#i call this: moments before your world is turned upside down

[thequeenofcurses]

The Devil In The Sanctuary

Prologue/Chapter 1

summary: mafia!sukuna x fem!reader. you’re the sheltered daughter of a pastor who finds your world turned upside down when a mysterious and dangerous man seeks refuge in your church. slowburn. eventual smut so mdni.

A/N I usually don't really yap or do trigger warnings in my stories (because I'm bad at them & personally I don't really get triggered by anything, but I understand this could upset other people), and I worked really hard on planning this fic. I don't want to offend anyone since religion is a key theme in this story. Y/n and her father are very devout. Originally the religion was going to be a real one (I won't name it), but I decided to use a fake and completely made up religion for the sake of not offending any one.

If that’s a problem or triggering for you, I don’t recommend reading this fic! <3

tws: violence, gore, blood, religious themes and criticism, character death, eventual smut, slowburn

masterlist | jjk masterlist | read on AO3

The faint glow of the setting sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting shards of crimson, gold, and violet light across the worn wooden pews. The air was quiet, heavy with the scent of melting candle wax and old hymnal books. The faint creak of your footsteps echoed in the vast, empty sanctuary as you moved down the aisle, your broom scraping softly against the stone floor.

It was nearly six pm, and the world outside the church was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim street lights flickering in the distance. Daylight was constantly getting stolen from you with the new winter sun. The wind whispered through the cracks in the heavy oak doors. The roof finally stopped leaking since the snow started to melt.

You hummed softly under your breath as you swept away dust that seemed to perpetually settle no matter how often you cleaned. Even though you disliked chores, this was one of your favorite times — the stillness of the evening when the world seemed to fade away, leaving only you, the church, and the faint presence of something divine. You’d often sing in the sanctuary when cleaning because no one was around to hear you.

You paused for a moment, resting on the broom handle as you gazed up at the towering crucifix at the altar. You remembered your parents putting it up the day before your family opened the church to the public when you were a small child. Its shadow loomed large and solemn against the wall, a quiet reminder of faith and sacrifice. A sigh escaped your lips.

And that’s when you heard it, glass breaking? You froze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Another sound came again, louder this time, echoing from the side entrance of the church. Was someone breaking into the church? It’s not like you guys had much to steal. The building was falling apart day by day.

Your heartbeat quickened as you turned your gaze toward the darkened corridor, where the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye.

“Hello? Father?” you called out, voice trembling slightly as it broke the sacred silence. Maybe father came back early from his conference? You think to yourself. But why would he come through the back or side entrance?

No answer. Just the soft groan of the creaky floorboards, and then… nothing.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper,” you quietly murmur to yourself while making a cross with your right hand. You take the broom and head down the corridor to the back of the church. You believe in helping people, but you’re mama didn’t raise a fool.

When you reach what appears to be the shattered window, the only thing you find is a brick at your feet and broken multi-colored stained glass. That window—your grandfather’s work. But that’s not all you find. Red dots that seem to be have dripped. You and your father haven't touched this hallway yet. Could that really be… blood? Cautiously, you followed the trail, firmly grasping the broom with every step.

The scent of iron floods your nose. You stare in shock as the pools of blood seem to only grow further. The trail leads you to the restroom and that’s when you find a red giant hand print on the door knob.

Oh, Celestials grant me mercy! 

Most doors in this building were so old, they could never fully shut. You say a silent prayer to yourself and use your broom to poke at the door to softly push it open.

And that’s when you see him on the bathroom floor. 

The Devil.

A/N Please tell me your thoughts on this! This is my first ever Mafia AU/anything, so I will gladly take any constructive feedback!

masterlist | jjk masterlist

[lover-of-mine]

Buddie Countdown to Season 7:

35 days.

[alygator77]

another wip from me. hehe. supermodel satoru.

warnings: mdni, smut, fluff, masturbation, obsession. (honestly, satoru feels kinda yandere af. he's fucking down bad for you.)

supermodel! satoru whose life is a whirlwind—flashing cameras, designer clothes, and breathless whispers of adoration. on the surface, he has it all: the perfect career, the perfect face, the perfect life. but perfection… has its price.

supermodel! satoru who, after a ten-hour photoshoot that left him feeling more mannequin than man, slumps into the cold embrace of his sleek penthouse. the city glimmers outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, vibrant and alive, but it feels distant, like a movie playing on mute. he’s surrounded by luxury but drowning in solitude.

supermodel! satoru who, running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee, barely notices when his fingers fumble over his phone, sending a text message to you—meant for his manager. tossing the phone aside with a sigh, he stretches out on the couch, exhaustion pulling at his limbs—unaware that this accidental message is about to flip his world upside down.

supermodel! satoru who, when your response comes through, doesn’t realize at first that he’s texted a stranger. his initial confusion shifts to mild annoyance, but that changes the moment he reads your sharp, unfiltered reply. intrigue replaces irritation, and before he knows it, he’s texting back, unable to resist the pull of you on the other end.

supermodel! satoru who keeps his identity a secret, finding it strange at first, but soon, it becomes refreshing. for once, he’s not the face on billboards or the name in glossy magazines. no—for the first time in forever, someone is talking to him—not his fame, not his face, just him.

supermodel! satoru who finds himself grinning like an idiot whenever his phone buzzes with your name. you tell him about your life—mundane, you call it, but to him, it’s captivating. days turn into weeks—texts in the middle of the night when he’s jet-lagged and bored in some foreign country. voice notes where you laugh at his terrible jokes.

supermodel! satoru who one day, finally reveals who he is, and with a mix of arrogance and curiosity, boldly asks for your photo—eager to see the face behind the name he’s grown so fond talking to.

c’mon now... I show my face to the world every day. least you could do is show me yours ;)

your reply pings through, accompanied by an attachment, and for a moment, his breath catches.

supermodel! satoru who has seen countless beautiful people, surrounded by them every day, but there’s something about you that has him hooked. perhaps it’s not just the way you look—it’s the way you’ve made him feel. for the first time in forever, he’s not just admired; he’s seen.

supermodel! satoru who ends up sprawled out on his couch later that night, your picture propped up on the coffee table in front of him as he grips his shaft. his shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor, his sweatpants pushed down to his thighs as his cock strains in his hand—red, leaking and desperate for attention. all he can focus on is you.

supermodel! satoru whose glossy lips part as he pants, pumping his dick, his head tipping back while the phone’s glow casts shadows across his flushed skin. his penthouse is filled with the slick sound of his hand sliding over his length, mixing with his shuddering breaths.

“fuuuck… so fucking pretty…” he rasps, his hips bucking into his fist. his strokes grow faster, more desperate, as his body thrums with heat.

supermodel! satoru who murmurs your name like a prayer, thick with need, chasing his inevitable release. “nnngh… gonna—ahhh—gonna cum f’you,” he moans, breathy and broken. His voice cracks as his back arches off the couch.

supermodel! satoru whose strokes grow frantic, erratic, his abs flexing tight as thick, hot ropes of cum spill over his stomach, painting his skin in sticky streaks of white. the release leaves him trembling, every drop wrung from his body as a low groan escapes his parted lips.

supermodel! satoru who exhales a quiet laugh, his chest heaving as a lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. he trails his fingers through the mess, smearing it across his toned abs as his smirk deepens—amused and awed by how much you’ve made him cum.

supermodel! satoru who can’t focus during his photoshoot the next day, every click of the camera drowned out by thoughts of you. his mind lingers to the filthy fantasy of your body beneath his—your lips whispering his name, your legs wrapped around his waist.

the ache in his pants becomes unbearable, and he excuses himself, slipping away to the bathroom under the pretense of ‘fixing his hair.’

supermodel! satoru who locks the bathroom door behind him with trembling fingers, his breath hitching as he pulls up your photo again. his hands fumble with the buttons of his designer pants, desperate to release his aching erection.

supermodel! satoru who stares at your picture with half-lidded eyes, his thumb swiping over the swollen tip of his dick, spreading a slick bead of precum across the sensitive head. "fuck… you’ve got me so worked up," he whispers with a cocky smirk, and his free hand grips the edge of the sink, his cock twitching eagerly in his fist.

“pretty girl… god, I’d ruin you,” he shudders as he fucks his hand. with a sharp inhale, he reaches out to twist the handles of the porcelain sink. but honestly, the cascading water is a feeble attempt to drown his debauched sounds—sounds he knows he can’t hold back.

supermodel! satoru whose mind spirals into pure filth, his fantasies running wild as he pictures your body beneath his—writhing, trembling, utterly at his mercy. your hands would cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he holds your legs apart, spreading you wide as he fucks your tight little hole.

"bet you'd look so fucking good under me," he hisses through gritted teeth. “all spread out, legs shaking… pretty little mouth begging f’me.” his hand tightens around his cock as his hips jerk forward, “fuuuuck, you’d take me so well, wouldn’t ya? haaa—every fucking inch.”

supermodel! satoru who is teetering on the edge when a sharp knock cuts through the haze, echoing against the bathroom door.

“satoru? you’re needed back on set!” his manager calls, muffled but clear.

but his strokes turn frenzied, the interruption fueling the thrill—the sheer audacity of jerking off in the middle of a shoot. his moans mix with the rush of running water and the persistent pounding on the door.

“shit—fuck—fuck—” his voice cracks, his body seizes, and in that instant his cock erupts. he whimpers, milking his dick as his forehead falls forward against the mirror. as his thick hot seed spills on his hand, it streaks across the counter in messy, sticky arcs.

“satoru!” the knocking continues, louder this time, his manager’s voice growing sharper.

