. there's no rush, no frantic rhythm. just the slow, aching press of his hips and the broken little sounds he makes into your skin.

"missed this," he murmurs, barely coherent. "missed you. fuck, i don't deserve you."

you hush him gently, fingers carding through his hair as he moves inside you with slow, needy thrusts. his body is heavy over yours, warm and solid, the kind of weight you never mind bearing. you can feel him falling apart in your arms — each whimper, each whispered praise like a crack in his armor.

"you're perfect," he breathes, mouth brushing against your jaw. "always take me so good, like you were made for me."

"i was," you whisper back, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. "you know i was."

he lets out a choked sound at that, hips stuttering as he presses deeper, slower. his hands are holding you like he's scared you'll slip through his fingers — one at your waist, the other cradling your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"i love you," he says it like a confession, like he means it more now than ever. "i love you so much it fuckin' hurts."

you can feel him getting close, his body tensing, breath faltering. your own body responds in kind, warmth blooming low in your belly as he presses his forehead to yours.

"come for me, baby," you murmur, lips brushing his. "just let go. i've got you."

he falls apart with a soft, broken whimper, burying himself deep as he spills inside you. his whole body trembles with it, and he clings to you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

and maybe, in that moment, you are.

he doesn't pull out not right away. just stays there, breathing you in, holding you like he's afraid to let go.

you press a kiss to his temple, whispering soft things into his skin until his breathing slows, until the weight of the world finally slips off his shoulders and he lets himself rest.

you fall asleep like that, tangled together, his body still connected with yours, the chaos in his mind finally going quiet.

[desigal-26]

hiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!! im like drunk rn but can you write smth about sainz or leclerc or norris or piastri about desi(bengali pls) reader being an introvert who gets drunk and starts rambling with them and they take care of her and she talks to them about random things and she's just really comfprtable with them and they take care of her? SORRYYYY TYSMMMM ILYYYY

Funny thing? I am a Bengali 😅 and since I write for our dear Monegasque Prince, Smooth Operator and Aussie boy (he is leading the WDC 🥺🤭)—I will try writing for Lando too (I can’t usually capture his playful nature, but I tried). I also included Max and Lewis because I write for them too and I thought the idea was very cute (hope you don’t mind)

Also, for you—my first F1 request (thank you so so much for it), I am doing all four 😉

Also, if anyone else wants to request…PLEASE DOOOOO. Desi or otherwise. And also, PLEASSEEEE DOOO let me know if you liked it or not in the comments 🙏🏻 (alright, I ranted a lot in this)

Drunken Introvert = Cute Chaos

Formula One Drivers x Drunk!Bengali!Reader

Includes: Carlos Sainz Jr. • Oscar Piastri • Charles Leclerc • Lando Norris • Lewis Hamilton • Max Verstappen

Warnings: Suggestive (for our Smooth Operator and Mad Max), I kind of went over the board with Lando, Lewis and Max (I might have leaned into my own non-drunk-yet-intoxicated mood), Reader used salt for brownies instead of sugar (Lando one), Bengali words and little quirks, Google translated French (Charles). Overall? Fluff.

55. Carlos Sainz Jr.

The vibrant lights of the club flickered like neon fireflies, casting fractured hues across the Spaniard’s face as he rolled his eyes—more amused than annoyed. With a firm yet gentle grip, he guided the woman clinging to him through the throng of dancing bodies and towards the exit, where the muffled thump of bass gave way to the night’s quiet hum.

Outside, the cool breeze wrapped around them like silk, brushing against their flushed skin. Parked under the blanket of a star-strewn sky was his Ferrari 812 Superfast, matte grey and glinting like a predator in moonlight. It waited for him like a loyal companion—silent, sleek, and beautiful. He knew it was her favourite from his modest collection, a fact she never hid, though she usually treated the car with almost reverent care.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, his usually reserved girlfriend had been replaced by a giggling, slightly incoherent version of herself, thanks to one too many gin and tonics. Her hair was a tousled halo, earrings buried somewhere deep in his pockets, heels dangling from his fingers. One of her arms was slung lazily around his waist, her laughter spilling out freely as she leaned into him.

“Oh my God, Carlos,” she squealed, eyes lighting up at the sight of the car. Her legs wobbled like those of a newborn fawn as she tiptoed toward the Ferrari, fingertips trailing along its curves. A grin split her gloss-smudged lips. “She is such a beauty.”

Carlos smirked, amused, and strolled over, unlocking the car with a soft click. He opened the passenger door and steadied her as she slid in—barefoot and glowing under the moonlight. He placed her heels at her feet and reached across to buckle her in, despite her mild protests.

“But it’s tight!” she pouted, wriggling like a child. “It’s supposed to be, princesa,” (princess) he murmured, giving her a firm look.

She huffed, crossing her arms with exaggerated defiance. He shut the door with a quiet chuckle, circled the car, and slid behind the wheel with fluid grace. Before starting the engine, he leaned over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His voice was low, intimate.

“But this car doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

She gawked at him, disbelief written all over her flushed face. “Take it back,” she muttered, glaring sideways at him.

He only grinned wider. “No.”

“This is customised, boka!” (Stupid) she whined, throwing her arms up dramatically. “Look at the matte grey finish, the red highlights, the black dashboard. It literally has ‘Smooth Operator’ engraved on the door sills!”

Carlos’s chuckle deepened, his hand reaching over to rest gently on her thigh.

“Don’t forget the floor mats with the ‘55’ branding,” he added, voice laced with mischief.

That made her pause, lips twitching as if trying to hold back another rant. But before she could continue, the Ferrari rolled to a smooth stop by the side of the road, bathed in the soft golden wash of a streetlamp.

She blinked, head tilting curiously. “Why did we stop?”

Carlos turned to her, smile spreading slowly across his face like fire catching silk. He leaned closer, voice dropping to a velvet whisper.

“How about we go home… I make you a fresh lemonade… and then remind you exactly why you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing a shade deeper, lips parting with a soft gasp. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, tender and fleeting.

“Pronto, niña,” (soon, little girl) he murmured, before settling back into his seat like he hadn’t just promised a very eventful end to their evening.

After all, the night was still young—and so were they.

81. Oscar Piastri

Oscar sighed in resignation at the sharp thud behind him—a saucepan hitting the kitchen floor—followed by a soft squeak and a giggle that could only belong to one person. He didn’t even need to turn around to know what had happened. He just hoped the pan had been empty and that his absurdly inebriated girlfriend hadn’t managed to injure herself in the process.

He pivoted slowly, nose scrunching at the scene before him—not out of irritation, but to suppress the grin threatening to spread across his face. There it was: the saucepan, face-down on the tiled floor, miraculously empty. And there she was, hunched over the counter, one hand clamped over her mouth as she tried—and failed—to muffle her laughter.

Oscar folded his arms. “And what did I say about you going anywhere near the stove?”

His voice was calm, edged with amusement, as he walked around the counter, picked up the fallen pan, and set it back in place. He moved with practiced ease, filling it with water and setting it to boil, before reaching for the mortar and pestle.

“To not be near it?” she mumbled, sheepishly.

He didn’t need to glance at her to know she was looking down at her bare feet, fingers tugging at the sleeves of the oversized hoodie he’d given her to wear after he’d all but shoved her into the shower the moment they’d gotten home from the party. Lando, in his infinite wisdom, had challenged her to a drinking competition—never suspecting that despite being an introvert and not much of a drinker, his girlfriend’s Bengali pride and competitiveness wouldn’t let her back down. Oscar should’ve known better.

“And what did you do?” he asked, half-exasperated, half-entertained.

“I went to near it,” she confessed, barely suppressing another laugh.

Oscar chuckled under his breath, beginning to grind the clove and cardamom with deliberate care. He peeled and diced a small piece of ginger, dropping the aromatics into the now-bubbling water. The kitchen filled with warm, spiced notes that curled through the air like a lullaby.

He turned and crooked a finger at her. “C’mere.”

She obeyed without hesitation, shuffling over like a moth to a flame. Once she was close enough, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the solid warmth of his chest, resting his chin gently on the top of her damp head.

And immediately scrunched his nose.

“Did you use my shampoo?”

The way she buried her face in his chest, embarrassed, gave him all the answer he needed. He laughed softly, nosing into her hair again just for the drama of it, before tugging her gently along with him to the fridge.

“Bold and malty,” he said as he retrieved the milk, “or more fruity, floral notes?”

He let her go and reached up into the cabinet, pulling down two clearly labeled containers of tea. He looked back just in time to see her face twist in concentration as if he’d asked her to solve a riddle instead of pick a tea.

“Darjeeling,” she finally announced with a sage nod, peeking over his shoulder as he scooped the delicate leaves into the boiling mix. The scent immediately deepened, familiar and nostalgic.

It was the same chai she’d taught him to make months ago, when a nasty cold had her homesick and miserable, and nothing in the Western world could quite match the taste of home. She’d guided him through the process with a congested voice and sleepy eyes—and now he could make it by heart.

She wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her cheek against his back. He felt her smile before he heard her start to talk.

“You know, my mother used to make chai like this every morning. Every single day. Until Dad got that new job, and we had to start moving around a lot. Then she started teaching dance again in the mornings, and we got Sabitri didi to help out around the house. She made the best Aloo Bhaja, oh my god—thin and crispy and salty, the kind you eat with your fingers right from the pan.”

Oscar smiled as he stirred, letting her voice flow over him like music. He didn’t interrupt—just strained the tea and poured it into her favourite cup. It looked like an earthen clay cup from Kolkata’s tea stalls and had something written on it in Bengali—something he couldn’t read and wasn’t brave enough to ask her to translate. He kind of liked the mystery.

“You’ve never cooked it for me,” he said as he handed her the cup.

“The Alo—?” “Aloo Bhaja,” she corrected, giggling as he kissed her temple.

“Please get drunk more often?” he teased, his voice low, warm.

She took a sip of chai, hummed in contentment, and leaned into him again.

“No promises,” she whispered.

But she smiled the kind of smile that said she just might.

16. Charles Leclerc

Charles had barely managed to unlock the apartment door when the weight clinging to his arm wobbled dangerously. He quickly steadied her, one hand gripping her waist, the other catching the handbag she almost dropped in her attempt to twirl—for reasons still unknown.

“Mon dieu…” he murmured under his breath, biting back a laugh as she looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes, like she’d just solved world peace.

“I’m not drunk,” she declared, swaying slightly.

He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I only had… okay I don’t remember how many I had,” she admitted, blinking slowly. “But did you know dolphins give each other names? Like… clicky names.”

Charles closed the door behind them and sighed, locking it as she marched—barefoot now—straight to the couch, tripping over the carpet and letting out a small gasp like she’d just narrowly escaped a brush with death.

He watched her, arms crossed, as she slumped down dramatically into the cushions, his hoodie swallowing her entirely. She’d swapped her heels for one of his oversized Ferrari hoodies the second they got in the car, muttering something about “fabric oppression” and “heels are tools of colonial capitalism.”

She looked up at him now, hair in a messy bun that had mostly collapsed into a halo of soft chaos, a goofy smile spreading across her lips.

“You look like a prince,” she said dreamily, squinting. “No. Like a cinnamon roll. But like. A French cinnamon roll. So you’re… a pain au chocolat.”

Charles laughed then, really laughed, shaking his head as he walked into the kitchen and started boiling water. Tea. That always helped. He doubted it would do much tonight, but it gave him something to do with his hands while he listened to her monologue from the living room.

“Have you ever had jhalmuri?” she shouted, voice muffled slightly by the cushion she was now face-planting into. “You have to try it. It’s like… spicy popcorn and chaos in a bowl. My dida (grandmother) used to say it could cure heartbreak.”

“Do you have heartbreak right now?” Charles asked gently as he crushed some ginger, smiling when she immediately popped up to sit cross-legged on the couch.