“i’m coming!” he yells back, and the irony of his words pulls a breathless laugh from his lips.

supermodel! satoru who stands there for a moment, panting, his reflection staring back at him in the mirror. he’s a fucking hot mess—cheeks flushed, his hair a disarray, and his lips are swollen from biting down so damn hard, trying to keep quiet.

supermodel! satoru who tucks himself into his pants, buckling his belt with practiced ease as his smirk slides back into place. he splashes cold water on his face, tidies his hair, and by the time he steps out of the bathroom, he’s the typical picture of confidence—swaggering back to set with a cocky grin as though nothing happened.

but deep down, he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked.

why? because you’ve become his favorite addiction, his sweetest downfall. and it’s only a matter of time before he finally makes you his.

a full fic for this will be coming out! lmk if you wanna be tagged. edit: taglist closed

[tonycries]

Welcome To The Itadori's! - C.K.

Synopsis. Three times Choso really, really wanted to hold you without his family barging in, and the one time he actually does. 

Pairing. Best friend! Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, childhood best friends to lovers, slowburn, cameos from the Itadori’s (Yuji, Jin, grandpa, SUKUNA), smút only when they’re adults, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, marking, rough, Choso’s a bit mean in bed, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.0k

A/N. The unc-kuna brainrot got me here, Yuji’s family tree is HILARIOUS.

“You’ve never what?”  

“I mean, yeah? So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Whatever the answer was, Choso could only pray that no one walked into your apartment right now.

---

Choso swears his family is well and fully intent on ruining every waking moment with you. 

He’s convinced even, at this point. Because in the 13 long years of being inseparable from you - ever since you were both whiney, snot-faced brats - Choso’s racked up more interruptions than he’s seen on those k-dramas that his grandfather swears he doesn’t watch.

It was like some cosmic joke, really. All he wanted was a moment with just the two of you…and maybe a second or two to confess his undying love. But that didn’t seem too realistic when the Itadori’s were a bit of a packaged deal, unfortunately.  

Alas, Choso’s resigned himself to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe - this was the universe’s way of telling him that his pretty best friend was indeed too good for him. Something he’s suspected ever since the both of you were eight.

The realization had hit him like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact. And a whole zoo of animals afterward.

Of course, it’s not like that was any secret. He always thought you were perfect from the second you’d moved in - that new family next door he’d been eagerly waiting ages to arrive. And Choso, being the dutiful oldest son, was the one to deliver welcome cookies to your doorstep. Stumbling, and carefully trying to reach for the doorbell without dropping any. 

“Um, welcome to-”

“Your hair’s funny.”

Now, Choso’s never greeted neighbors before, but it surely wasn’t supposed to go like this. Why was he being insulted by some little girl - you were missing a few teeth, and his had just grown back in so obviously he was much older and wiser. All unapologetic smiles and twinkling eyes as you blink up curiously at his space buns. Pretty, even when you were tearing his heart out because hey, he thought this hairstyle was cool, okay?

Which is what had him huffing and puffing back home, running straight into the arms of his dad while he tried not to cry. That is, until you came knocking at his door with your parents. Very much bawling and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug with wet mumbles of “M’sorry, meant your hair’s very cool. Wanna match-”

And, if his cheeks burned just a bit, well, Choso blamed the tears. 

After a disaster like that, of course you’d grow to be best friends within the day. 

But what that didn’t explain was when - after hours of bickering over whether to play tag or house - you were all tuckered out and sat beside him in a corner of his room, too exhausted to talk his ear off. Head lolling once. Twice. Falling softly onto his shoulder.

Oh. 

Now, Choso might just be having the first epiphany of his entire, grueling eight years in this world - that you were very, very pretty fast asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

Why? Why were you here barging into his life and turning it upside down? Calling him your “new best friend” and dragging him along wherever you went. It made his poor head absolutely spin, not daring to move a muscle so that you didn’t wake up and see this tiny predicament.

He didn’t know why. But what he did know was that he found himself subconsciously reaching for your hand, a strange little part of himself wanting to see how much smaller they were than his. They looked so soft and warm and-

“I WANNA PLAY T- Oh.”

Oh indeed. He hastily lurches away from you like it burned, hands raised like he was caught red-handed. Feeling slightly sorry when he sees you blinking away the sleep to take in your surroundings, eyes bouncing off of a very excited Yuji and resting on the clock.

“Oh no. Mommy’s gonna be mad.” you gasp, hastily getting up. And he feels a weird pang as you quickly dust down your dress, running out the door with a laughed out, “Bye, Yuji! See ya later, Cho~!”

“Bye, crybaby.”

And then it’s quiet. Only Choso still staring after you, and Yuji staring at his older brother, somewhat awestruck and wondering only one thing-

“Big bro, why are you so red?”

Choso doesn’t think he’s gotten a moment alone with you since that first initial meeting. 

Fourteen was definitely the worst, in his opinion.

“Hey, Cho, y’know the girl sitting next to me in math said she had her first kiss today.”

“Oh.” It’s all Choso can manage to get out, paying more attention than he should to the gravel beneath him as he tries not to trip over air beside you. Hot under his uniform collar at the sudden shift in conversation from the usual after-school banter. 

Looping your arm with his, you heave out a playful sigh, “I wonder what that feels like. Have you ever thought about it?” 

No, but Choso has never thought that he’d be here - face burning at your body pressed up against his. Just knowing that his ancestors above are laughing at what a loser he is, barely able to stammer out an answer to your question. 

Okay, maybe he was being dramatic. Because it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about kissing before - it’s just that whenever it popped into his mind, you were usually accompanying him. Along with those strange thoughts of whether your lips are as soft as they looked? Or would your heartbeat be as fast as-

“Man, are you even listening?” 

Shit. 

Your hand waving in front of Choso’s face brings him back to reality. Blinking hastily, he tries to gather his thoughts, mumbling out a quick, “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought.” averting his gaze as he feels the heat rise to his cheeks at your intense gaze.

Your smile only widens, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you nudge his side. “Thinking so hard about kissing, huh? Cho, you lecher!” 

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Who were you imagining it with, huh? Gonna give ‘em a big smooch tomorrow?”

God, you were going to be the death of him. “N-no! I haven’t even- shut up, crybaby, it’s not like-” he sputters out useless protests over your laughter - his favorite song, even when you were teasing the hell out of him. But ah how you relish in his embarrassment, tittering out little giggles all the way until you’re steering him onto your lane. 

Choso, on the other hand, keeps wishing the ground would swallow him up more and more with each step towards his porch. He’d have broken into a sprint right then if he hadn’t known you and the way you’d race him there instead.

“Alright.” you declare once you’re stood at his front door, jolting Choso out of his reverie. And he’s barely opening his mouth to register your words before you plowing on confidently. “We’ll just have to practice our first kisses with each other.”

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. 

The final nail on his coffin. You might as well have planted a bombshell right in the middle of his already-chaotic world with the way he was reeling in- shock? Fear? Anticipation?

“Practice.” Choso whispers, more to himself than you. Yet you nod anyway, eyes locked with his like you were studying his reaction. “For…practice.”

Doubt starts to creep into your pretty features, “Well, we don’t have to if you do-”

“No no no no, I want- ahem.” he cringes at the pathetic desperation in his voice. Desperately trying to scramble back some semblance of sanity as he clears his throat, “I want to. Just-” Choso urgently looks around for- ah, there it is. 

Dragging over the brick from the side of his porch because goddammit he might be 14 but he sure hadn’t hit that growth spurt yet. “Practice, right?”

You nod with a fiery determination that, later on, would make Choso chuckle with fondness. Muttering out a firm, “Practice.” Letting the boy in front of you nervously leans closer, breath fanning your face. And shit if you were nervous then you didn’t show it, but Choso felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. 

Brows furrowing in concentration, eyes only squinting ever-so-slightly as he takes peaks at how pretty you looked. Close enough that he could count every lash as your pretty eyes closed shut, lips glistening with that strawberry chapstick you loved, puckering adorably. Only inching closer and-

Click! 

“You two are so cute! But um- dear, how do you mute this thing?”

You spring apart so fast that Choso wouldn’t be surprised if you’d teleported. He doesn’t even know what’s happening before, from the safety of about three meters away from him, you’re muttering out an embarrassed little, “Hi there, Mr. Itadori. The gardenia are coming along nicely.”

His dad smiles like he hadn’t just starred in what was likely Choso’s villain origin story. Waving happily, “Aww, thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you two go back to doing your lil’ thing and I can ah- practice my photography.”

“Dad, I’m running away.”

That practice kiss never happens. And, well, if there was a proudly framed photo down the hallway of the two of you - with Choso absolutely bright red and standing comically on a brick to meet your height, faces nervously scrunching towards each other - well, neither of you ever mention it. Jin Itadori does, though - every time you come over, in fact. 

It’s only when you’re both eighteen, when Choso’s a lot deeper in his feelings - and only slightly less embarrassed about it - that he thinks that maybe not all family interruptions were that bad. 

Graduation was…something. Not exactly something that he’s sure if he’ll ever want to relive with the sheer amount of awkward photos and tears that his dad lets out. God if he has to shuffle into another-

“You alright, Cho?”

Ah. 

Traitorously, a smile makes its way onto his face, peering down at your beaming face. Both of you having made it way past the awkward early teens. Well, at least you certainly have - Choso still feels like the same awkward little boy with an even more awkward crush. “Hm? Yeah, m’great.” 

“Are ya sure? Because you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm any second now.” you raise a brow teasingly. Ah, how gorgeous you were - even when you’re picking him apart. 

“Yeah. Great. Only had this smile plastered on for the last five hours.”

“Aww, but you look so pretty smiling.” you shrug, with the audacity of someone that didn’t just have Choso’s knees dangerously weak. “Anyway- A bunch of us are gonna try to convince ol’ Yaga to let us take photos with his shades, you wanna come?”

“You think m’pretty?” he muses, embarrassingly late.

“Cho.”

“Yaga. Shades. Got it.” Choso mock salutes, drinking in the little laugh it startles out of you, eyes sparkling with mischief and looking right into his soul. Beautiful. You were always beautiful. 

And Choso can’t just stand around and do nothing about it.