“No, I have you,” she said matter-of-factly. “But also my eyeliner smudged and that’s kind of heartbreaking. I looked so good.”

“You still look good,” he said, pouring water into the saucepan, “Smudged or not.”

She gasped. “Flirting? In this economy?”

He chuckled again, rummaging for the familiar tin of Darjeeling leaves she’d brought from Kolkata during her last visit home. She swore it was the only tea worth drinking. He didn’t argue—mostly because he agreed, and partly because she got oddly fierce about it.

“Charles?” she asked softly a moment later, suddenly quiet.

He turned, expecting another philosophical musing or a weird fact about cats, but her eyes had softened.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

His expression gentled. He crossed the room with the steaming mug of tea, kneeling in front of her to hand it over. She cradled it carefully, warming her hands, looking at him with the kind of tipsy sincerity that made his chest ache in the best way.

“You always take care of me,” she murmured, eyes glassy now for a different reason. “Even when I’m annoying. Even when I talk too much or cry at stupid movies or eat all your chocolate.”

“You’re never annoying,” he said seriously. “And the chocolate is technically ours.” She giggled, sniffling once. “That’s so romantic.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Finish your tea, chérie. Then we’ll get you into bed.”

“I don’t wanna move,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his shoulder as he sat beside her.

“Okay. We stay here.”

She nodded, half-asleep already, cup still in hand.

“Charles?”

“Mm?”

“Did you know crows can recognize human faces?”

“…I didn’t.”

“Well now you do.”

04. Lando Norris

When Lando opened the door to his apartment, he was not expecting the faint smell of chocolate, the blaring sound of an old Bollywood song from the kitchen speaker, or the sight of his introverted girlfriend twirling in mismatched socks on the hardwood floor like she was the star of a 2000s movie.

He stood in the doorway, blinking.

“What… in the name of all things papad…?”

She gasped dramatically at the sound of his voice and whipped around, nearly slipping. “LANNNDOOO!”

That alone gave away everything he needed to know: she was drunk. Not tipsy. Not warm and fuzzy. Drunk.

He closed the door, dropped his keys in the bowl, and raised both eyebrows at her as she dramatically stomped toward him, arms open like she was about to give the speech of a lifetime.

“I made brownies,” she announced proudly.

“You made brownies?” he asked slowly.

“From a box, obviously,” she huffed, poking his chest with a chocolate-smudged finger. “Do I look like Nigella Lawson to you?”

He laughed, eyes dropping to the state of her: oversized hoodie (his), pajama shorts (also his), and what looked like a sheer layer of cocoa powder dusted across her nose.

“I thought you were staying in with the girls?” he asked, following her to the kitchen where, sure enough, there was a half-eaten tray of very suspiciously cut brownies, several dirty spoons, and an open bottle of wine.

“They left!” she said with a shrug, flopping onto a barstool. “I stayed. I drank. I got bored. So I made dessert. And now I’m listening to Kajra Re because my soul needs it.”

Lando leaned on the counter, watching her closely. “How many glasses?” She held up four fingers. Then reconsidered and added a fifth.

“Of wine?”

“No. Juice. Yes, wine! Why are you interrogating me like a CID officer?”

He snorted. “Because you look like you tried to snort brownie batter.”

She gasped, offended. “That’s racist. Somehow.”

He grinned, walking over and gently wiping the chocolate from her nose with his thumb. “You are so dramatic when you drink.”

“I’m a Bengali woman,” she sniffed. “Drama is my birthright.”

That made Lando laugh so hard he had to lean against the counter for support. She just beamed at him like she’d delivered the punchline of the century.

“Do you want a brownie?” she asked suddenly, eyes wide. “They’re kind of terrible. But made with love.” He accepted one, took a bite—and coughed immediately. “That’s salt.”

“No,” she said earnestly, “that’s Maldon sea salt. It’s gourmet.”

Lando chuckled again, tossing the rest of the brownie in the bin. “You know you’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off. “But you love me, so it’s your problem.”

He looked at her—hair messy, cheeks flushed, grinning like a maniac—and felt his heart clench a little. She was usually quiet, reserved, the kind of girl who chose silence over chaos. But drunk? She had so many opinions. About food, about music, about how tragic it was that he still didn’t know the proper way to pronounce shorshe ilish.

“You’re kind of a menace,” he said fondly.

“You’re lucky I’m cute,” she replied, sipping the last of her wine straight from the bottle like a gremlin.

Lando walked over, plucked the bottle from her hand, and helped her off the stool with ease.

“Okay, come on, Gordon Ramsay. Let’s get you in bed before you redecorate the kitchen with powdered sugar again.”

She leaned heavily into him, mumbling into his shoulder

“You smell like podium champagne.”

“You smell like brownie batter and mischief,” he whispered back, pressing a kiss to her temple as they shuffled toward the bedroom.

As they climbed into bed, she curled into his side and whispered like it was the biggest secret in the world: “Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”

He paused. “Do you?”

“Right now I might.”

He smiled, brushing her hair back.

“Save it for tomorrow, professor.”

44. Lewis Hamilton

Lewis had only stepped out to take a call.

Just one phone call. Seven minutes.

And when he returned to the living room, he was greeted by the sight of his girlfriend standing on the couch — on the actual cushions — arms waving wildly as she delivered what appeared to be a passionate, half-sobbing monologue to her glass of wine.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. He leaned silently against the doorway and waited.

“…AND I’M JUST SAYING,” she exclaimed, pointing the wine glass accusingly at the TV — which was off, by the way — “YOU DON’T LEAVE A STABLE RELATIONSHIP JUST TO TOY WITH A TOXIC EX.”

Lewis blinked. Ah. They were here.

“You mean Ferrari?” he asked mildly, already smiling.

She turned dramatically, almost losing her balance. “Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton, do not interrupt me when I’m defending your legacy.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “By all means.”

She jumped down — sort of stumbled, really — and marched toward him, hair wild, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“Ferrari is cursed,” she hissed, poking his chest like he’d personally offended her ancestry. “That team hasn’t managed strategy since Mughal India. They make beautiful cars and then sabotage themselves harder than Bollywood villains.”

Lewis bit his lip, fighting a laugh. “You’ve been watching TikTok again, haven’t you?”

“No! This is research!”

She turned and began pacing, nearly tripping on the throw rug. “Do you know how many times I’ve defended you online? To all those people calling you washed? And now you give them ammo? AMMO, LEWIS!”

He chuckled. “It’s not ammo, baby. It’s a new chapter.”

She whirled on him. “You don’t leave Mercedes for character development! This isn’t a Netflix arc, this is your career.”

He crossed his arms, watching her fondly as she continued to spiral. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyeliner slightly smudged from rubbing her eyes earlier — she’d said something about ‘tears of betrayal’ when the announcement dropped. That had been three hours and two glasses of wine ago. Maybe six.

“You built Mercedes,” she went on, words slurring slightly now. “You made them a dynasty. You carried them like a Bengali mother carrying groceries up four flights of stairs.”

Lewis laughed out loud at that one, covering his face.

“And now,” she growled, stomping back to him and grabbing the front of his hoodie, “you’re willingly walking into a team that’s allergic to winning.”

“It’s Ferrari,” he murmured. “It’s passion. Legacy. Romance.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That sounds like what every guy says before ruining his life for a pretty Italian girl.”

He wheezed. “So now Ferrari’s a woman?”

“She would be. Wearing red. Smiling sweetly while Charles finishes P5 behind both McLarens.”

Lewis pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You’re cute when you’re furious.”

“I’m not furious, I’m devastated.” Her voice cracked — so dramatically that he half-wondered if she was actually auditioning for something. “What if they don’t give you a car worthy of you? What if their pit wall gives you hard tyres when you need softs? What if you—you, the seven-time world champion—end up fighting for points instead of podiums?”

His expression softened.

“I’ll still be me,” he said gently. “No matter what car I’m in. You know that, right?”

She blinked up at him, lower lip wobbling slightly. “But I just want you to win. Like you deserve.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there for a second longer.

“And you think I’d pick Ferrari if I didn’t believe I still could?”

“…You’re too good at speeches.”

“That’s why they gave me a Netflix contract,” he teased, drawing a reluctant laugh from her.

She wrapped her arms around him, face buried in his chest. “I’m still going to trash them on Twitter.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You’re gonna look hot in red though.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

01. Max Verstappen

Max didn’t expect the wine to hit her this hard.

They’d only had dinner at home — candles, soft jazz, a shared tiramisu — and a bottle of red she insisted on picking because, “I may not know wines, but I know vibes.” He hadn’t argued. She’d looked too cute twirling in front of the wine rack like a sommelier possessed by chaos.

Now, two hours and three generous glasses later, she was lying upside down on the couch, legs dangling over the backrest, head nearly touching the floor, hair splayed like a halo of midnight around her.

“I’ve decided,” she declared dramatically, pointing at the ceiling.

Max, sitting on the rug with a controller in hand and a paused sim race on the screen, looked over his shoulder. “Decided what?”

She flipped around and dropped to the floor beside him with the grace of a sleepy kitten. “That you, Max Emilian Verstappen, are dangerous.”

He raised a brow. “Dangerous?”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes. Dangerous to the public. And to me. Specifically my mental stability.”

He chuckled. “What did I do now?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You exist. And you wear these damn Red Bull polos. With your arms. Just… out. Like a public menace.”

Max tilted his head, amusement tugging at his lips. “Are you flirting with me or accusing me of a crime?”

She leaned in, pressing a fingertip to his chest. “Both.”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded now, voice softer, words lilting with that sweet Bengali accent that only got thicker with wine. Max would be lying if he said it didn’t drive him a little crazy — in the best, most dangerous way.

“And when you talk Dutch,” she murmured, “in that low little voice when you’re annoyed or tired or trying to be quiet—ugh, I can’t with you.”

Max smirked, watching her eyes drift lazily down his chest like she was mentally cataloguing all her grievances.

“You’ve got a whole face carved by the gods,” she went on, pouting slightly. “And then you drive like that? Do you know what that does to a woman with anxiety and attachment issues?”

Max laughed, low and rough. “You’re insane.”

“I’m in love, which is worse.”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. That hit different — the kind of drunk honesty she wouldn’t dare speak aloud when sober. She blinked at him, as if realizing what she’d said, and then smiled, cheeky and unrepentant.

“…Also your hands,” she added, reaching out to tangle her fingers with his. “You have stupidly attractive hands. It’s unfair.”

Max’s eyes flicked down to their intertwined fingers. Her palm was warm in his, her thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over his skin — innocent, but intimate in a way that sent a flicker of heat down his spine.

“Are you trying to seduce me right now?” he asked, voice lower than before.

She grinned. “Is it working?”

He shifted closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “You don’t even need to try.”

She hummed contentedly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Good. Because I think I’m too drunk to stand up anyway.”

Max pulled her gently into his lap, arms wrapping around her waist as she giggled and settled against him, boneless and warm.

“You know,” she mumbled sleepily, “Bengali women are known for their passion.”

“Oh, I’m very aware.”

“And their temper.”

“That too.”

She peeked up at him, a wicked little smirk playing on her lips. “But also their… stamina.”

Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in just a bit closer, “maybe you should prove that part.”

She laughed, a rich, full sound that vibrated against his chest.

“Keep talking like that,” she whispered, “and I will.”

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎3 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Use of syringe and needles in the beginning, Wife!Reader, SMUT, Miguel rutting, heavy mentions of your pheromones, olphactophilia, Lab sex, overstimulation, breeding kink. You’re driving him nuts…all puns intended lol

𝐀/𝐍: I was planning for this to be in the same universe as For Biology. But it can be read by itself too. Also lmk if the Spanish phrases need fixing 🥹🥹

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You catch Miguel doing something he shouldn’t while dropping off his lunch. Now you both have to face the consequences.

The lab was bathed in a sterile glow of fluorescent lights as Miguel loaded the syringe gun with a shimmering liquid— Rapture.