“Crybaby, look, I-” Fists clenching, he takes a steadying breath. The heat only rising to his cheeks at your awaiting gaze, “I…”

“HEY, GRANDPA HELPED STEAL YAGA’S SHADES LET’S TAKE A PIC-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ITADORI. YOU’RE RUINING A MOMENT, LET THEM HAVE THEIR MOMENT.”

“I don’t know either of you two.”

It would be a miracle for a moment not to be ruined with two overly-energetic first-years (and a very reluctant Fushiguro) pushing their way into your little bubble. Choso bites back a groan as you’re immediately swarmed by a bickering Kugisaki and Yuji, one apologizing for “ruining your k-drama moment” and the other trying to get you to put on some sunglasses. Well, at least he could empathize with the black-haired boy, who gave him an apologetic nod. 

He’s only halfway through waving off the interruption before a voice speaks up from his side. “Why didn’t you say it?”

Whirling around, Choso comes face-to-face with the disappointed look on his grandfather’s face. Already having some idea of what you mean, “Wha-”

“I may be old but m’not deaf, yet, boy. Why didn’t ya tell her?” he sighs, tilting his head to where you were wearing those shades and taking ridiculous pictures with two animated first-years. 

“I don’t know what you-”

“M’not blind, either. Quite frankly I’m insulted.”

And, well, if there’s anyone that he can’t hide from - it would be his grandfather. So he heaves out a defeated sigh, touselling his hair while muttering out a pathetic little, “M’not- Ugh, she’s too fuckin’ perfect and I…I chickened out.”

Choso doesn’t know what he expected in response but it definitely wasn’t for his grandfather to laugh. Full, and raspy - loud enough that even you stop to stare. “Thought so, idiot boy.” he chuckles, drawing indignant protests. “Did she tell you?”

Raising a brow, “What?”

“Did she tell you that you weren’t good ‘nough for her?”

“No, but-” Whatever protest on the tip of Choso’s tongue is cut off by a rough hand smacking his back in what he thinks is reassurance, but felt more like a punishment for being such a pussy around you all these years. 

“Then go. Ya might just be surprised. After all, you’re my grandson, and all the ladies at bingo love me.”

Shaking with both adrenaline and the effort to keep that image out of his mind, he makes his way towards you. Purposeful. Pointedly ignoring the matching smirks flashed his way. 

“You really think they’ll finally get together today?” Fushiguro deadpans from where he’d snuck up beside the old man, in an attempt to escape the public nuisances he calls ‘friends’. 

Choso’s grandfather hums thoughtfully, watching the scene play out before him - Choso flushed such a delicate shade of pink as you playfully put Yaga’s sunglasses on him. Settling on a gruff, “I’ll give it a few months more. He’s my grandson, after all.”

“That’s generous. I’d give it a couple years more.”

“Wanna bet, brat?”

“...”

Safe to say, his second button ended up safely in your hands that day. But Fushiguro would be the one to really win the bet. 

Because it was only 2 years, 4 months and 3 weeks after this little incident that Choso finally had you exactly where he wanted - with no interruptions. All for him. 

Freshly twenty one, splayed out on your apartment bedroom and having a conversation that he never in a million years would’ve even dared to imagine he’d have - with you of all people. All because of that stupid R-rated film you’d put on for movie night. 

“You’ve never what?” you gape, turning down the volume to those painfully fake moans coming from the tv.

Oh, how gorgeous you looked - all shocked and batting your lashes up at him in surprise. Choso almost swoons inwardly (and outwardly) before he realizes that shit you were probably waiting for an answer.

“I mean, yeah?” he sputters out, cheeks heating up as you lean in closer to hear him. Close. “So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Goddammit, some strange, carnal part of himself twinges dangerously at the little smirk that curls your lips. One that he quickly - and embarrassingly - realizes has the blood rushing straight to his cock. Humming a low, “Maybe. Maybe not.” The mattress dips slightly as you shift closer, lips ghosting his ear. “Want me to help you find out?”

Which is, well, how Choso found himself shoved against the armrest. Blanket thrown on the floor now, swollen cock leaking furiously through his pants as your pretty lil’ cunt hovers above his mouth. So wet that if he stuck his tongue out he could have you dripping all onto him. 

“Y-you sure about this, sweetheart?” he hisses despite his hands looping around your thighs, bringing you closer to him.

You raise a brow, “Are you sure, Cho?”

He should say no. He should laugh this all off as a bad joke. He shouldn’t ruin this friendship - but oh how badly he wants just a taste of your dripping pussy - see if she’s as sweet as the rest of you is. So, throwing caution to the wind, Choso nods slowly. “Yes. Want it s’bad.”

Grinning wickedly, you whisper, “Thought so.” And then he’s pulling you onto his mouth, hot and urgent.

“Oh fuck-” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the first taste of your sweet sweet juices. “Shit shit shit.” So sloppily licking up your swollen folds - barely moving with any method or patience, just that he’s drunk on your pussy and wants more more more-

“Hngh- f-fuck. You sure this is your hah- first time, Cho?” you gasp breathlessly. And oh your best friend was so fucking beautiful. Dark hair untied and tousled, eyes half-hooded, your slick already smearing across the bottom half of his face and trickling down his jaw because shit he was so messy. So addicted to that desperate expression on your face that he just can’t help but tease you a little bit. 

“Mhm?” he smirks, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Purposefully missing right where you wanted him the most because shit he loved those cute lil’ whines spilling out of you. 

You let out a huff, hips trying pathetically to inch him closer - but Choso wasn’t budging. Holding you so firmly by the hips that you’re sure he leaves bruises, licking all over your cunt except for your clit. “Cho.” you warn. Brows furrowing in frustration at the way he bats his long lashes up at you so deceivingly innocently, “What?”

“You know…”

“I don’t.” he titters teasingly into your pussy. 

“Choso.”

Now, Choso’s known and seen everything there is to do with you - but never like this. Spread open shamefully and pouting so adorably on top of him, so needy for him. It made his head spin to think of just how much the dynamics had shifted. 

Shit, he really should’ve watched that godforsaken movie with you sooner. “Tell me what you want, crybaby.”

And oh how his cock twitches at the way you manage to get out an embarrassed little, “Wan’ you to ngh- tonguefuck me properly. Wanna cum on your pretty face, Cho.”

And that’s all that’s said before he’s surging forward, glossy lips wrapping around your pulsing clit to suck harshly. Rolling his soft tongue over and over-

“Wanted this for so long.” Choso mutters, muffled as he buries himself deeper into your pretty pussy. The vibrations sending white-hot pleasure running down your spine. “You have absolutely no idea, pretty.”

And you barely even have the time to register his little confession before Choso’s moving down to bully his tongue past your folds. Nose pressing against your throbbing clit as he dips into your sloppy hole. 

“Oh shit. Jus’ like that.” For a beginner, your best friend really knew what he was doing. Eating you out like his favorite meal, tongue squeezing into your snug pussy to thrust in and out, swipe against your walls, stretching you out right to his will. Over and over-

“Use me.”

Your eyes snap down to meet the pure adoration in his eyes as he makes out filthily with your cunt. Choking out a little, “What?”

“Use me.”

There it was again - that strained little mantra. And as if to prove his point, Choso reaches out to deftly place your hands on his head, bucking into you touch. 

And, well, how could you say no to that?

Because before you know it, you’re bunching Choso’s soft strands in your fists. Angling him just right to ride his pretty face. “C’mon, Cho. Ngh- H-harder, jus’ a bit- Oh!” he just devours the way your mouth drops into an adorable little oh! as his tongue curls deftly against that one spot. Again and again. Letting himself be so used, dragging your dripping cunt harder on his mouth. 

And he likes it. Hell, he loves it even - because you’re so sweet n’ pretty on his mouth. Better than everything he’s ever been dreaming of for the past few years. And always in his dreams, you’d be clenching so deliciously around his tongue when you were close - just like right now. 

So he speeds up his movements, breathing you in maddeningly. A hand snaking down from it’s favorite place on your hips to draw quick, frenzied little circles on your poor, ravaged clit. Jaw almost aching with how filthily he was dripping in and out of your entrance - be he did give a shit. Only wanting to have you breathless and creaming all over his face.

You jerk violently on top of him, “Hah! S’too much, Cho. M’so close- gonna cum- gonna-”

And then you’re cumming. Fast, and hard. 

Plushy walls clamping down on Choso’s tongue, hips stuttering on his face as he laps up all your juices, an arm around your waist helping you ride his face through your high. 

“S’sweet. Could get used to that.” he slurs into your cunt. Tipping his head back as far as it’d go to let the last of your juices slide down his throat. “Better than I imagined.”

The words ring in your ears as you blink back your vision. Deliriously whirling down to look down at Choso - still beneath you and looking more smug and content than you’d ever seen him. “Imagination? S’that why you’re so good.”

“No.”

You’re being flipped before you know it. Manhandled so easily by your best friend as he lays you on your back, sinking into the cushion while he looms above you. “S’jus’ that…” grunting as he flings his shirt off, “Been dreaming of your pretty cunt on m’tongue for years.”

Okay, now his confession hits - more than it did when he was tonguefucking you into insanity, anyway. 

“Years, huh?” you breathe out, eyes roaming all over his sculpted torso. Taking in every dip and curve of Choso’s toned abs - all the way from his broad shoulders to the rock-hard cock straining against his pants. As if in a trance, your hand reaches out to cup his leaking erection, “S’that all you’ve been dreaming of?”

“You little minx.” he lets out a low hiss. 

Before you can even react, Choso’s fumbling with that belt - cursing because shit, he’d have worn sweatpants instead if he knew they’d end up on your floor. 

And you’re not any better, fingers popping open his buttons and tugging impatiently and oh- You always thought that your best friend would have a big dick - but this?  He was so intimidatingly long - and thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. Fat tip flushed such a pretty shade of pink to match his cheeks, leaking down down down, all the way to his heavy balls. 

You’re only jolted out of your little reverie by Choso spitting a steady stream of spit onto your quivering cunt, spreading it lazily across your pussy with his thumb. A ringed fist pumping his cock slowly, as he drags his tip across your folds, pooling your sweet juices. Muttering out a raspy, “I’ll be gentle.”

“You better not be, now jus’ fuck me-”

Well, you didn’t have to ask Choso twice. Because you’ve barely gotten the words out before he’s bullying massive cock into your tight cunt. Pressing in inch by fucking inch as you gasp and buck underneath him. 

“Shhh, s’okay, crybaby. This is what you wanted, right?” he mumbles, with all the audacity of someone that wasn’t fucking into you in rapid, mindless little jabs to fit inside your snug lil’ pussy. Struggling to hold back at this point. “Wanted to be split apart on m’cock?”

You were so full of him. Even more so when he throws your legs over his shoulders, bending all the way down and folding you in half so easily beneath him. 

He drinks in the barely-lucid squeal that leaves your swollen lips. Kissing your forehead gently, whispering against the skin, “Because I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

And then it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, maybe the restraint that Choso’s been holding back for too long. Because immediately he’s plunging his throbbing cock into you - all the way till his balls, all angry and squeezing so painfully, smacks against your ass. 

“Wanted this.” he rasps into your open mouth. His hips were out of control now, thrusting you in shallow, desperate rams. Pounding into you like a man possessed, and running his mouth just as much. He laces his fingers on top of your head, pushing you down even deeper into his relentless cock - as if the bastard wasn’t fucking you dumb already. “Fuckin’ needed this needed this. Shit- so bad.”

“Ch-Choso- fuck hah-” you plead as his mouth clashes with yours. All sloppy with teeth and spit and his profanities - and it felt so damn good. 

“Yeah? Who’s fucking you silly, now?” he’s going harder now, tip hitting your poor cervix over and over. And you’d be sobbing at the burn and the stretch but all you can think of is shit this is Choso - the kid you used to play hide and seek with. And now he seems fully intent on breaking you. “Say m’name.”

A rough thumb starts toying with your clit, in time with the cute lil’ whines of his name that escape your mouth like a prayer. “Shit. Y’look so pretty like this.” he babbles. “Gonna cry, pretty girl?” smirking down at the way you were too cockdrunk to even snap back, only looking up at him with delirious, teary eyes. “Be a crybaby for my cock?”

You’re tugging on his hair, thighs shaky and bucking upwards. “Cho-”

“Mhm?”

“W-wanna cum. Need you to fill m’up till I can’t take it anymore.”

Oh if Choso was any lesser man he’d have cum right then and there. Instead settling for a guttural groan, drunk off the way you were milking his cock so hard as if to prove your point. It almost made him want to stay like this forever. But no - not right now. 

“Oh yeah?” Hips becoming sloppy now, “Need it? Shit- m’so close.” Each word slurred, punctuated by a harsh thrust, strokes long and frenzied. Using your heavenly pussy like his personal fucktoy. So hard that he’s sure you’d have embarrassing matching bruises tomorrow - his balls on your ass, your nails raking down his shoulders.

“Me too- fuck fuck fuck-” you mewl into his neck, as Choso buried his face into yours. 

“Cum f’me, my girl.”

My girl. 

And then you are - and he is. And you don’t know who cums first, just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes and Choso’s teeth digging into your neck as he thrusts once. Twice. Before cumming and cumming so hard he might as well have seen the pearly gates of heaven. And you were an angel.

Thick, hot ropes of cum that paint your walls white, so much that it gushes out of your poor overfilled pussy. Dripping down your legs and pooling into a sinful, creamy ring at his base. 

“Mm- shit. Choso.” you moan, barely audible over the lewd squelches from below. 

“M’here, my girl.” he grits out, voice shot. And it seems that that was his new favorite nickname, because Choso keeps murmuring it over and over as he keeps fucking his seed into you. Not even thinking about it at this point - just mindless, shallow grinds of his hips. 

In the haze of your orgasm, you think you hear his quiet voice, strained with exhaustion and something that you weren’t in the right state of mind to decipher right now. 

“Shhh, m’here. “Can’t believe I waited so fuckin’ long.” Whispering against your lips, “Love this. Love this pretty cunt.” Kissing softly, “Love the way y’take me. Fuckin’ made f’me.” And maybe even a soft little, “Love you.”

And maybe - just maybe, you whisper the same into his. Kissing him softly, exactly the way you’d wanted to all these years. 

Neither of you speak after that. Not when Choso’s hips stall, body sticky and collapsing onto yours. Nor do you speak when he pulls away with a playful nip to your lower lip - a promise. Searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe yourselves clean with. 

It’s only when he settles back under the covers beside you, looking at you with such dark, hazy eyes - whirling with too many emotions to name - that the silence is broken. 

“Crybaby.”

“Cho.”

“Corny.”

“You started it.”

Chuckling, Choso pulls your body close to his. Not even a hair’s breadth between you two because shit now that he’s got you, he doesn’t think he ever wants to let you go. 

“Y’know…” he starts, “I think we should- I mean- if you want…” nervous now more than he was even after all that just transpired. Cheeks flaring as he meets your amused gaze, just daring him to go on - because you saw through him. You always did. “I lov-”

“Am I late for the mov- WHAT THE FUCK I ALWAYS KNEW BRATS WEREN’T JUST FRIENDS-”

---

Itadori Family Groupchat + Two More

Dad: Hey, all. I can’t seem to get a hold of Choso to confirm tomorrow’s dinner plans. Can anyone else let me know if he’s ok? XX

-Jin.

Yuji <3: He’s probs at rhat “best friend movie night” still 

Dad: Hello, Yuji. What is a “probs”? XX

-Jin.

Kugisaki: He’s suspiciously quiet, though… Y’all think that “best friend movie night” is codeword for something else? 

Yuji <3: Better not be cuz Sukuna stole my sparw key sayin something ab crashing it idk

Kugisaki: *spare

And you just LET him?

Yuji <3: HE THREATENED TO BURN MY MEGAN THEE STALLION POSTER 

…

AND DID IT ANYWAY

Kugisaki: L

Fushiguro: L

Gramps: L

Sukuna (do not answer): DID Y’ALL KNOW THOSE TWO WERE FUCKIN????

*Fushiguro has left the chat*

Dad: :0

-Jin.

A/N. Spiritually, this is a crackfic idk.

[eliasmelody]

Absolutely Shameless!

LADS react to reader who have no shame when talking.

WARNING: grammar & spelling

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🐇 XAVIER:

Xavier’s eyelids get heavier as you go on about the movie, the sound of your voice lulling him closer to sleep. You’re still going, detailing plot twists and characters’ arcs, but he’s barely keeping his eyes open now. His head tilts slightly, a small yawn escaping him.

You pause, suddenly realizing what just happened. A quiet chuckle escapes you as you glance at Xavier, who’s trying to shake off the sleepiness.

"Wanna lay on my lap, baby boy?" You raise an eyebrow as you look at him.

Xavier’s eyes flicker with surprise, but then his expression darkens, the moment shifting. "Do you say this to anyone?" He asks, his tone more guarded now.

You shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. You're lucky you're cute." You say casually, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world and boop his nose.

Xavier blinks a few times, genuinely taken aback by your casual comment. His cheeks redden slightly in response, and he averts his gaze for a moment before looking back at you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

"Cute?" He repeats incredulously with a blush. He opens his mouth to retort, perhaps to argue about you calling him 'cute', but he seems strangely speechless. 

"Yeah, yeah, adorable. Now lay down.”

"You say something like that so casually…” He mutters a complaint, but there's no real bite to it as he lays down.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

🦭 ZAYNE:

"Late for your checkup again, I see." Zayne said in his usual blunt manner, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

You just sit there, staring at him in silence. He shifts slightly, but you remain unmoved, your gaze steady. Neither of you speaks, the quiet stretching on. 

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet. "Hmm? What is it?"

"It looks heavy. Need me to hold it for you?" You said, your voice completely monotone, though your eyes hinted at something more.

Zayne raised an eyebrow at the sudden question. He was used to you making random comments, but even he found himself taken off guard by this one. “What...?”

You gesture toward his chest and say, "Your boobs look heavy. I can hold it for you.”

He had expected you to say something strange but that was definitely not it. Zayne's expression immediately turns flat, his eyebrows furrowing. He let out a sigh and flicked your forehead.

“Ah!” You yelp and clutch your head. “Hey.”

"You and your tactless comments..." Zayne mutters, more to himself.

He tries to keep his expression stoic, but the pink tint on his cheeks betrays him. It annoys him how you can get under his skin so easily.

“... So can I?--Whoa! Hey, I'm kidding. Put the tablet down!”

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

🐠 RAFAYEL:

You lay there, bored, sprawled out on the couch, watching him intently as he focused on his art.

"You know what, Raf?" You said, setting your phone down.

With his eyes narrowed at you and his head raised to give you an arrogant look, Rafayel waited for you to continue. It was like he was about to give you a sassy reply.

"Sometimes I wish I was a guy." You said, gazing at him from upside down on the couch.

This was definitely not what he'd been expecting you to say. Not expecting at all.

Confused, he stared at you, unsure of how to respond. "Why the hell would you want that?”

"So I could make you pregnant." You said with a straight face, your voice calm and unshaken. He, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

Rafayel choked on his own spit and coughed hard for a few moments, trying to stay calm. His cheeks, already flushed, turned bright red.

"Y-you're crazy!" He protested, moving back on the chair a little bit. "Like I'd let you do that!”

"Why not?" You grin. "I'll be gentle.”

Rafayel blushed even more. He had no idea how to respond to you when you said things like that, but he refused to give in.

"H-how could you even think of that?" He said, trying to sound defiant, but his voice was shaky. 

"You just look breedable.”

"B-breedable?!" That definitely wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. 