The fluid inside the vial danced with an underlying glow as he positioned the syringe over his forearm with practiced precision.

The needle neared his skin and with one steady breath, he pushed it in. The liquid filled his bloodstream and a rush of power coursed through his veins.

Once the vial was bottomed out, he withdrew the syringe from his arm. The lab's stagnant atmosphere couldn’t overshadow the electric charge that was now enveloping him.

Miguel didn’t register the hiss of the lab doors open until your voice tore through the silence in the room. “Is that the second shot you’re taking?!” Your voice demanded clarity and answers from him.

Miguel didn’t turn to look at you, instead he silently put the empty syringe gun on the desk in front of him.

He could rapidly feel the effect of the Rapture in his bloodstream— the tingling sensation through his nerves and the blood rushing in his ears.

“What if I said it wasn’t,” he replied, though he knew where this would go.

“No me mientas, Miguel,” you resorted back. Miguel knew there was no point in lying to you when you saw him take the first Rupture shot this morning.

Despite not having any spider senses, he could smell your scent getting stronger as you stepped closer towards him with a heavy stride.

The Rapture was used to enhance his powers, that included his senses and strength.

But it was also a double-edged sword with its side effects. A gamble with his own equilibrium.

Your pheromones spiked his heart rate and the familiar rush of heat reached his cock. But he quickly dismissed it before it clouded his senses.

Now was not the time.

“Lyla, why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” He called out before Lyla’s marigold hologram appeared on his shoulder.

“She wanted to surprise you,” Lyla shrugged before quickly disappearing.

He craned his neck to see you hold out a paper bag in front of you. “And you forgot your lunch. But I think I came here just in time.”

You gestured at the empty syringe gun. He let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn’t mad.

He could never be mad at you for visiting while he was on the clock— especially if you were delivering your homemade food. He just hated the predicament he was in right now.

It was obvious you weren’t going to drop the subject of his second Repture shot. You’ve been married to him long enough to know the side effects if things weren’t regulated properly.

Though, part of him was grateful that you understood his situation and that he could be this vulnerable with you.

You placed the paper bag on his desk before you started searching frantically through the lab.

“Lyla, where are the neutralisers? He always puts it in a different place whenever I come here and I could never find them,” you huffed in annoyance as you tried to locate the vials. The neutralisers helped to maintain his hormones and any side effects he could have from the Rapture.

The rest of the conversation with you and Lyla became a blur. As you bent over to reach the lower cabinets, Miguel’s eyes were glued on you— a captivating figure— and the dress you were wearing.

He had seen you wear that specific dress before but for some reason he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the small details and how the dress fitted you.

The skirt of the dress gave you a more feminine appearance. The balloon sleeve gave a visual flair to the whole outfit.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes off of the way it accentuated your hips and your curves.

It could be the side effects of the Rapture that was making him see things that he hadn’t noticed before, but now the neutraliser was the last thing on his mind.

He craved nothing more than to hike up your dress with his hands and reach the delicate part of you between your legs.

No!

Right now really wasn’t a good time for you to be here.

No matter how much he pushed those thoughts away, he could still feel himself lose his senses dangerously fast.

Suddenly, the night you confessed that you wanted to have a baby was reeling in his mind relentlessly— all he could focus on now was to breed you. And the way the dress was lifting up to reveal more of your legs as you bent over was only adding to his torment.

“Found them!” You exclaimed. After searching most of the lab cabinets, you found the vials with the neutralisers.

As Miguel stepped closer to approach you, he saw you held one of the vials out in your hand.

He seized your wrist and forced you up from the floor so you looked up at him.

“Necesitas irte,” The statement was punctured with authority, devoid of any room for negotiation.

Even if you were fully aware about the effects of his Rapture, he still couldn’t have you here. Not when he was in such a compromising position right now.

You frowned while still holding the vial in your grasp.

“I’m not leaving until I see you take the neutraliser,” Of course you were unfazed by his hard expression. You could easily break his assertive mask, but right now was a terrible time for your stubbornness.

“Amor…” It took every fiber of him to make himself sound as convincing as possible. Yet, he could still feel himself crack.

He could feel your pulse throbbing under his fingertips, even after he loosened his grip around your wrist. A vital sign of his wife’s consciousness and presence.

He imagined what it would be like having another heartbeat growing inside you, being nurtured and carried by you. He groaned at the mere thought.

“You…you threw away your birth control pills, right?” He already knew the answer but he had to be sure. He needed to hear it from you. Your scent was getting stronger by the second and his breathing quickened.

Your face scrunched in confusion by his question, completely oblivious to where the conversation was going. “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

Your simple answer made his dick twitch desperately under the digital suit. If he kept his sex drive at bay any longer, he will combust. He needed to be inside you.

He decided he wasn’t going to hold back his desires anymore. He was going to have his way with his wife.

“Let me breed you…please,” His voice was low in an attempt to conceal his faltering demeanor, but he knew you could easily see his weakness right through him.

“Mig…what…” the words lodged in your throat before he saw the change in your expression.

You quickly picked up on what was going on and realised that he was rutting. But you probably didn’t anticipate it to happen so quickly, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here.

He rolled his hips once against your lower body so you could feel his hard on, earning a gasp from you. He was deliberately rubbing against your clit through the skirt of the dress.

You still haven’t granted him permission, but he could see the way his request was churning in your mind. He pressed his forehead on yours and you looked up at him. He couldn’t read your expression but he could smell your pheromones and how much this was turning you on right now.

“Por favor,” he whispered before he kissed your cheek. He didn’t expect himself to sound so needy.

“Yeah…alright,” you answered. He sighed in relief, a fraction of his tension gone just from your permission alone.

He scooped you up before quickly placing you on one of the benches. His hands lifted the hem of your dress up, revealing more of your bare legs.

He noticed from his peripheral vision the glass vial slipped from your grasp and rolled off the bench before it shattered on the floor. But he paid no mind to it.

His hands halted once he reached your rear before pulling down your panties. He moaned when he saw the fabric candy wet from your arousal, emitting more of your scent.

Your pheromones were overpowering him now and it was driving him insane. You were soaked.

He wondered how long your clit had been throbbing for, how long you’ve been aroused by this. Perhaps you purposely wore a dress with only your panties underneath.

Once the panties were off, he got you to lean back further until your back was pressed against the bench. He lifted your dress higher to reveal your pussy. You were all slick and ready for him.

With a few taps on his watch, his digital suit vanished, leaving him with only his lab coat. His dick was throbbing pathetically with precum leaking from the tip.

He closed the gap between the two of you until his tip pressed against your opening and his precum mixed with your wetness.

He pushed himself in, feeling the resistance from your tight walls, until he was balls deep. Your mouth hung open as you were taking in everything from him.

The warmth from your pussy that was now engulfing his cock felt like a lifeline. He quickly kissed your temple because he knew we weren't going to hold back now.

Before you could lean into his touch, he started ramming himself into your poor cunt. Your eyes shot up in shock before you grabbed onto his biceps for support.

His pace was relentless and driven by the thought of filling you with his cum until they would finally stick. Your moans and the wet sounds filled his ears as he kept plunging himself into you.

You walls were squeezing his dick in all the right places and he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.

Each slap of his hips rocked your body on the bench further, threatening to slip away. But he held a tight grip on your waist so you would stay in place.

“I’ll get you knocked up, so everyone will know…You’re. With. Me.” He ended the last few syllables with a snap of his hips against your rear, adding emphasis and weight to his words.

You let out a breathy laugh between each thrust, amused by his statement.

“Miguel, I think the wedding bands give it away— ohmygod-” your sentence was cut off by a sudden hard thrust from his dick.

“That’s not enough and you know it, I need you full with my babies.” His words came out as a growl and his pace didn’t falter a fraction.

A few locks of his hair drooped from his head as he kept moving, sticking to the film of sweat that formed on his forehead.

He felt the contractions of your walls and he knew your orgasm was just a few thrusts away. You fists gripped the sleeves on his lab coat as you moaned loudly. He watched as your eyes squeezed shut and your climax came crashing down with each stroke from his dick.

He stopped momentarily to move your legs that was wrapped around his waist and rested them on his shoulders. He had better leverage and could reach deeper inside you.

The change in position had you crying out helplessly as he pressed himself into you more. You just reached your peak and you were still riding out your high but he didn’t give you a chance to recollect yourself.

“Miguel-!”

You were overstimulated in bliss as his dick was hitting the bundle of nerves that he knew would drive you over the edge. You could only utter fragments of his name along with your low moans.

Miguel watched with pride as his wife was falling apart under him.

“That’s it, clench onto me. Just like that.”

He could’ve sworn this was the best thing he had experienced with you and he fucked you many times before.

Perhaps the Rapture made him twice as sensitive to all the pleasure he was receiving and more aware of how you were snug around him.

His pace was becoming sloppy and staggered and he could just about feel the edge of his orgasm. Just a little longer of him being soaked in your cunt that always fit to his size perfectly.

His hips flinched into yours one last time before his cum was pouring into the depths of your womb in hopes that you will get pregnant.

Bred by him until it stained you.

Your legs were limp and slipped off of his shoulders. He groaned at the sheer force of his own climax.

He thrusted himself a few more times while more cum was spilling from him. He eventually came to a halt with his dick still half way inside you.

Your breathing was still erratic but you still managed to lift your head up to see where your bodies were meshed together.

He caught a flicker of surprise in your face as you noticed the mess before you under your dress. You gazed back up at him again.

“So…are you satisfied? Do you want me to give the neutralisers now?” you managed to huffed out, still breathless.

Miguel responded by pushing the remaining half of his dick back into your swollen cunt with a wet slap. You let out a broken moan in shock.

“Not yet…”

His lips curled up slightly as he started to plunge himself into you again…

The neutraliser forgotten.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @thealleydog @lazyjellyfish300 @club-danger-zone @farrowroyale @idk1341 @tinauh14 @mybvalentine @migueloharastruelove @ghost-lantern @ginanet @miguels-aranita @francesca-the-1st @monarchberrysblog @ruby-rubes26 @loosecan @oharasfilipinawife @miguelzslvtz @pxtched @hwasoup @the-pan-liquid @homewreckingwreck

I don’t think this one ate :( …I suck at writing dialogues. But I’m so fly when it comes to writing inner conflicts, like with Miguel’s chain of thoughts in this story, and body language. That’s why there isn’t a lot of dialogues here. Maybe because I’m an overthinker and it’s easy to write a lot when it comes to what the character is thinking lol

Idk what it is I’m starting to fucking hate using tumblr now, it just feels a little miserable being here. That’s why AO3 >>> literally anything else

[yvesssssssss]

Heyyy! How are you?

I have a request for Hoshina and I'm ready to get on my knees bc I def need to read more of this idea, the thing is:

Reader (a platoon leader) went on a mission and Hoshina, her boyfriend, stayed in the control room to check on the mission, before the operators found an extra heartbeat in her suit, confused, Okonogi would check on her and there they'd find out (including Hoshina) that reader was pregnant. And Hoshina would confront her why hadn't she told him before.

You can decide if reader already knew she was pregnant or not ^^ (pd: take your time and ignore my english, it's not my native language)

Heartbeat

Hello!! I hope you like it!! (Good morning˙ᵕ˙)

The mission had gone as expected—almost. The kaiju threat in District 8 had been neutralized swiftly under your command. You moved like a ghost through the wreckage, katana sheathed, uniform slick with grime and sweat. Your subordinates reported back with minimal injuries. Clean, efficient.

Textbook work.

Except for one thing.

Back in the control room, Hoshina stood with arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the screen, following your vitals in real-time. His posture was relaxed to the untrained eye, but Okonogi knew better. Hoshina hadn’t taken his eyes off your line for even a second. Not since you left the gate.

“Platoon Leader's suit readings are normal,” an operator muttered. “Slight elevation in heart rate, but that’s expected…”

Then, a beep. Followed by confusion.