He covered his face in embarrassment, trying to hide his obvious arousal and reaction to your words. 

"You humans are all perverts.” He muttered, even though his cheeks were betraying him, as his skin was turning even more pink.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

🐦‍⬛ SYLUS:

After casually stepping on one of the rooms to confirm they were really unconscious, he strides over to you, his gaze sharp and intense. He kneels down to your level, his presence imposing as he speaks.

"Hello, little kitten. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble.” He says in a low tone, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

You pout, crossing your arms as you stay seated on the ground, looking up at him. "I can handle that.”

The man chuckles before reaching out and ruffling your hair.

"Can you now? It seems like you were in quite the sticky situation a moment ago," He says with a smirk, "A pretty little thing like you could have gotten taken advantage of real easily.”

You roll your eyes, then raise both arms toward him. "Up." You command, your voice firm yet with a hint of impatience.

The man raises an eyebrow at your command, surprised by your boldness. He lets out a low chuckle before obliging, sweeping you off your feet in one swift motion, carrying you princess-style in his arms. "Happy now?”

You hum contentedly and wrap your arm around his shoulder, leaning in playfully. "Now, to your house. I’m crashing on your bed today.”

He rolls his eyes at your demand, but doesn't complain.

"Of course you do. I can tell that you're quite a spoiled little one." He says with a smirk, carrying you down the streets.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

🍎 CALEB:

"Come on, pipsqueak. I’m not your personal chef." Caleb said, pretending to sound tired and annoyed, though his actions told a different story as he continued moving around the kitchen without missing a beat.

"What do you want for dinner then?” He reached to grab some ingredients, already having an idea in mind.

"You." You said nonchalantly.

Caleb rolled his eyes dramatically before responding. “Me.” He repeated, mimicking your casual tone. 

He was used to your nonchalance, had an uncanny ability to make even the strangest requests seem normal. He stirred the pan with a practiced ease.

You move over without a word, leaning in close to watch him cook. Your shoulder brushes lightly against his, and he can't help but notice the thinness of your shirt.

“Personal space, pipsqueak– wait, you don't wear a bra?” His heart leaped, but he quickly tried to remain nonchalant. 

"So?" You replied, your face remaining impassive.

He blinked, his fingers twitching as if to adjust your shirt, but he stopped himself.

“You just…” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Never mind.”

“Hungryyyy”

Caleb rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. Your carefree and straightforward attitude was one of the things he both loved and hated. “I'm on it. Jeez!”

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

[nikkento-writes]

Babysitter - Part 2

Pairing: dad!Toji x babysitter!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~3.8k

cw: age gap (reader is 21, Toji is in his 30s), explicit language, cheating, pregnancy, smut – PIV sex (doggy style)

Summary: You deal with the aftermath of your summer babysitting job turned adulterous summer scandal.

Author’s Notes: Thanks for all the kind words and support on Part 1 of this! I hope you enjoy part 2, and who knows, maybe I'll write a part 3 one day lol. Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

Taglist: @scorpiosugar @diegojeanne @f4irygard3n @cvixmei @soniiyi - more tags in the comments

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You blink away the tears in your eyes, holding the pregnancy test, hoping that somehow, you’ll blink away the second line indicating that you are indeed pregnant.

“No way.” Chiyo waits for you outside the stall, the apprehension in her voice apparent.

“Yes. I’m…” There’s a lump in your throat you have to swallow before you finish your sentence. “Pregnant.”

Your best friend’s silence on the other side only makes you panic more, but you don’t blame her. What can she really say to make any of this better? To stop your world from turning upside down?

She whispers your name quietly, at a complete loss for words. Then, she clears her throat, sounding as if she’s fighting tears herself. “I’m going to buy you a melon pan. Just…wait for me here, okay?” It’s the only consolation she can offer you in this moment, huddled in a public restroom of a convenience store; you appreciate the effort, nonetheless. You wait for her to leave, completely alone now. As soon as she’s gone, you sob into your hands.

It's not that you oppose being a mother. You’ve always imagined handing a positive pregnancy test to the love of your life with the biggest smile on your face, excited to raise a family together. Ideally, this would have happened sometime in the future, once you’ve established yourself as a full-fledged adult. Not like this: twenty-one years-old, less than a year until graduation without the slightest clue what you’re doing with your life. Worst of all, the father isn’t your husband, a boyfriend, even a friend. It’s Toji Fushiguro, the dad of the little boy you babysat over the summer, the husband of the kind woman who hired you. You still haven’t forgiven yourself for your adultery, the guilt eating away at you since the start of that lecherous summer fling. And now, you have this pee-on-a-stick to remind you how incredibly reckless you were to get involved with him in the first place. How undeniably irresponsible you were to have unprotected sex with a married man. Sure, it was the best sex you’ll probably ever have in your life. But was it worth it?

You wrap the pregnancy test in toilet paper, tossing it in the trash bin. Knowing that no good will come out of sulking in the 7-11 bathroom any longer, you finally exit the stall, washing your hands clean at the sink. Your phone vibrates in your back pocket as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, fixated on your belly, wondering what it will look like round and full of life. It buzzes again, snapping you out of your trance. When you check to see who’s messaging, you almost drop your phone out of shock.

Somehow, someway, the universe has it out for you. Because in the most perfectly disastrous timing ever, Mrs. Fushiguro decides to contact you.

~~~

A week later, you’re sitting on the train, heading to the Fushiguro household. Your stomach is in knots, both from anxiety and from the morning sickness. Sweat beads on your forehead, skin sticky against your clothing in this hot weather. The closer you approach your destined stop, the more and more nervous you get, almost convinced to call the whole thing off.

Believe it or not, Mrs. Fushiguro did not contact you to confront you about the dirty deeds you did with her husband. Instead, she messaged you in dire need of a babysitter once again. She spares you the details, asking if you could meet her in person to better explain herself. And for whatever reason, you agree.

You haven’t come up with a solid plan yet on what you want to do about your little predicament. So far, the only people that know are Chiyo and your parents, who, after the initial shock of it all, have been surprisingly supportive. They advised you to take the rest of the term off, which you were able to get arranged quickly through your school. This gives you several weeks to decide what you need to do. With one issue resolved, it leaves you with the next, and the most pressing: whether or not you should tell the father. The last thing you want is to break apart the Fushiguro family. You’re fully prepared to raise this baby as a single mother, which, with the help of your parents and best friend, seems doable. Besides, you’re not even sure if you want Toji to be involved considering his complete lack of interest in his other child, Megumi. Despite that, you believe that as the father, he has the right to know. Can you gather the courage to actually tell him?

Still lost in your train of thought, you hop off to walk to the house. When you arrive, you spot Mrs. Fushiguro already outside, leaning against her car in the driveway with little Megumi in her arms. They both smile upon seeing you, warming your heart. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever is to come. 

“Hello Mrs. Fushiguro,” you greet her, bowing politely, too shy to meet her gaze. “How are you?”

“Doing really well. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She lets her son down, who steps towards you until he’s hugging your knee, cooing. “I wanted to talk to you in person about my complicated situation.”

“Is everything alright?” you ask, unable to resist kneeling down to meet Megumi at eye level, making funny faces at him.

She giggles. “Oh, everything is great! The divorce finally went through and I’m living with my new boyfriend now, who’s been the absolute best, especially with Megumi.”

You make a shocked expression, mouth agape, exaggerated for the kid’s entertainment, though you’re pretty much stunned yourself. “Divorce…?”

“Yeah! Toji and I have been separated for a long time now. I’m sorry I didn’t mention that over the summer. You’re still so young after all, no need to rope you into adult things.”

You almost bust out laughing at the irony, but you hold your tongue, continuing to listen to her.

She sighs, flipping her long, beautiful hair behind her shoulders. “That being said, I still care about the guy. I mean, he is the father of my child. Without me or Megumi there on a regular basis, the whole house has gone to shit. It seems like he’s actually taking this divorce pretty hard. So, I want to hire you as a babysitter for my ex-husband. Just for a little while until he can get back up on his feet.”

Another shocked face, which makes Megumi laugh while dread sinks into your chest. “Babysitter…?”

“Babysitter, housekeeper, whatever you want to call it. You did such a wonderful job with him over the summer, even while you were taking care of Megumi! I don’t know what you were feeding him. Whatever it was, he was definitely a little bit nicer when you were around.”

Lewd flashbacks replay in your mind of Toji eating you out sloppily, slurping up all your pussy juices in every room of the house. You focus on the ground, too ashamed to look at her. “Mrs. Fushiguro, I don’t know if I can do this.”

She squats to your level, reaching for your hand, holding it gently in hers. “I know this is a lot of ask. You’re the only one I can rely on for this. Please.”

A sense of déjà vu hits you. There’s desperation in her tone and it tugs at your heartstrings the same way it did when you first met her a few months ago. It doesn’t help that Megumi is now squeezing the index finger of your other hand, eyes full of curious wonder, grip surprisingly strong for such a young child. Would she be pleading with you like this if she knew the truth about you, Toji, and the baby? Even though they were separated during this whole ordeal, it doesn’t make what you did any better; you still decided to do it regardless of their marital status.

Maybe you can use this opportunity as a way to atone.  

You finally look at her, giving the most convincing smile you can muster, trying your best to ignore the wave of nausea washing over you. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

~~~

Mrs. Fushiguro asks you to start at noon the following day, giving her enough time to notify her ex about your temporary employment. When you use the set of keys she gave you to open the front door, you step inside cautiously, not sure what to expect. You’ve been dreading this impromptu reunion all night, wondering if you could even face him.

It’s a mess inside, heaps of dirty laundry scattered all over the furniture, fast food wrappers and empty ramen bowls littered on the kitchen counter. There’s a stench lingering in the stale air in here and you almost think the worse, but Mrs. Fushiguro had warned you about this. Seeing it in person is more heartbreaking than disgusting. Toji really is taking this divorce hard. It wouldn’t be right to burden him with more life-changing news, right?

You begin by gathering all the trash into garbage bags, flattening any cardboard to recycle. By the looks of it, he’s been living off junk food and protein bars for the past month. The refrigerator is near empty, aside from a questionable take-out container in the very back, which you end up dumping along with everything else. You make it your next task to get groceries after you load the washing machine.

When you return from the store, Toji remains absent. Nerves prevent you from leaning against the bedroom door to listen for any signs of him in there. His ex-wife mentioned that he goes out to gamble at the horse races whenever he’s short on cash, so it’s likely he’s there. Still, you’re anticipating his return, mentally preparing yourself for how you’ll behave around him. Given your current circumstances, you are serious about turning over a new leaf. No more funny business with him. Absolutely not.

It’s near dinnertime now and you’ve miraculously accomplished tidying the house and doing his laundry all within a few hours. You even managed to cook soup for dinner, full of hearty beef and fresh vegetables, something to provide nutrients compared to the processed food he’s been consuming lately. You’re stirring the pot when you hear keys jingle from outside the front door. He comes in, clad in a tight-fitting black shirt that accentuates his muscles and grey sweatpants that don't leave much to the imagination. A plastic bag is slung behind his shoulder, clearly from a convenience store. Despite his concerning diet, his physique is still impressive as ever. Just one glance at him has you fluttering below your belly, replaying the erotic memories you share together. You turn to face him, standing up straight, feigning confidence while you fret internally. He looks at you, brow raised slightly, a small smirk forming on his lips.

“Hello sir,” you greet him, bowing politely. Acting as if he’s a total stranger and not the man who rocked your entire world over the summer, now with evidence to prove it.

He sets the bag on the counter, revealing a couple of ramen packets inside. “What’s with the formalities?” he asks, grinning. “If I remember correctly, you were screaming my name nonstop the last time you were here.”

Heat rushes into your cheeks instantly, not surprised by his vulgarity, though still embarrassed. You clear your throat, trying to stay strong. “I’m here to work. Nothing else.”

He walks towards you, his stature casting a daunting shadow as he steps closer and closer, towering over you. His voice is low, borderline threatening to a point that has you trembling. “So you don’t want me to fuck you anymore?”

You swallow hard, composure wavering. “That’s right.”  Even you don’t fully believe it when it comes out of your own mouth, how can you expect him to?

There’s a strange look in his eyes, almost like he’s disappointed by your response. He turns his back to you, mumbling something about taking a shower. You watch him enter his bedroom, hearing him clear as day before he shuts the door with a dull thud. “I guess you don’t want me either.”

~~~

A week into being Toji’s live-in housekeeper, the two of you figure out a routine together that involves minimal interaction. You wake up in the morning to cook breakfast, eating it quickly and leaving the rest for him while you go out. You use this time to go for a walk, meet with Chiyo or your parents, do some grocery shopping, or just sit at the nearby park, enjoying the sun with your baby, who grows little-by-little each day.

Toji is usually gone the whole afternoon, either working out or gambling, so you’re able to do chores back at the house, like cleaning his room. He doesn’t return until dinnertime when tension seems to be at its highest. A big reason for that is because he’s made it a habit to eat right after his shower, shirtless and with his legs crossed on the floor, displaying a perfectly visible outline of his manhood. It’s distracting, to say the least. Chiyo mentioned the other day how you can have an increased libido during the first trimester. That’s definitely proving itself now.

Aside from the half-nakedness, something else surprises you about him. The two of you mostly avoid conversation with each other, eating in silence at the dining table while sneaking furtive glances whenever you get a chance. But he never fails to mutter, “Thank you for the meal,” before washing the dishes at the sink, retreating back into his room when he’s done. It’s the tiniest act of consideration that makes you wonder what’s going on in his head.

Tonight you sit across from each other as usual. You just finished eating the chicken katsu you made for dinner, along with a couple of side dishes you prepped earlier in the week. His abs look especially spectacular today and you find it harder than usual to stop peeking at them.

“You’re gonna burn a hole through me with the way you’re staring,” he says, chewing his last bite.

Shit, caught red-handed. You quickly look down at your empty bowl, mumbling an apology. “Sorry. I just…I can tell your hard work is paying off.”

“Yours too. The house has never been cleaner. And the food has never been better.” He’s looking directly at you, a genuine smile on his face. “Thank you.”

It’s no good. Your hormones are raging, sexual desire courses through you, all from that stupidly handsome grin and a silly little compliment. How did you ever think you could resist him?

You stand up, grabbing everything from the table. “I’ll do the dishes,” you offer, walking them to the sink, trying to calm down.

It’s no use, though. He sees right through you.

He gives you only a minute alone before he follows you, caging you between his big arms, your back to him, his mouth hot on your ear. “Let me help you.”

You let out a frustrated huff, already unraveling from his proximity. The smallest jut of your hips and there it is, his erection pressed to your ass, throbbing and even more massive than you remember it. “Toji, we can’t,” you whine, not making any attempt to separate yourself from him.

He slides his hands around your hips, pulling you in closer, rubbing his rock-hard cock against you. “I know you want it. I know you want me.”

And he’s right. You do. You want him with you, around you, inside of you. In all the ways he’s had you before, in new ways he’s never had but you’ve fantasized about. There’s no denying it anymore. You want him. You want him so fucking bad.

He takes you right there at the kitchen sink, bent over with your grip tight on the edge of the counter, pounding away at your wet, needy cunt. Neither of you bother to remove your clothes completely, Toji’s sweatpants shrugged down his thighs just enough, yours pooled around your ankles, soaked panties at your knees. “Fuck, Toji!” you moan, sticking your ass out to meet his thrusts.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing slippery circles around it. “Say it,” he grunts, increasing the pace.

Drools leaks out from the sides of your lips, too fucked out to process what’s he’s asking you. “What?”

“Say you want me,” he demands, massaging your swollen bud so deep, you feel it all the way down to your fucking toes.

“I want you. I want you, Toji!” you respond breathlessly, squeezing him tight with your orgasm.

“Fuck, I missed you. Missed my good girl.” He continues to fuck you, slowly now, relishing every second of being inside you. “Always so fucking creamy for me, fuck.” He pulls you up to embrace you from behind, fingers still pleasuring you, his other hand at your chin to face you towards him. The two of you kiss passionately, lips smacking, tongues swirling. So sloppy and wanton that it puts you on the verge of another orgasm, completely succumbed to pleasure.

You sleep with him in his bedroom after several more orgasms and a big one of his own, wrapped comfortably in his arms, with his cock and creampie inside you the rest of the night. For the first time in a while, you’re oddly at peace.

~~~

Your reckless decision making has led you into another troublesome scenario. Fortunately, you haven’t had any morning sickness the entire first week of your employment at the Fushiguro household. Unfortunately, it decides to come back today. There’s no way you’ll be able to make it to the bathroom near your room, so you have no choice but to hop out of Toji’s bed and run into his, clutching onto the porcelain bowl until it’s all out. You rinse your mouth off at the sink, hoping Toji didn’t hear any of it. But you know all too well by now that luck is never on your side.

He’s sitting up against the headboard, watching you come out of the bathroom. “Did you just puke in there?” There’s a hint of concern in his normally blunt tone.

You nod, bending down to retrieve your underwear and pants off the floor, avoiding his gaze.

“Are you sick?” he asks, the worry even more obvious now.

Shaking your head, you respond, “No, I just…I’m feeling a little nauseous, that’s all.” You walk towards the door, still not willing to look at him. “There should be leftovers in the fridge, so help yourself to breakfast. I’m going to lay down.”

He calls out your name. “Wait – ”

You ignore him, closing the door shut behind you, letting the tears fall down your cheeks as you retreat into your own bedroom, muffling your sobs into a pillow. After your wild romp last night, this bout of morning sickness has swiftly brought you back to reality. You’re still harboring the secret growing in your womb from the man who gave it to you to begin with.

There’s a firm knock on your door, startling you. “Hey, it’s me.”

In this split-second, you decide to stop with the lies and finally tell the truth. You open the door, Toji standing in front of you fully clothed in his usual attire, a serious expression on his face. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Eyes still puffy from crying, you take a deep breath. “I’m pregnant. And you’re the father.”

His mouth parts the slightest bit, no words coming out of it. The silence seems to linger on forever. You fill it by rambling all the thoughts that have been swimming in your head the last couple of weeks. “Before you start freaking out or anything, I’m telling you so that you know. I don’t expect you to be involved. I’m perfectly willing to raise this child on my own. And besides, I won’t be completely alone. I have my family to help me, my friends too. I’ll be totally fine. This baby is going to be well taken care of, I’ll make sure of it. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just didn’t know how. But I feel better already because this has been stressing me out. It’s all going to work out okay? I think. I hope.”

After the long spiel, he stares down at the floor, jaw tight, mouth opening and closing, unsure how to respond. Eventually, he says, “I have to go.”