“Wait—there’s… another heartbeat?”

The room paused. Even Hoshina tilted forward slightly.

“Another signature in the suit?” Okonogi asked, already tapping away at the data. “Could be an error. Glitch in the sensors maybe.”

“No,” Hoshina said, voice suddenly sharper. “Run it again. Full analysis. Pull the internal suit diagnostics.”

The monitor adjusted. The second heartbeat was faint but steady. Smaller. Softer. Not a kaiju. Not anything artificial.

“...It’s coming from inside her,” Okonogi said slowly. Then he blinked. “It’s… it’s a fetal heartbeat.”

Everything froze.

Hoshina stared at the monitor. At the data. At your name. Then, for the first time that day, he moved—fast.

“Keep her on the line. I’m heading to the bay."

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You were peeling off your suit when the door opened—and there he was.

Hoshina.

Your heart jumped. Despite everything—despite the nerves in your stomach and the quiet conversation with the medic—you couldn’t help the way your feet moved toward him, your lips tugging into a relieved, affectionate smile.

“You’re here,” you said softly, crossing the room to him.

But he didn’t smile.

He didn’t reach for you.

He stood still, his jaw tight, shoulders tense as he looked at you—not with relief, but with something sharper. Quieter. Controlled.

“So…” he said, voice low, unreadable, “I’m guessing you found out I know.”

You blinked, the joy in your chest faltering. “Hoshina—”

“Through suit diagnostics,” he cut in. “Through Okonogi.”

You flinched at that.

“That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t how I wanted to find out either.”

The room hung heavy with the silence between you. The medic, eyes wide, silently excused herself, leaving you both alone.

Hoshina took a step forward now. Controlled. Careful. Still holding something back.

“You knew?” he asked. “How long?”

You swallowed. “About two weeks.”

His eyes searched yours. Hurt—hidden under the surface—started to show.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You looked down.

“I didn’t want to distract you. We’re in the middle of a war. I didn’t want to be… a burden.”

That word hit like a knife. You felt it the moment it landed.

He didn’t lash out. Hoshina never did. But his breath left him like he’d been punched.

“You think… that’s what this is? A burden?”

“I didn’t want to make you choose,” you whispered. “Between me and the field. Or between command and—this.”

“Damn it, (Y/N),” he said, and this time, it cracked—the worry, the anger, the rawness. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not a burden. And that’s my kid too.”

You kept your eyes down, voice barely audible. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of this. Of you looking at me like I’m something fragile. Something broken.”

He stepped in, slowly now, as if letting himself soften again. His hand came up, gently cupping your cheek.

“I don’t see you as fragile,” he said. “I see you as the woman I love. Who walked into a battlefield with my child inside her and still came out leading her team.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. Your throat felt tight.

“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m mad you didn’t trust me with this,” he admitted. “But I’m more scared. Scared of what could’ve happened out there without me knowing.”

“I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”

“Next time,” he said firmly, “you tell me. We carry this together. You don’t have to do it alone.”

You finally looked into his eyes—and you saw the flicker of something softer now. Hope. Fear. Love.

“I never planned for this,” you whispered.

“Neither did I,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “But I want it. I want you. Both of you.”

You fell into him, arms around his waist as he held you close, grounding you.

His hand rested lightly over your stomach.

“I’m staying in the control room from now on,” he muttered into your hair. “You don’t get to go off doing solo runs without telling me you’re carrying our future.”

You laughed, half-choked, half-teary. “Deal.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dark Energy 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff

Summary: you become a point of contention between Wanda and Steve.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“I’ll be in and out,” Wanda promises. 

“Oh, okay, are you sure you don’t want me to wait out here?” You peer up at the daunting facade of the large compound marked with an A in a notable swoosh. The Avengers logo adds to your imposter syndrome. 

“Are you serious? That would be awfully rude of me,” she tuts. “It is me who forgot my phone.” 

“Right,” you chew your lip and hurry along with her as she waves her hand and a scarlet aura has the doors opening at her will. 

“Don’t worry so much. My coworkers are probably busy.” 

“Um, yeah, I wasn’t...” 

“And not so intimidating as you think. In their little costumes, eh?” She chuckles. 

You try to laugh. You don’t think they look ridiculous. Some might call it camp but you’re sure there’s some practical use to it all. What would you know? You’re just you. 

“Anyhow, we’ll fetch my phone and be off to the festival,” she assures you. “I am not in the mood to spend any more time with these freaks than need be.” 

She glances at you as you blink in shock at her branding. She clucks. 

“I am joking,” she pokes you. “I tease them and they tease me. Do you know what rhymes with ‘witch’?” 

You make another face and she laughs again. You hurry on, feeling like a little girl rushing after their parent on the way to the principal’s office. Not in a million years would you expect to have a friend as cool as Wanda. Well, she doesn’t seem to mind you and she shows you all sorts of cool things like the cards she reads and the dolls she makes. 

“That’s not very nice,” you say. 

“Not all my friends are as nice as you,” she assures. 

“So you’re friends with the Avengers?” 

“Some,” she shrugs. “Some not so much.” 

She stops at a door and flicks her fingers. They open as she struts forward. You linger and only follow her as you steady yourself. All night, you spent wading in anxiety in anticipation for the berry festival but you are wholly unprepared for this. 

You step into the doorway as she holds out her arm. A little red rectangle flies through the air. She catches her phone with a hum. She taps the screen with her almond nails as she turns to you. 

“There we are. I have the passes here,” she wiggles the screen at you. “My friend, Antonia, she will be selling her scarves and such. She does wonderful work.” 

“Cool, uh, guess we should get going--” 

You spin around, only to walk into a wall that wasn’t there before. You gasp and step back as two hands come up to steady you. You bat your lashes as your eyes flick up. You gulp as you recognise the famous chiseled jaw and golden hair. 

Steve Rogers holds you at arm’s length as your eyes flit up and down. His chest is huge, arms too, biceps exposed as he wears a loose muscle shirt. You’ve only ever seen him in his gear or suited up. On television, not face-to-face. 

He smiles as your mouth falls open. Wow. You've never seen anyone like him. Not aside from Wanda. They really are superhuman. 

“I’m sorry, Captain America,” you say as you gently step out of his grasp. 

Wanda giggle and nudges your side with her knuckles, “no need for all that." She raises her chin, "Steven.” 

He rolls his eyes, “so now you bringing civilians in here?” 

“Not to worry, we are on our way out. No need to sound the alarm,” she sniffs. 

He looks between you, “hi, Steve.” He offers his hand. 

“Oh, there he goes with the manners,” she rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’ve lost enough time.” 

“I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, Wanda, but an introduction is pretty typical.” 

“Well, I know when you’re from and times have changed,” she taunts and takes your hand. “Come, we are late.” 

She pulls you around Steve and you can only let her. You stumble along with her and crane to look back. He’s watching you. He gives a wave then disappears through the door. 

“He’s been such a stickler lately,” she complains. “If he hadn’t been on my case, I wouldn’t have forgotten my phone.” She lets you go as she checks it again. She locks it and tucks it into her red leather coat. “Ah, whatever. Forget about work, we’re going to have all sorts of fun.” 

You can’t speak. You're still in shock that you were in presence of the Captain America. You can feel his grip still warm on your arm. You’re not one of those fan girls but you always thought he was pretty cool. You think most people who aren’t you are. 

Wanda hops into her red convertible and pops on her sunglasses. The cat eyes give her a sleek look. You’re own are too big, inherited from a coworker who was giving them away. Like the rest of your things, you just sort of collected it. Never a voice of your own, just taking what you get. 

“I’ve never been to a berry festival,” you say. 

“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s more than just berries. Mostly stalls. Pies, jams, honey... but then you have the crafters. Like Antonia. Or you can have your tarot read but I must warn you, those swindlers aren’t so accurate as I am.” 

“Mm, yeah, probably just want money.” 

“Precisely, but we might find you a nice deck. I could show you how to read.” She offers as she shifts into gear. 

“Okay.” 

She’s quiet as she adjusts her mirror. You sense her peek at you. You smile at her sheepishly. 

“Forget about him.” She girds. “That captain has a lot of issues You don’t need to get into all that.” 

“I’m not--” 

“The serum made him look that way, he’s still that insecure skinny man inside.” Her voice deepens. “Do you remember when I read your cards? I said you would encounter dark energy. You would fare well to avoid him.” 

“Dark energy? Captain America?” 

“Steven Grant Rogers,” she corrects you. “Just a man. Just another simple man. And at the core, they are all the same.” 

[hockeygirl101]

Sidney Crosby

Husband and wife 18+

Warnings- this story contains 18+ content. Including- sex (no condom), domsid, subreader, breeding kink, marriage, ass slapping, dirty talk. Please be advised. Thank you.

Sid’s laughter echos through the hotel hallway as we speed walk to the elevators. The wedding had been perfect, Sid looked so handsome, I had reminded him of that fact every chance I got, making him blush once or twice. As the evening went on, we both drank more and more. Once the wedding had evened, guest returning to the hotel, we made our way upstairs.

The second we had stopped foot in the elevator, Sid had been on me, grabbing my waist practically pulling me onto him. His lips found mine quickly, pulling me into a deep, wet hot kiss. His hands finding my ass underneath my dress, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. I gasp at the sudden pain, Sid takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in my mouth, exploring as deep as I’ll let him. The elevator dings, alerting us of the arrival at our floor. Sid gently removes me, breaking the kiss staring into my eye.

“Never thought I’d get you here.” He mumbles as he leads us out. Into the hallway, fishing the key out of his pocket. I understand where he’s coming from. Sid was older than me, by quite a few years. I was only 21 when we met, now 24 getting married. Sid was 37 when we met, he had swept me off my feet at a charity event for the team. He had asked me to dance and that had been it. I knew I was going to marry him. Not for his money or his fame. But for loving me, treating me like an equal no matter what. I had finished my degree in journalism, I had a good paying job. Sid is just my husband, nothing more, nothing less. We arrive at the door, before he opens it I tug his jacket making him face me.

“I love you, so much.” I lean up and place a delicate kiss on his cheek.

“I love you too baby.” He whispers back opening the door. “But right now, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t. Go get undressed.” He says moving to the bathroom closing the door. A chill runs up my spine, I quickly unzip my dress and step out. I sit in the edge of the bed waiting for Sid, I can hear him in the shower. Once the water turns off I hear the door open. Suddenly he’s in-front of me.

“Good girl.” He bushes some hair out of my face, smiling down at me. “Now face down ass up.” He drops the towel, I stare. Even after all these years I still wasn’t used to seeing just how much of a man he truly was. I apparently don’t move fast enough, before I know it, Sidney is man handling me into the position he wants me. Giving my ass a quick smack he leans down to me ear.

“You have no fucking idea how hard I’ve been all night. The dress is so pretty baby, you looked so beautiful. Can’t wait to fuck my wife yea?” He mutters in my ear, causing me to whine out. “No whining, I’m giving it to you.” He says as he slowly slides his cock into me, stretching me out. I can’t even think a coherent though, he slides in inch by inch. Finally bottoming out, he takes my hands a holds them behind my back.

“Feel so tight baby, always so tight for me aren’t you.” He sets a steady pace, fucking his cock into me. I can’t even form words, just moaning and mumbling nothing. Sid slaps my ass again, making me moan loudly.

“Yea, all those years of having the guys chirp me for dating such a younger thing, yet here you are falling apart on my cock. And now I got a rock on that pretty little finger you’re not going anywhere are you baby?” Sid says as he picks up the pace, reaching down and rubbing my clit. My legs start to feel numb, I can feel the orgasm building in my lower stomach. Sid feels it too, rubbing my clit faster.

“Atta girl cum on my cock, yea cum on your husbands cock. Good girl.” My eyes shut and I let out a small scream as I cum. Sid not letting up his pace, I try to look back at him but he pulls out and flips me in my back. Looking down at me smirking.