When he leaves the house, you crawl into your bed, bawling until there are no tears left for you to cry.

~~~

You wake up in the late afternoon to an enticing aroma wafting from the kitchen. It’s been hours since you’ve been in bed, moping about how poorly everything went with Toji. His reaction left you devastated. While you always expected to do this alone, hearing his negative response to it hurts more than you anticipated it to.

Curious, you make your way into the kitchen, shocked to find Toji standing over the stove, stirring a pot, the soothing scent of soup surrounding you. “What’s going on?” you ask, noticing a plethora of fresh vegetables laid out on the counter, along with a big bottle of prenatal vitamins and various snacks.

He turns the heat off, covering the pot with a lid. “I’m cooking,” he answers, facing you with a grin on his face. “Bone broth is a good source of calcium. And you need to keep eating lots of veggies so our baby is strong, like me. No more of this instant ramen shit.”

“I thought you were upset,” you say, stepping closer to him.  

“I know. I’m sorry I left like that. I was shocked at first, I’ll admit it. But I started to get excited." He takes your hands in his. "I have a lot of regrets in my life, but being a father isn’t one of them. Being a bad father is. I want to change. I need to change. For Megumi. For our new little one. For you.”

Strangely enough, you believe in his heartfelt declaration. You smile at him, letting him go to stand in front of the stove, taking a whiff of the comforting aroma of the hot soup he made for you, happy tears welling in your eyes. He hugs you gently from behind, nuzzling his nose to you. “I’m going to do it right this time, okay? I know I can do it with you.”

As Toji caresses your belly, kissing you softly along the neck, you feel the weight that’s been heavy on your shoulders ease up. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

[moonlesslights]

Two Idiots in Love

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Warnings: Sex, P in V, choking, breeding kink, innuendos, Miguel it's fucking hard to talk to.

A/N: Hope you enjoy this, I haven't sleep well for three days trying to get it done, but it's finally here. Love y'all xoxox

━━━━━━✧❂✧━━━━━━

Ok, but what about you becoming an Spider just about a year ago?

You are managing just fine.

Things got nasty for a while, that’s true. Your uncle died, your new responsibilities caught up on you, you almost die fighting some bad guys on your first months… And now you just try to eat three times a day (sometimes it doesn’t happen), pray to get more than six hours of sleep and do good in college.

But then, out of fucking nowhere, just when you were making peace with what your life was now and who you are, your identity, your place in this big ass world where you were completely alone to bear this double life… This giant prick with sullen face and cheeks the size of the moon comes into your life to tell you you’re not alone, everyone here has experienced the same or worse, stop being so dramatic.

So, in a second, your protagonist moment turns to you finding out there were thousands like you out there. And your whole life goes upside down.

Because now you don’t have to protect and look out only for your Earth, your city; but everyone else’s too. You have to travel to the most craziest worlds you could’ve ever imagine and fight horrible creatures you couldn’t even conceive its existence. And to make things even worst, Mr. Wide Hindquarters took an special hold of you to help him out with anything he would be ‘to busy’ to do. Like inform new recruits about their missions, filling out reports, doing research either respecting to what he occupied in the laboratory or to some universe yet to be explored… Whatever he needed, you would be called in to do it.

Some Spiders told you you were lucky, not many could work that close to Miguel, let alone being in charge of so many things without screwing something up and getting ‘their head ripped’. Even Lyla tells you that you’re something special, specially on the hard days, that’s why Miguel trusts you so much. After that you would just smile tiredly at her, whispering it was okay. Then Lyla would go face Miguel and demand him with a raised eyebrow to give you a break.

You manage for a few months, surrendering yourself to this strange routine. And your even more strange companion.

Every day you walk in to his space, every day he is already there. You turn a personal mission to arrive before he does. You never make it. The man apparently didn’t sleep and you aren’t waking the fuck up at 3:00am to prove a point or find out. So you let it be as another mystery to be solved.

“Good morning.” You wave your hand at him, making your presence known with that. Sometimes between a yawn, sometimes still cleaning the sleepiness off of your eyes.

“Good morning…” He always adds your last name to his greetings. It makes you feel like you are being scolded. Most of the time he is at the tables, working through the screens; if he’s not there, he’s at the lab, measuring substances with the help of crystal clear instruments.

Without looking at you, he points with his chin to the steaming coffee under the express machine. Through the weeks he has learned exactly how you like it. The first ones he made you were exactly like his: Awful. That couldn’t be drinkable. But you thought it was nice of him to always have hot coffee for you, so you didn’t say anything. But the faces you made at every sip were worth a thousand words.

Now, as you drink today’s, you cannot avoid thinking how cute that big stoic man must look every morning pouring the exact amount of sugar and cream you like into the cup. Moving the liquid with a tiny spoon until is all mixed.

He doesn’t talk much.

No more than orders and “Go home” followed by a “Good night”. You let him be for the first weeks. Not your business. But after the first month you knew you would go crazy if you continued this way of living.

You needed to talk to him. You needed to make things less awkward. He was your only human contact sometimes for entire days, and you cannot stand the fact of barely talking to him.

You don’t have idea how does the term “coworkers” serves on his Earth, but in yours, Human Relationships are encouraged to happen for the sake of teamwork.

With that very idea well tangled on your mind, one of those long days, you take a deep breath, imagine him naked (which isn’t difficult to be honest), stare deep into the space and say:

“Sohowhaveyoubeen?” Squeaking as fast as you can.

Miguel stops whatever the hell he is doing and turns his head to the right, side eyeing you with a raised eyebrow. You don’t even look at him, continuing to fill the document in front of you with the most unstable smile he could have seen in his entire life. Then, he turns around again, coming back to typing into one of the screens. You almost think he has completely ignored you until he answers in another fast and neutral line:

“I’m good.”

You give him an acknowledging nod, smiling softly and returning to your duties.

You had never wished so much to be victim of a lost bullet. Like right now. Like right fucking now. Please.

For one more week you took another personal mission: making a question a day.

“How was your day?”, “Did you have breakfast?”, “How was yesterday’s mission?”… It would be a good day if you got more than a monosyllable for answer. It was embarrassing, really. And Lyla looking at you with a grimace made it ten times worst.

After that, you just came in the eighth day and remained silent, focused in finishing all your work as soon as possible rather than trying to make your prick boss to talk to you. You felt bad, actually. Maybe he just doesn't like to talk, maybe you were making him uncomfortable, maybe... Maybe he's just an arse. Yeah, that is probably the right...

"Hm? Uh, what... What is this?" You look up from your tablet, facing the broad of his back walking to the desk at the other side of the room. You raise an eyebrow at the small cardboard box in front of you, the one that Miguel just left there.

"Food." He says as answering the very question to the origin of the universe.

"For me?" You tilt your head and he looks at you like you were stupid. You frown. How were you supposed to know that, when he barely even looks at you?!

"I did too much." He explains. "... So I brought you some. You can throw it away if you don't want it."

You look down at the box again, watching it as the weirdest of things, and cannot help the little smile that creeps up to your lips. You knew Miguel didn't eat at the HQ cafeteria, since he owns an apartment close from here, so this was completely homemade. Hm, you never thought he was into cooking.

"Why can't I give it to someone else if I don't like it?" You respond with an easy smile, almost teasing him.

"Throw it." He sentences without even looking back at you.

You side eye Lyla at your left, who winks at you. This is a whole ass victory. And you and the little hologram girl knew internally Miguel did not like the day you decided to stop trying to talk to him.

"Thank you." You finally murmur. "I really appreciate it."

"It's just leftovers..."

You nod, pursing your lips and… Still smiling. Fuck it. It was obvious he was going to dismiss it with something like that.

None of you says anything else for the rest of the day, but you make the choice to keep trying on the small talk every day and Miguel, apparently, started to mess up the amount of ingredients for his meals and brings leftovers almost daily.

You continue with this new routine for another couple of weeks.

With the time passing, you gain more and more confidence to talk to the big guy. Most of the times he doesn’t engage in the conversation, it is just you saying your thoughts out loud and telling him everything about your life at college, 'till the point he has a personal beef with some of your classmates. I mean, he doesn’t say it but he surely grunts under his breath every time you mention their name.

Gwen did asked you at some point if he really listened to you or if he just... Left you. You wondered the same for exactly... two hours.

"... And I handed him my essay, right? And he looks at me and says: 'So are you going to tell me who is helping you with these or am I going to find out myself?' So I obviously told him nobody was helping me, I just like doing them. And he freaking threatened me saying that if he founds out he's going to fail me. Like... He doesn't even listens. Agh, he hates me..."

"Is the same one who got angry because you were late to his lecture about himself and his recently published book?" That was a week ago. And he remembered.

You nod, sighing. Miguel clicks his tongue, shaking his head with disapproval.

He might not be talkative (at least for now) but he listens to you. You have no doubt left about that. He may not say a single word while you drop a hundred for minute, but he would come the next day asking "How was the test?" or would know you have classes with that professor and add to his daily good night a soft "Good luck tomorrow." You even start catching him lifting the left corner of his lips when you drop a bad joke about all the things you need to get done by the end of the day or about something you heard on your way there.

You noticed it when certain Spider came in to a meeting, a Spider two days ago you and Miguel had gossiped about because you were told something by your friends on Wednesday, Miguel heard some more on Thursday and with a final comment you put the pieces together on Friday, looking at him with a wide proud open mouth as he shook his head with a soft chuckle. Talking to the Spider in question Miguel would turn to you with the most neutral and blank expression and you would still fight to hide your smile at the memory of everything you found out during the week. No one ever noticed and you liked it. Miguel liked it. It was like a private joke only the two of you could share.

"But what would happen?" This was the part Miguel didn't like. "Like, how would you know I would fuck up something?"

"You cannot give Noir a kaleidoscope." He sentences, giving you another raised eyebrow.

You were in the middle of the daily session of Instructive and Informative questions, according to Lyla and you. Miguel prefers to call them Destructive and Irritating.

After today's mission you had taken a particular soft spot fo the black and white Spider, to the misfortune of your boss. So the whole session has been about the long shot of taking special gifts from your dimension to him.

"But why? Really, what's the worst that could happen if I just give him a tiny little kaleidoscope?"

"Ay, Dios, dame paciencia... You already gave him a rainbow slinky spring toy, why do you keep insisting on gifting him more stuff?"

He fix his gaze on you as you lower your eyes down to your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. "... He just looks happy when he sees color."

Miguel sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"I know, but every one of us needs to respect the natural order of our Earth. He shouldn't keep taking things with him that shouldn't be there, do you understand?"