“Gonna put my baby in you now, yea? Be a good wife, be a good mommy to? Make me a daddy?” He whispers in my ear as he slides in again, fucking me fatser and harder. He keeps whispering about making me a mommy my mind goes numb at the thought. Sid leans down and takes my nipple in his mouth, biting it. Making me snap back to reality.

“Yea you wanna be a mommy? Stay home and have my babies all the time? Having me cum balls deep inside you? Fuck baby, that’s it milk my cock.” Sid growls out as I clench around him, cumming again. Sid fucks into me for a few more strokes before finishing inside me. He lays on top of me gently, making me feel warm and safe.

“Good girl baby, did so good for me. Gonna stay inside so it sticks yea?” I nod as he rolls us over. Trying not to let any spill out. I burrow my head into his side, Sid stroking my hair, whispering sweet nothings into my ear as I fall asleep.

I love being married.

[runninriot]

written for @steddie-week day 6

Love Drunk

prompt: dizzy, drunken confessions | wc: 2.5k | rated: T | cw: alcohol | tags: platonic stobin, steve has a crush on eddie, pining, jealousy, love confessions, friends to lovers | also on ao3

  "Steeeve, I really don’t think this is a good idea.“ Robin grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt to hold him back.

   "Oh, but it is a great idea, actually! The best idea I ever had!“

Steve has to concentrate hard not to trip over his tongue, to pronounce each word clearly.

He’s drunk. Like, really drunk. Drunk as in - the floor’s moving like he’s standing on a boat rocking on the shore and the world around him is turning too fast.

He knows he’s had too much but that doesn’t keep him from downing another shot.

Steve needs it, needs the courage. Because he has a plan.

   "You’re gonna regret it, Steve. And then I’ll have to listen to you whine and complain and you’re gonna blame me for not holding you back! I can’t let you do this.“

    My sweet Robin.

He’ll thank her later for this. For trying to talk some sense into him. She’s his best friend in the world. And usually, he knows he’s always better off listening to her advice. Because Robin is smart as hell. He’s lucky to have her. She loves him, always has his best interest at heart.

Steve turns around to look at her, can’t fight the urge to boop her on the nose.

   “You’re cute,” he says completely out of context and while he can see the confusion on her blurry face, she still laughs at the notion.

   “Well, you’re not,” she says and Steve pouts.

   “Don’t you love me anymooore?”

    God, Steve sounds like a kid even to his own ears. How pathetic.

He’s always been an emotional drunk.

That’s probably why, when he caught sight of Eddie laughing at something this- this random guy standing too close to him must’ve said, Steve suddenly felt like someone had pulled the rug right from under his feet.

   “You know I do. That’s why I’m telling you not to do anything stupid.” Robin says sternly, seemingly unimpressed by the emotional turmoil raging in his mind.

The thing is, technically, he knows she’s right. Sober Steve would listen to Robin without hesitation. Would let her take him home and comfort him while he pours his heart out to her.

But Drunk Steve?

Drunk Steve is as bold as he is stupid.

Drunk Steve has a mind of his own, steered by a heart that is too loud for any sensible thoughts to come through.

He can’t stop himself from staring, from watching Eddie through the open kitchen door that leads to the other room, where the music is loud and everyone’s having a great time.

Everyone, including Eddie and random guy, who’s touching Eddie’s arm, smiling and batting his lashes at him. He’s flirting with Eddie, undoubtedly. And Eddie clearly doesn’t mind, going by the way he keeps moving closer to the other guy, holding his gaze, reciprocating his touch.

That’s just-

Not okay.

He needs to do something.

Like, right now.

   “’m jus’ gonna talk to him,” Steve announces to Robin without looking at her.

She sighs, and he knows Robin has accepted her defeat when she finally lets go of his arm.

   “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He barely catches her last words before making his way over to where Eddie and Rando are standing, careful not to stumble because the floor is uneven. Or maybe there’s something wrong with his feet? Who knows. Doesn’t matter, he’s on a mission.

Slowly and on wobbly legs, he makes his way through the spinning party crowd until he finally reaches his destination.

As if he can sense his presence, Eddie turns around immediately, while the guy next to him is throwing metaphorical daggers at Steve for interrupting their conversation.

   “Steve? Are you okay?” Eddie sounds concerned for some reason but Steve can’t find it in him to question it, not when Eddie holds out a hand and touches his shoulder.

Not when the hand on his arm feels so nice. And keeps him steady. Keeps his body from swaying.

    Why is the floor moving so much?

   “Do you need to sit down?”

Before Steve can wonder why Eddie would ask him that, he’s losing his balance, feels his knees give out and then all of a sudden, everything goes dark.

   “There you are.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, tries to focus his vision on the figure looming above him.

There’s something cold and damp on his forehead and a warm hand caressing his cheek.

   “Wha’ happened?” Steve’s voice is hoarse and his mouth is dry and there’s a nasty aftertaste of tequila on his tongue.

    Ugh.

Steve tries to push himself up from where he’s lying on... a bed? But he fails, feels dizzy, and slumps right back down.

   “Careful, Stevie. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

It is only now Steve realises who is talking to him. Who is sitting beside him at the edge of the bed with a hand pressed to the washcloth on his forehead to keep it in place.

   “Eddie?”

    Oh fuck.

Robin will never let him live that down.

   “The one and only,” Eddie smiles and although Steve feels like absolute shit, he can’t help but return the gesture.

   “Where are we?”

The room is only dimly lit by a bedside lamp, with the door closed and the curtains pulled shut. Steve can hear the music coming from the party still going on downstairs.

   “Linda allowed me to take you to her room after that little stunt you pulled.”

Eddie must sense his confusion because before Steve can ask what he means, he continues.

   “You blacked out. Kinda fell right into my arms,” he chuckles. “I caught you before you went down and brought you up here. I asked Jeremy to find Robin and tell her what happened but I guess he... was a bit mad at me for leaving.”

    Oh god.

Steve remembers now.

Jeremy must be the guy Eddie was talking to.

He can’t blame him for being pissed, though he’s probably not mad at Eddie but rather at Steve for interrupting their little- whatever it was.

   “Sorry for ruining your date,” Steve says quietly, shame creeping up inside.

It’s what he wanted, isn’t it? That was his plan.

Not to faint! But to disrupt whatever flirting game random guy, Jeremy, thought he had going on. But now that he’s slowly coming to his senses, he can’t help but to feel guilty for it.

   “Ah, it’s fine. He’ll live.”

Eddie grins, doesn’t sound mad at all which is good but the fact that he didn’t deny that it was, in fact, a date, makes Steve’s stomach turn into knots.

Because while he’s definitely still drunk, Sober Steve is slowly trying to force his way into his conscious, crawling through the fog still clinging to his mind. And with that comes the realisation of how stupid his plan was.

If he hadn’t blacked out, he would’ve told Eddie that he-

    Godfuckingdamn, this would’ve ended in a catastrophe.

Eddie doesn’t like Steve like that. They’re friends, nothing more.

And Steve would’ve ruined it all.

He knows he can’t keep his tongue in check when it’s loose from alcohol and still, consciously made the decision to go over the limit anyway.

How could he be so stupid? So recklessly putting their friendship on the line for- what? A rejection?

Steve should’ve listened to Robin. She tried to warn him, tried to save him from embarrassing himself but of course, he didn’t listen.

Now Eddie is sitting here next to him in depressing silence instead of being with-

   “You should go looking for him.”

   “For who?”

   “Jeremy? I’m fine now. Thanks for looking after me.”

Eddie’s hand slips away from Steve’s forehead and there’s a change in his expression that Steve doesn’t know how to read. He looks... disappointed? Kind of hurt in a way, and Steve doesn’t know why.

   “I’ll go looking for Robin and ask her to take me home. Wouldn’t want to waste any more of your precious time than I already have.”

The words feel like acid on his tongue because they’re lies. He’d want nothing more than to stay here with Eddie a little while longer. Hell, he’d spend the whole night alone with Eddie if he could.

But he can’t because it wouldn’t be fair to keep Eddie to himself when he could be out there having a good time.

Doesn’t matter that it hurts like a bitch to imagine Eddie going home with that guy at the end of the night.

To imagine someone else’s hands on his body, someone else’s lips on his mouth.

To imagine someone else getting to have all these things Steve would die for.

   “You’re not wasting my time, Steve. Never. I love spending time with you.”

Eddie smiles again, nervously rubbing the back of his neck and it’s way too much for Steve’s weak little heart to handle.

   “You can’t say things like that, Eds.” Steve says because he needs Eddie to stop making his heart flutter.

   “Why not?”

   “Because I might take advantage of it.”

    What the fuck? Shut your mouth before you say something even more stupid.

Steve finally manages to sit up, head still feeling heavy but at least the wooziness is gone.

With his new seating position, Eddie is suddenly so much closer than before.

They’re sitting next to each other, arms and legs touching, and Steve has to force himself not to lean into the warmth radiating off Eddie’s body.

   “I wouldn’t mind.” Eddie says while he fumbles with his rings, eyes focused on his own hands.

It’s like he purposely avoids looking at Steve.

   “Oh, you would,” Steve insists. “Because I’d want too much.”

Eddie looks back up, tilts his head to the side.

   “What do you mean?”

Steve feels sick.

Not from the booze but from the violent fluttering sensation in his gut – he’s worried he’ll throw up butterflies if he opens his mouth.

   “I-“

He feels dizzy again, this time for reasons he’s not willing to confess.

Eddie’s gaze is piercing. It’s like he is trying to look right through him, searching for the truth that’s locked away in Steve’s heart. Barely held back from pouring out, thrashing behind bars that slowly crack and crumble as Steve loses himself in Eddie’s eyes.

His emotions swim in a sea of tequila and beer. He feels light-headed and the room is spinning again but this time, it’s because Steve feels drunk on Eddie.

   “I have a big, fat crush on you.”

It’s out. Just like that. And nothing bad happens. The world still revolves around the sun, people downstairs are still having fun, and Eddie doesn’t tell him to fuck off.

Instead, Eddie takes his face in both hands and looks him deep in the eyes.

   “Is this drunk you talking? Or do you mean it?”

Steve allows himself to lean into the warmth of Eddie’s palm, and smiles.

   “Both? I mean it. But I wouldn’t have told you if I hadn’t drowned my last functioning brain cells in Tequila,” Steve says honestly and his heart makes a funny thing when Eddie snorts at his words.

   “You’re lucky you’re cute, Stevie. I can’t believe Robin let you off the leash like that.”

   “Hey!” Steve protests with a light push to Eddie’s chest, absently lets his hand linger where he can feel Eddie’s heart beat hard and fast beneath his palm.

   “Just for your information, she did tell me it was a bad idea. But I saw you with that guy and-“

    Oops.

That’s not what he wanted to say.

   “Oooh, so you got drunk because you were jealous, huh?” Eddie wags his brows and it looks so dorky, Steve can’t help but laugh.

   “No! Okay maybe. But-“

Steve only now realises that Eddie’s hands are still cupping his face. That Eddie hasn’t pulled away; he’s still touching him, still so close there’s barely any room between them. This is too close. And although it feels good, Steve knows it isn’t right.

   “Listen, Eddie. I know that this isn’t mutual. And I guess- well, I hope this doesn’t make it awkward between us? I like you, Eddie. A lot. And I- I hope we can still be friends, des-“

  “Woah, hold on, Stevie!”

Suddenly, Eddie’s expression turns serious and Steve feels like his heart stops as he holds his breath, waiting for whatever comes next.

   “Before you jump to conclusions, I gotta confess something, too. I might also have a big, fat, stupid crush on you.”

Eddie’s hands move to the back of Steve’s neck, fingers curling into his hair in this kind of gentle but demanding way that makes Steve shiver.

   “I just didn’t think I’d have a chance.“

He moves closer, so close their noses are touching. Steve’s heart does that thing again, flips and kicks and he can feel Eddie’s do the same.

It makes him feel bold.

   “Can I kiss you?”

Steve wouldn’t even be mad if Eddie said no. He probably smells like a distillery and he looks like shit and his mouth is so dry because-

    God, why did I drink so much?

   “Only if I can kiss you, too.”

Eddie doesn’t wait for a response, just closes the remaining distance between their lips, tentatively and almost shy. But the way he digs his fingers deeper into Steve’s hair and pulls shows a desperation that matches Steve’s own.

Steve, who clings to Eddie with both arms wrapped tight around him, kissing him, touching him, losing himself in the moment.

He’s breathless when they part.

   “You good?” Eddie asks, eyes searching for any sign of discomfort in Steve’s.

   “Perfect,” Steve lies, doesn’t want Eddie to stop on his behalf, wants to keep kissing him.

   “You’re a bad liar, Stevie. You look tired.”

Eddie’s right. Steve should go home, drink a gallon of water and go to sleep, let the buzz wear off and-

   “Will this still be real tomorrow?”

    Please, let it be real.

Eddie presses another kiss to his lips before he nods.

   “I’m yours if you want me.”

   “Want you.”

   “Come on, then. Let’s get you home.”

   “Are you coming home with me?” Steve asks, sounding a little more hopeful that he’d want to admit.

   “Just for tonight, let’s pretend I’m a gentleman, okay? I don’t want Robin to kill me before I have the chance to tell her.”

   “Tell her what?”

   “That I’m in love with her best friend.”

Steve will have the worst hangover tomorrow, he’s sure.

And Robin will have a lot to say about all of it.

But to hear Eddie say those words makes it all worth it.

   “What about Jeremy?” Steve’s being a teasing little shit now, he knows he is, can’t help himself.

   “I think his name was actually Jeffrey, or Jackson? I don’t really know him. He just wanted to talk to me about my band, saw us play a few weeks back.” Eddie grins, has this knowing look in his eyes that sends a hot rush to Steve’s cheeks.

   “Oh you bastard!” Steve huffs, feels stupid for falling for something like that. “I can't believe you let me think you two had something going on. That’s so mean!”

They both laugh.

   “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Eddie smirks and Steve can’t not kiss him.

   “I hate you,” Steve says through a smile and Eddie answers with his own.

   “I know, I love you, too.”

[endofthelinegang]

Would Matt Murdock have hard time being around an emotional & sensitive person? Like, when someone raises their voice slightly or be mean to me, I'd be holding back tears.

alrighty let me crack my fingers here, whip out the keyboard, here are some headcanons and a little bonus fic

Matt picks up on every little change in your heartbeat, breathing. There is no hiding your sensitive behavior and feelings. He’ll know the second something is wrong and will gently nudge you to talk about it.

He’s used to dealing with intensity and conflict, but when it comes to you it is personal which makes him a lot softer. If someone raises their voice at you, Matt immediately steps in, positioning himself between you and the other person, voice low and steady. “Hey, that’s enough.” He doesn’t need to get aggressive, he is confident that his presence will do the job.

When he senses you’re on the verge of tears, he’ll make sure that he is properly handling the situation. He will either reach for your hand or if you are in a group, even a small one, he would guide you somewhere quieter. He knows how embarssing it can be to have a crashout moment or a cry in public. He is just the right amount of touch, not too brutish but not so soft it makes your skin tingle.

Matt’s seen the worst of humanity, he in fact has told you that humans are the worst monsters to ever exist. Your kindness and sensitivity? It’s a kind of a relief, I mean to see a human be human in a non-criminal way, happy heart moment. He never gets frustrated if you’re overwhelmed easily. Instead, he’ll talk you through it, using that soothing lawyer voice of his. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

If someone makes you cry, he interalizes it. He won’t lose his mind and go on a killing spree, but there’s a quiet, dangerous edge to him if you allow him to confront the responsible party and or person. He would not go out of his way to do that outside of your permission unless you were physically injured.

If you’re spiraling, he’ll do whatever you need him to do, of course he does not always expect you to be able to tell him. His go to is to take you anywhere that is away from everyone else and firstly try light touch and talking, if that is not sucessful then physical touch with your body as his guide, and if nothing else he will give you space and just sit with you.

He admires your ability to feel so deeply. He’s seen too many people become numb to the world, himself included sometimes. Loving you reminds him that softness isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength.

Matt hears it before you even step through the door—the unsteady rhythm of your breathing, the uneven thump of your heartbeat, the way your shoe pats against the floor like you’re quickly tapping, possibly shaking.

Something happened, something Matt knew he would not like.

He feels you, tracks the way your keys rattle to open the door. Then the door opens, and even though you don’t say a word, he feels the weight settle into the apartment with you, he hears the tiniest sigh escape your lips.

You linger in the doorway, hesitant, like there’s something pressing against your chest, something you can’t quite push down. You knew Matt already knew it was written all over the way he stood with his ear facing the door just listening to every single thing you did. You don’t even take off your coat, don’t put your bag down—just stand there, staring at your shoes.

Matt sets his cane aside as quietly as he can, stepping toward you carefully. “Sweetheart?” His voice is quiet, meant to coax, but you still flinch ever so slightly as you completely spaced out.

“Hey,” you say, and the sound of it makes his stomach twist. It’s thin, a ghost of your usual tone, fragile like brittle glass.

He waits for you to say more, maybe even start to sob or cry, but you don’t. You don’t move, don’t breathe properly, like you’re standing with a gun pointing into your back.

“Talk to me,” he says, stepping closer. “What happened?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “It’s stupid.” The words slip out under your breath like they were not even meant to be spoken.

His brows pull together. “It’s not.”

You hesitate, your fingers twisting into the hem of your sleeve, you could feel your face heat up. A type of heat that would travel everywhere in your body that allowed you to move just with trickling pains. Then it all spilled out.

“I went to meet up with some people after work.” You pause, choosing your words carefully, like they might come out wrong if you’re not precise.. “I thought—God, I don’t know. I thought they were my friends.”

Matt’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He just listens.

“They weren’t mean exactly,” you continue, you could not stop playing little moments about that interaction through your head, it felt like it would never end. “It was just little things.”

Your breathing shudders, as you allow yourself to use more of your body to take steps, the sound of your shoes were just as loud to you as they were to Matt.

“They kept talking over me. Every time I tried to say something, they’d just—move on, like I wasn’t even there. And when they did acknowledge me, it was just—” You break off, swallowing hard. “Little jokes. Stuff about how I’m too sensitive, how I take things too seriously, how I always ‘look like I’m about to cry.’”

Matt feels a sharp, quiet anger coil in his chest, but he keeps his voice soft when he speaks. “Did you say anything to them?”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Yeah. And you know what they did? They laughed. Said I was proving their point.”

Matt closes his eyes for a brief moment, his jaw clenching hard enough that it aches. He knows—God, he knows—that kind of cruelty, the kind that hides behind lightness, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the problem.

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, your breath hitching. “I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that I can’tjust brush things off, that stuff like this gets to me so much.” Your voice breaks on the last word, small and aching.

Matt steps in without hesitation, if anyone knew how it felt to not be heard or understood. Though he did not interalize his feelings as deeply as you he knew how damiging to the mind not being understood could be. The closer he got to you the louder your heartbeat seemed to get, your skin looked red and angry especially your hands.

His hands find yours, gently prying them away from your face. His touch is steady, warm, careful. He cradles your face in his hands letting you keep your hands to yourself, his thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones, tracing the heat lingering beneath your skin, the tremble in your lips. His hands feel cool against your face, a nice soft cool.

“You feel things deeply,” he murmurs, voice low and sure. “That’s not a flaw.”

Your throat works, but you don’t speak, something about being able to smell his cologne and slight leathery smell from the couch made you feel okay to breathe.

Matt leans down, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and steady. “They don’t get to decide what’s too much. They don’t get to tell you that you’re wrong for feeling.”

You let out a shaky breath, and your hands come up, gripping his wrists, grounding yourself with him.

“But they made me feel so—” Your breath hitches again, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “So small.”

Matt feels that, too. A loss of a sense is enough to make freshly blind young Matt feel so tiny when he was a child and that is a very hard feeling to forget. To think about the fact that you felt this way so often shook him up. Something in his chest cracks, deep and aching. Because he knows. He knows what it’s like to be dismissed, to be talked over, to have the world act like you’re invisible. He knows how it rots inside you, how it makes you doubt your own voice, your own presence.

He slides his arms around you, pulling you close, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He holds you like you’re something precious, he softens your hair down on your head as he feels you attempt to settle down.

“You are not small,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with emotion. “Not to me.”

Your body shudders, and then you break, your arms wrapping around him as you bury yourself in his comforting presence. He feels the damp heat of your tears against his collar, the way your shoulders shake as you let go, letting him hold you, letting yourself be seen.

Matt presses a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his hands tracing slow circles against your back.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, when you grip him tighter, when you press yourself closer like you believe him—Matt knows you do.

[writingfics-passingtime]

hello lovie! just found your mixtape thing, and I love the idea so much! was wondering, whenever you’re able of course, if you could write something based off the song ‘biomes’ by james heather? preferably with matt! it’s also a classical piece, so not too sure on how well that’ll do! thank you in advance 🫶🏻

This one-shot is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a collection based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Before, and Now

Song Prompt: Biomes - James Heather

Pairing: Matt Murdock x reader (no pronouns used, and no y/n)

Word Count: ~1360

CW: swearing, violence (against the reader), I wrote this before Born Again came out so don't @ me if it doesn't fit the new series pleeeease and thankyou

Minors DNI: this work does not contain smut, but contains a romantic relationship between the reader and adult-aged characters. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

Note: Thanks, strry! I love classical pieces and have written many stories to them (including a mega-length one in my drafts), so I'm glad you sent this one in. I hope you like it!

Matt has always hated the smell of the police station. Sweat, desperation, the chemical tang of stale coffee, damp uniforms, and something uneasy beneath it all.

Blood. Not fresh, not yours, but it clings to the air like a bad memory.

Your hand is small in his, cold despite the heat of the building. He has both of his hands wrapped around yours, like he can somehow fuse them together, make himself an unbreakable barrier between you and the rest of the world. But your fingers don’t squeeze back. They don’t do anything.

Your silence is suffocating.

His leg won’t stop bouncing. He can’t sit still, can’t stop the way his pulse hammers in his throat, can’t do a goddamn thing except hold your hand and listen to the flickering light above, the heartbeat of the cop at the front desk, the thick exhaustion in your every breath.

This is his fault.

He knew something was wrong the second you started up the stairs.

Your footsteps are usually light and easy, a rhythm he knows like the back of his own hand. But tonight they were heavy. Weighted. Hesitant.

A pause on the landing. A sniff. Another step.

Too slow. Too careful.

He knew you were tired and overworked, but something crawled up his spine the way it always did right before a fight.

Then you opened the door.

And Matt smelled blood.

Your blood.

His stomach turned to ice, righteous rage curling up from somewhere deep inside him, but he swallowed it down, controlled himself as he carefully crossed the room. He didn’t know where the injury was, didn’t know how bad, didn’t know if you were seconds away from crumpling into him or if you were standing on your own two feet only because you willed yourself to.

“What happened?” His voice came out steady, but he felt anything but.

“I'm okay,” you said, and fuck, you were lying to him. It was instinct, the same way you always tried to downplay things. You did it to protect him. And that made him feel even worse. “It’s just my lip. It's not a lot of blood.”

“Who?” he asked, sharper this time, hands ghosting up your arms, carefully mapping over you, trying to find where else you were hurt. The cut on your lip wasn’t the only thing. He could feel it. The stiffness in your ribs, the way you barely breathed too deep. He was about to ask again when-

“Who’s Tommy Bracewell?”

He stopped. Frowned. “What?”

He knew that name. A client. A case. Nothing he would ever have connected to you.

But then you told him.

Someone grabbed you by the back of the neck. Pushed you face-first into a wall, jammed a gun into your ribs. Tell your boyfriend he better get Tommy Bracewell outta jail, or next time I see you, you’re not walking away.

Matt went still. Too still. The kind of stillness that preceded violence.

He ran over your words again in his head, the exact phrasing, the exact tone, searching for something, anything that could tell him who did this. Who fucking touched you. Who put their hands on you, pressed a fucking gun to you, and thought they’d get away with it.

His hands had started shaking.

You had reached out, barely brushing his wrist. “Matt.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He never thought it would be his work - his fucking job - that got you hurt. He always knew there was risk in what he did, but he thought it would be the other thing. The mask. The blood. The Devil. Not some piece-of-shit gangbanger using you to get to him.

He could've gone out right then. Put on the suit. Find them. Beat a name out of the first guy stupid enough to cross his path. But that would expose him. Expose you.

His stomach churned at the alternative.

Fisk.

He could… ask. Pull a favour. Trade something.

Fisk could make this go away.

But then he thought of you. Of the way your voice had sounded when you told him what happened. Shaken, but steady. Matt knew you. Knew the way you would never forgive him if he did that. If he owed that man for your safety.

And he knew you were waiting for him to say something.

“… We need to go to the police.”

You didn’t want to. He heard it in the way your breath hitched, the hesitation in your pulse.

But you trusted him.

So you did.

The cop station is just another level of hell.

Matt listens to the officer at the front, lazily flipping through a file, his pulse slow, steady, uncaring. The man doesn’t give a shit. Neither do half the others in this place.

He grips your hand tighter, but you still don’t squeeze back.

“I’m gonna get you some coffee,” he says quietly.

You nod, but it’s distant.

He gets up, extending his cane, walking with careful purpose across the room. He doesn’t need to feel his way there, but he pretends to anyway. Because it makes men like him underestimate him - the cop who steps up beside him.

Matt smells cigarettes on his breath. Something thick and dark in his voice, a kind of sick satisfaction curling around the edges.

“Maybe now you know how it feels,” the officer murmurs, low and taunting. “All those families who never get justice.”

Matt stills. His stomach twists.

The cop doesn’t stop. “Maybe next time, Mr Murdock... you’ll think a little harder about defending some worthless gangbanger.”

Matt’s grip tightens on his cane.

He inhales slowly, evenly, calculating. He tilts his head, as if considering, as if weighing the words, but the only thing he’s thinking about is how satisfying it would be to feel this guy’s teeth crack under his fist.

But that wouldn’t help you.

So he breathes. He exhales. He turns back toward you.

And he walks away.

Back in the apartment in the early hours of the morning, everything feels wrong. The walls feel too close. The air too thick with everything that’s happened. You sit on the couch, exhausted, and Matt’s doing everything he can to keep his own bleeding heart from spilling out into the room.

He talks, hurriedly at first, explaining the plan, the steps he’s going to take. He tells you he'll protect you. He tells you it will be okay. But his voice cracks on the last sentence, and he knows you hear it. He knows you hear how not okay everything is.

You stop him with a soft touch, stepping into his arms.

“If you want to help,” you murmur, voice so raw it rips through him, “just hold me.”

You don’t want the plans. The protection. The promises.

You just want him.

So he pulls you close, the weight of your body sinking into his, the warmth of you the only thing that feels real. His hands roam your back, tracing the familiar contours of your skin, his touch a quiet apology, a promise. His fingers brush over the places he's traced an infinite number of times before.

But this time, it’s different. This time, the fear is deeper.

This time, you are different.

This moment of pain and terror has split you in two. There’s a before, when you walked the streets of New York, anonymous, just another face in the crowd. But now... there’s only the unavoidable aftermath. Now you know that there are people out there who know who you are. Who will come for you. There is no going back. You aren’t invisible anymore.

And Matt feels it.

He feels the shift in the air as you lean against him, your breathing slower, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything. He holds you tighter, as if the tighter he holds you, the more he can keep that world outside from touching you. From ripping you apart.

You fall asleep in his arms. And he stays awake, knowing that tomorrow will bring new danger. But for tonight, he’ll hold you through it all, knowing you feel safest right here, and now.

[bimbodolllll]

HI! I saw your request was open? I have been reading the boys of tommen series and i just read keeping 13 and i was wondering if you could wirte some tokyo rev characters (preferebly Shinichiro, Mikey, Izana and mitsuya) getting walked on while they're having their first time with reader? (Feel free to turn this into a one character thingy, i would love this with either of them😭😭😭)

۶ৎ Interruptions.

۶ৎ auth: OKAY SO. This probably isn’t as detailed as you may want, and that reason is because I’m not really all that interested in sexual relations and I don’t have much experience writing it :(

۶ৎ Summary: The night with him where you both decide that the right time would be now. But as things start—you’re interrupted.

۶ৎ: implied nsfw | scenario | gender neutral reader. !! All characters are aged up.

۶ৎ Characters Included: Shinichiro Sano, Manjiro “Mikey” Sano, Izana Kurokawa, Mitsuya Takashi

۶ৎ Shinichiro Sano

Shinichiro was the quiet and thoughtful older brother, the one who carried the weight of responsibility on his shoulders and made sure everything around him stayed intact. He had always been the one to hold things together for his younger siblings, to be their pillar of strength. But with you? He didn’t have to be strong. With you, he could let go, even if just for a moment.

The night had started innocently enough—just the two of you, spending time together in the familiar quiet of Shinichiro’s room. It wasn’t anything extraordinary at first. He was always so careful, so gentle with his words and actions. But the air between you both had shifted, and it was clear neither of you wanted to let the moment slip away.

Shinichiro looked at you, his dark eyes full of warmth, but there was a flicker of something else—something deeper, more intense—beneath his calm exterior. His hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, deliberate movements, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. He leaned in slightly, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek as he whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

His voice was low, almost a murmur, and there was a slight tremor in it—one that he couldn’t hide. Shinichiro was always the one who was careful, the one who took his time to make sure everyone else was okay, and now, when it came to something as personal as this, it was clear that he was still trying to figure out how to navigate the situation.

You nodded, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “I’m sure, Shinichiro.”

He sighed softly, the weight of your words seeming to ease the tension in his chest. His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him slowly, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was tender, almost hesitant at first. But the moment you kissed him back, it was as if the dam had broken. His restraint vanished, and he pulled you closer, his hands moving to guide your body against his, his warmth enveloping you entirely.

For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you—no worries, no responsibilities. Just the feeling of his lips against yours, his body pressed against yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat in sync with yours.

Shinichiro’s hands wandered, but he was still careful, as though he didn’t want to rush anything, but at the same time, there was a sense of urgency in the way he kissed you, as though he couldn’t get enough of you. His touch was gentle but firm, as if he was trying to pull you even closer, to feel more of you, but at the same time, he was hesitant, as though he feared pushing you too far.

Just as his lips moved to your neck, the door to his room suddenly creaked open.

“Shin, I—”

It was Manjiro, his voice loud and unbothered as he pushed the door open without a second thought. The moment he saw the two of you, his eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly slammed the door shut again, muttering an apology through the door.

Shinichiro froze, his body stiffening, his face turning a deep shade of red. He let out a deep breath, clearly trying to regain his composure. “…I told him to knock…”

You both sat there for a moment in stunned silence, the air now thick with awkwardness. Shinichiro’s usual calm demeanor was now laced with embarrassment. He turned back to you, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes full of a mixture of frustration and apology.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he said, his voice low, almost too soft. “I didn’t expect him to just barge in like that.”

You smiled softly at his flustered state, your hand gently cupping his cheek. “It’s okay, Shinichiro. It happens.”

He gave you a small, relieved smile, clearly grateful for your understanding. But even though he tried to mask it, you could tell he was still embarrassed by the interruption.

“You’re too kind,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you gently, as if seeking comfort. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

As he kissed you, this time with a little more confidence, you couldn’t help but smile. Shinichiro’s love for you was something deep, something steady. And even though his vulnerability was a rare sight, when he let it show, it was the most genuine and real thing about him.

This time, when he pulled away, there was a quiet promise in his eyes. “I won’t let anything ruin this,” he said, his voice soft but full of determination.

And you knew, no matter what happened, Shinichiro would always try his best to make sure you felt safe and cared for, even if it meant taking things slow and being patient.

۶ৎ Manjiro “Mikey” Sano

Mikey was always full of energy, a ball of mischief and charm that made him stand out wherever he went. Yet, beneath that carefree and sometimes reckless demeanor was a side to him that only a few ever saw—a more vulnerable and possessive side, one that he kept hidden from most. With you, though, he didn’t need to hide it. He wanted to let go of that carefully crafted image and simply be.

The night was just like any other—quiet, calm, and comfortable. But there was a tension in the air that Mikey couldn’t ignore. The way his fingers brushed against yours as you sat together, how his eyes would linger just a little too long when he thought you weren’t looking. He had always been the one to make the first move, but tonight, it was different. Tonight, he was uncertain, unsure of how to navigate the space between you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual as he leaned in closer. His breath was warm against your skin as his lips hovered just above your ear. “You okay?”

You turned to face him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. There was something about Mikey’s vulnerability, his need for reassurance, that made you want to protect him in return. “I’m fine,” you whispered back, reaching up to gently brush a strand of his messy hair out of his face.

Mikey’s eyes softened, his usual bravado faltering. He was always the strong one, the leader, but with you, it was like he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. His hand found yours again, and this time, he didn’t let go.

The moment was charged with an unspoken understanding, a mutual desire that had been building for weeks. Mikey’s lips found yours in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle at first, like he was savoring the moment. But as the kiss deepened, so did the intensity. He was desperate for this—desperate for the connection, the reassurance that you were his and no one else’s. His hands roamed, tracing the outline of your body with a quiet urgency, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

But just as things were escalating, a loud bang echoed through the door.

“Mikey, what the hell are you doing in there?” It was Draken, his voice booming from outside the room.

Mikey froze, his body stiffening at the sound. His eyes flicked toward the door before he turned back to you, his face flushing with frustration and embarrassment.

“Dammit, Ken-chin,” Mikey muttered under his breath, sitting up and adjusting himself quickly. “I told him not to interrupt.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation, but Mikey was anything but amused. He got up and walked over to the door, yanking it open just enough to peek his head through.

“You really have no concept of privacy, do you?” Mikey’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it that made it clear he was pissed off.

Draken was standing in the hallway, arms crossed and a grin plastered on his face. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were busy,” he teased, his eyes flicking between Mikey and you.

“I swear to God…” Mikey grumbled, clearly not in the mood for Draken’s teasing. He turned back to you, the frustration still clear in his eyes, but there was also an underlying protectiveness. He wasn’t going to let anyone ruin this moment between you two, not even his best friend.

“Next time,” Mikey said as he closed the door, turning back to you with a sheepish smile, “I’ll make sure to lock it.”

He sat down next to you again, his hand immediately finding yours once more. His earlier hesitation was gone, replaced by a renewed sense of focus. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath heavy with desire.

“Sorry about that,” he whispered, his voice soft again. “Let’s just forget about him.”

You smiled, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the lips. “It’s fine. Just… maybe warn me next time so I can be ready for the interruption.”

Mikey chuckled, his usual playful smirk returning. “I’ll try my best,” he said, before his lips found yours again, this time with more determination, as though he was reclaiming the moment. And this time, no one was going to interrupt.

۶ৎ Izana Kurokawa

Izana Kurokawa had always been calculated, precise, and ruthless. His every move was deliberate, his demeanor sharp, and the way he carried himself demanded respect from all who crossed his path. But with you? He was something else entirely—a side of him that no one else ever saw.

The tension between you both had been building for days, and tonight, there was no avoiding it anymore. Izana had always been good at hiding his emotions, his cool exterior never faltering. Yet, in the quiet privacy of his room, it was different. There was a faint unease in his usually composed eyes, as if he didn’t entirely know what to do with the soft vulnerability that bloomed whenever he was around you.

He pulled you close, his long fingers brushing along the side of your face as if afraid you’d slip away from him if he wasn’t careful. His lips met yours with the same intensity and precision as everything else he did. But it wasn’t just lust that fueled his kiss—it was something deeper, something he didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.

Izana’s hands roamed over your body, slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to memorize the feel of you beneath him. His touch was commanding, as though he was asserting control over the situation, but there was an underlying gentleness to it that felt almost out of place. He made sure you felt every inch of him, his body pressing against yours with a sense of urgency that was foreign to his usual detached nature.

“Is this what you want?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his breath hot against your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck. His control was slipping, but he didn’t want to lose himself entirely—not yet. Not with you.

You nodded, your hands threading through his soft hair, urging him closer. His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something that was far beyond the calm, distant gaze he often wore. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his body moving over yours as he slowly guided you both to the edge.

The tension in the room was thick, the air electric with desire and the quiet understanding that neither of you would back down from this.

Just as his lips moved to your neck, the door to his room creaked open. “Izana, are you—?”

The voice was unmistakable. It was Kakucho.

Both you and Izana froze. The room was deathly silent for a split second before Izana’s eyes flicked toward the door. His expression was unreadable, cold, and calculating.

“Izana…” Kakucho began again, stepping into the room but freezing as soon as he noticed the situation. His eyes widened in shock, taking in the scene before him.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

Izana, ever the master of composure, didn’t flinch. He looked at Kakucho, eyes narrowing slightly. “Get out.”

Kakucho, still frozen in place, blinked a few times, confusion written all over his face. “What the hell are you—”

Izana’s voice cut through the air like a sharp knife. “I said, get. Out.” His tone was deadly calm, the same tone he used when he was about to destroy someone.

Kakucho hesitated, his usual bravado faltering for just a moment, before he quickly turned on his heel and backed out of the room. “Okay, okay, I’m going. But damn, Izana, you could’ve locked the damn door.”

Izana didn’t answer. He simply stood there, staring at the door long after Kakucho had left, his mind obviously racing. After a moment, his gaze flicked back down to you. The heat between you both hadn’t diminished, but there was an awkward tension now, the intrusion lingering like an unwelcome guest.

He ran a hand through his hair, his face still inscrutable. “…I’m sorry,” he muttered, though it was almost a whisper. “I didn’t expect that.”

His words were sincere, but his expression remained hard, his mask slipping just slightly as he tried to recover from the awkwardness of the situation.

You smiled softly, reaching out to gently pull him back to you. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “It happens.”

Izana let out a small breath, his lips curling into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “You’re right. Next time, I’ll make sure the door stays locked.”

And with that, he leaned down to kiss you once more, the intensity of his earlier desire reigniting, this time with a silent promise that no one else would interrupt you. Not again.

۶ৎ Mitsuya Takashi

Mitsuya Takashi was always the calm and composed one, the one who carried the weight of responsibility without hesitation. His demeanor was often one of quiet strength, but when he let his guard down around you, it was a different story. He was gentle, caring, and surprisingly tender in a way that made your heart race without even trying.

That night, the atmosphere between you two had shifted, and the weight of unspoken desires hung in the air. Mitsuya had always been the type to carefully read the room, to understand when things were moving too fast or when they needed a little push. But tonight, his patience had worn thin. His movements were deliberate but not rushed, like he was savoring each moment with you.

You could feel the difference in the way he kissed you—slower, deeper. His hands were soft but firm, guiding you closer to him, making sure you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. The warmth of his touch spread through your body, and the heat between you both grew with every passing second.

Mitsuya pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking with yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. “If you’re not ready…” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with concern. His usual confidence was there, but it was tempered by a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his cheek, reassuring him with a gentle smile. “I’m ready.”

That was all it took. Mitsuya’s expression softened, his lips curling into a small, almost shy smile, as though he was relieved to hear your words. He kissed you again, this time with a deep sense of urgency that came from months of restraint. His hands were everywhere, exploring, touching, his body pressing closer to yours with every movement.

He moved slowly, deliberately, wanting to make sure you were comfortable and taken care of, but you could feel the heat in his touch, the way his fingers gripped your skin as though he was afraid to let go. You could see the strain in his jaw, the way he fought to keep himself controlled, but every now and then, you’d catch a glimpse of his vulnerability—the way his eyes would soften as he looked at you, the way his breath hitched as you responded to him.

But just as things were reaching a fever pitch, the door to his room cracked open.

“Mitsuya, you’ve been in here a while, everything okay—?”

It was Sanzu’s voice, casual and carefree, but the moment he stepped in and saw the scene before him, his words caught in his throat.

Mitsuya froze, his body tense, but his expression remained as composed as ever, though you could see the flush creeping up his neck. He immediately moved to cover you with the blanket, his protective instincts kicking in. “Sanzu,” he said, his voice calm but with an underlying warning, “get out.”

Sanzu didn’t even blink. He stood there, eyes flicking from Mitsuya’s flustered face to yours, then back again. His lips curved into a smirk. “Ah, I see… my bad, didn’t realize you were busy.”

Mitsuya, usually the level-headed one, stood up from the bed, eyes narrowed slightly. “I said get out.” His voice was quiet, but the sharp edge to it made it clear that the situation was no longer funny.

Sanzu raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going. But don’t worry, Mitsuya, I won’t tell anyone. Not a word, I swear.”

As Sanzu backed out, still chuckling, Mitsuya let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. He turned back to you, his usual calm composure returning, but there was a hint of frustration in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice almost embarrassed. “I didn’t expect him to barge in like that.”

You smiled softly, sitting up and reaching for his hand. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s kinda funny.”

Mitsuya let out a small laugh, his shoulders relaxing as he sat back down beside you. “Yeah, well, I’ll make sure to lock the door next time,” he said, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

You could tell he was still a little flustered by the interruption, but as he leaned in to kiss you again, you knew that no matter what happened, Mitsuya was someone who always made sure you felt safe, loved, and cared for—no matter how awkward the situation might get.

[blairxbear]

Hi! I just wanted to say that I enjoy reading your work so much. I especially love the general headcanons with all the characters included. I would really love to see All Might next for the boyfriend headcanons if that's okay! Have a wonderful day! 😊

A/N: Heyyyyyyyyy so my prayers are answered with another lovely person who loves all might as much as I do. Bro I would die for smAll Might. Coming right up with some All Might Bf headcanons

Boyfriend Headcanons - Toshinori Yagi (All Might)

What It’s Like Dating Toshinori Yagi (All Might)

The Protective, Gentle, Old-Fashioned Romantic Boyfriend

Dating Toshinori Yagi is like being loved by a man who has spent his whole life protecting the world and now finally has someone he wants to protect on a deeply personal level. He is devoted, affectionate, and incredibly thoughtful, always making sure you feel safe, supported, and cherished.

Toshinori is not a flashy boyfriend, but he is deeply romantic in a quiet, old-fashioned way. He may have spent years as the Symbol of Peace, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but when he’s with you? He can finally relax, let his guard down, and simply be a man who loves you with everything he has.

The Protective, Overly Considerate Boyfriend

Toshinori has spent years protecting people—it’s instinctive at this point.

If you’re walking together, he positions himself closest to the street.

If you’re in a crowded area, he naturally places a gentle hand on your back to guide you.

He constantly checks in on you, even over small things.

"Are you warm enough?"

"Did you eat today?"

"Are you getting enough rest?"

If anyone makes you uncomfortable, his entire demeanor shifts.

Normally, he’s kind, smiling, and lighthearted.

But the second someone crosses a line, his tone drops into something serious, commanding, and firm.

"I believe you owe my partner an apology." (It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.)

If you ever get hurt, even a little, he takes it SO seriously.

"Oh no! That looks painful! Here, let me—" (Immediately fussing over you, gently touching your injury, and looking like he blames himself for not preventing it.)

"I should have been paying better attention. I’m so sorry, my love."

The Gentle, Affectionate Boyfriend Who Treats You Like You’re Precious

Toshinori is incredibly gentle with you, both physically and emotionally.

He’s spent years being the strongest person in the room, but when he touches you? He is so soft, so careful, like he’s afraid of hurting you.

His hugs are warm and protective—you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath as he holds you close.

Loves running his fingers through your hair.

If you’re lying on his chest, he’ll absentmindedly comb his fingers through your hair.

If you do the same to him? He melts completely.

Loves forehead kisses.

He gently cups your face, leans in, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"My dear, you are more precious than you know."

Loves holding hands.

He always clasps your hand firmly but never too tightly.

If he’s feeling especially affectionate, he’ll bring your hand up to his lips and kiss your knuckles.

"It is an honor to hold the hand of someone so wonderful."

The Old-Fashioned, Hopelessly Romantic Boyfriend

Toshinori is an old soul, and his idea of romance is incredibly classic.

He opens doors for you, pulls out your chair, and insists on walking you home.

He writes you handwritten love letters—his words always beautifully poetic.

"My dearest love, if I had a thousand lifetimes, they would all be spent loving you."

Loves taking you on meaningful dates.

Stargazing while he wraps his coat around your shoulders.

Quiet café dates where he listens intently to everything you say.

Museum visits where he gently laces his fingers with yours and softly whispers about the art.

He prefers simple, intimate moments over flashy dates.

He loves slow dancing with you, even when there’s no music.

He’ll hold you close, sway gently, and rest his forehead against yours.

"There’s no one else I’d rather dance with, my love."

The “I Miss You Even When You’re Right Here” Boyfriend

Toshinori treasures every moment with you, because he knows how fleeting time can be.

If he has to leave for any reason, he hates being apart from you.

He’ll write you a sweet message before he goes, just so you have something to read while he’s gone.

"Even when we are apart, know that my heart is always with you."

When he sees you after time apart, he holds you like he hasn’t seen you in years.

He’ll wrap you in his arms, pressing a kiss to your hair, whispering, "I missed you."

If you say you missed him too? He gets SO SOFT.

"My dear, you have no idea how much it means to hear you say that."

The Protective but Respectful Boyfriend

Toshinori doesn’t get jealous easily, but he is fiercely protective.

He won’t glare at people or act possessive, but if someone flirts with you, he just calmly steps in.

"Ah, I see you’ve met my partner. They are extraordinary, aren’t they?" (His arm is already around your waist, pulling you closer.)

He respects your independence but always wants to be someone you can rely on.

"If you ever need me, I will be there in an instant."

And he means it. No matter what, he’ll drop everything to be by your side.

The Kind of Boyfriend Who…

✔ Sends you good morning and good night texts, always incredibly sweet and thoughtful. ✔ Remembers every single thing you tell him and brings it up months later. ✔ Always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road to protect you. ✔ Will hold you in his sleep without even realizing it. ✔ Praises you constantly because he truly thinks you’re amazing. ✔ Calls you endearing pet names like "my dear," "my love," and "beloved." ✔ Treats you like you are the most precious, wonderful person he has ever known.

The Absolute Best Things About Dating Toshinori Yagi

He makes you feel SAFE. You never have to worry about being alone or unprotected.

He is endlessly supportive. No matter what your dreams are, he believes in you with all his heart.

He is affectionate in the softest, most meaningful ways. Every touch, every glance, every word is full of quiet adoration.

He never takes you for granted. Every moment with you is a gift to him.

He loves you with everything he has, because to him, you are his greatest treasure.

Final Thoughts

Dating Toshinori Yagi is like being loved in the purest, most devoted way. He is protective, gentle, endlessly affectionate, and full of quiet but powerful love.

He may be the former Symbol of Peace, but to him?

You are his peace, his light, and the most important thing in his world.

Ko-fi / Masterlist

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