"But..."

"No more 'but's'. I want those reports done by the end of the day." Miguel returns his eyes back to the screen in front of him, dismissing you just with that action. "Get to work instead of keep losing our time with this."

He hates the way you comply to his orders. Hates the way you leave the space beside him empty to go working at the other side of the room, where he can only see your back. He hates when you refuse him to see your face.

The human part in him hates the questioning sessions because they always end up with your heart too big for your own good, crushed a little bit more. The human part in him is what brings him closer to you after a few minutes, talking you through some trivial topics until he can convince you it is all not as bad a it seems, until you smile again when you insist it's okay, that you just needed a minute, that you understand. And he might o might not tell you can give Noir that fucking kaleidoscope if you want it so much.

But some deep and primal part in him whispers into his veins to walk up to you, take you by your jaw, forcing you to look up at him and order you you better not refuse your face to him one more single time again. That if he wishes to see your eyes, the curve of your nose or your lips, you better fucking show them to him... Every day. Every. Time. He. Wants. To.

He gets frustrated when he catches himself in the middle of those thoughts, of the drives. He has been able to control it magnificently 'till now. But he fears the day he won't.

For another while you enjoyed the 'leftovers' brought to you too. But it also came to happen the one day, they stopped being leftovers:

You yawn as you make your way to the exit of the lab, making sure your alarm for tomorrow is correctly scheduled, you can not afford another harsh look from your professors one more time. The building has fallen silent already; most of its ordinary inhabitants have already retired to their rooms or to their home worlds.

Miguel walks up to you from behind, watching you standing at the door. Neither of them managed to see even a ray of sun today. He didn't care, he had something much better to watch all day… But he can't help but sigh at the thought of taking it from you.

"Italian or Mexican?" You turn to look at him, barely catching what he said. Both of your brows furrow and he glares at you while adjusting the neck of his jacket on. "For tomorrow's lunch. You want me to bring Italian or Mexican?"

"Oh, uhm..." You widen your eyes, surprised by the consideration. Pursing your lips and squinting, you think about it for a second, but the only possible answer comes immediately after: "Mexican."

"Hm." He nods, fixing his eyes to the front again.

Both start walking now towards the exit of the building. You know you can open your portal to go back home now, but you refuse to do so. Miguel knows there's an exit on the other side of the lab that leads him to a closer path to his apartment, but he refuses to take it. Because you always take this one.

"It's getting chilly." You whisper, watching the first snowflakes of the season falling on the other side of the big windows in the lobby. Miguel hums in response. "I like it, though. The first month working with you I had to carry a fan with me everywhere. I am so sorry for the cost of the electricity bill back then."

Miguel tugs at one corner of his lips, but only that. You tilt your head, glaring at him for a second before you take two fast steps to put yourself in front of him. The poor man has to stick his feet to the floor to avoid knocking over you.

He frowns, confused, and you look up at him with those same eyes filled with determination you put on when you look at the cookies he always -purposely- leaves on top of the highest cupboard in his office. He could only describe it as the face of a master plan, because you would always come back with ideas to get them down without asking him for help. And he loved to play guess with what you would do this time.

"Smile for me." You ask as you were some kind of cameraman, and if he was confused before he's into a new level now.

"What?"

"Y'know..." You bring both of your index fingers to the opposite sides of your face and part your own lips into a simple smile, like showing him what he was supposed to do.

"I know what smiling is." He frowns. "Why do you want me to do it?"

You shrug. "I just... I would be really happy to see it."

Miguel's expression remains unfazed, but he prays to every God out there you can't listen how hard his heart jumped inside his chest when your words reached him.

He swallows. His eyes fix on you and he brings both of the corners of his mouth up, exposing bright teeth and two big fangs that brush on his lower lip in the most precious awkward smile you could have ever seen. His brows are drawn together and he looks like he's in pain, and you know that even if a fucking meteor crashed down in the city right now, you still wouldn't be able to look away.

You clear your throat and lament how his smile is gone as soon as it came. You brush your hand at the back at your neck, nervous, fucking ashamed of your imprudence. Miguel raises an eyebrow at your reaction.

"Thank you. That was nice of you." You smile, avoiding his eyes and solely focusing on the snow awaiting for you. "I'm sorry if it was unpleasant for you. I didn't mean..."

Your words get caught up in your throat when you suddenly feel the texture of fabric coming around your neck. You turn back to look at the front again only to find Miguel tugging his scarf on you, with his fingers making sure it hugged every part of your skin your sweater couldn't.

"Miguel, no. It's even colder here than on my Earth. You need this more than I do." You frown with a worried expression washing over your features.

"You'll come back tomorrow pretty early. And it's going to be cold." You could try and argue about you having your own scarfs to bring tomorrow with you, but his eyes tell you he is not asking.

"... Thank you."

Miguel laments the moment your turn around, laments the moment you don't look at him anymore. He is sure the smile from a minute ago hadn't been anywhere near one of his best, and yet your eyes shone with the light of all the moons he's seen in all of the Earths he has visited.

And as you do a little wave when you start walking away before entering your portal, Miguel waves back, slowly and with only two unsure swings of his wrist. It was enough to make you smile anyway. It was enough to keep him standing there even after you were long gone wondering what the hell he was doing.

When Miguel began to bring food made specially to share, you began to bring desserts from your Earth for him to try.

You both started having lunch together after you told him how tired you were of eating while standing. Don't get me wrong, when you first told him he 'offered' you to go eat at the cafeteria if you wanted it so much. But when he dismisses you for the second time the next day with a 15 minute break to go find somewhere to sit, you, instead, sit down reluctantly at the very center of his work space, just a few meters behind him.

Miguel has to do a fucking double take to make sure he is seeing right before turning around at you calmly crossing your legs on the floor and unboxing today's meal with abrupt and resigned movements.

"Could you be so kind as to explain to me what you are doing?" He tilts his head with amusement when you take the first bite of your food.

"Eating."

"Sitting on the floor?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Sitting on the floor." You nod.

"Care to explain why?" He crosses his arms, pursing his lips when you refuse to raise your eyes at him.

"... Because of you." You murmur, taking another unnecessarily aggressive bite.

"Elaborate, please."

You keep on looking down, chewing the morsel in your mouth. Miguel awaits for you with well known experienced patience. By now, he recognizes when you are mad at him or the world, he sees how you fight to keep calm inside of all of this mess, that's why he always tries to encourage you to talk out the things that bother you, because he's there, he can listen; because he likes the way you smile after you let it all out.

And maybe...

"I don't care about eat sitting comfortably at the cafeteria. I want to eat with you. So if you want to stay here be my fucking guest. I'm staying here too."

Because you were the only one who could throw a tantrum at Miguel O'Hara without flinching.

You have earned that right. You didn't know when, because you insist you don't throw tantrums at him; you're a college student, basically an adult, you don't do tantrums. And still...

"Fine, spoiled girl..." He sighs, walking to get his own little box from the table and then coming to close the space between the two with a few long steps. He sits down right beside you, imitating the way you're crossing your legs. "If you want to eat on the floor, we can eat on the floor."

"I'm not spoiled." You hiss, giving him a deadly side eye that puts on a soft, almost unnoticeable grin on his face. Lyla had made fun of him a few days ago about him spoiling you, but instead of getting on his nerves he took a liking for the nickname. And now you suffer the consequences of it all. "And we wouldn't be eating on the floor if you decided to go to the cafeteria for once."

"... I hate talking to people."

You sigh, nodding. That's exactly why you never push him to do anything of that sort.

"I know." You turn to look at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how he keeps his head low while eating. "Hey" You call for his attention, smiling. He blinks up to you, tilting his head. "It's okay." Your shoulder drops to his arm. "I like being here. I'm not stuck with you, you're stuck with me."

That makes his eyes catch a little bit more of light.

"Thank you." He whispers.

You stare at him for a second more and he fights to put all of the mess inside his head, his feelings, into his tongue... But he can't. You continue eating, and he knows you would never hold a grudge on him for it, and he's so thankful for that, for you being able to understand the way his actions speak when his words can't. But he still aches at the thought of never being able to tell you everything he wants.

The next morning you walk in to find out a new cleared space beside the screens with an elegant glass table and two chairs. It surely looked expensive, like everything he does and has, but for you, it's just the little corner where you can leave that particular cake from your Earth he seems to like so much, and then go to the laboratory to see the cake you seemed to like so much.

After two more weeks enjoying the day-to-day in the usual things in your life, you and Miguel got to a mission which revealed as the true calmness before the storm.

The anomaly you had fought was stronger than expected, more aggressive, more letal. Everyone had run lucky at least two times to escape from its claws, but you can still remember their closeness, the screams, the sirens at the distance. It all almost ends up with another canonic event altered.

"There's always a first time." Jessica had told you when you finally finished off the anomaly. She was worried about you, and you can't blame her. You haven't even registered how bad you were trembling until it was all over.

"Is there going to be a last time?" You replied, looking up at her with big eyes. And Miguel, only a few meters behind you, still trying to give some last orders to every Spider there, felt his heart breaking at the very sound of your words.

Nevertheless, thankfully, the universe remained perfectly fine and just a couple of hours later everyone was back home safely again. Most returned immediately to their Home Earths, but you, Miguel, Jessica, Lyla and a couple more had ten thousand things to do in the HQ before calling it a day.

"I thought I told you to go home an hour ago." Miguel points, coming from behind you.

You turn your head to look up at him and you can't not smile at the sight. The feeling of safeness that floods you when you see his huge figure entering any room hasn't wavered for a single second. He's still that solid ground you can always rest on when the world is to heavy to carry alone.

"I'm serious. What are you doing here?" He continues, grunting in pain when he drops his weight beside you. You turn to him, furrowing your brows in worry again. He had seen that expression in you so often today... And he hates it so much. "I'm okay. Just little scratches here and there."

You withdrawn your feet from the edge of the building where you had them hanging for an hour now and crawl your way to him, sitting down on your knees to try to be eye height with him.

Your right hand wanders to his bruised neck, there where the anomaly had left his horrible mark of the violence it brought within. You follow with your index the way the clotted blood draws on his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"Does it hurt?" You ask.

"No." He responds in between goosebumps.

He loves the effect your touch has on him. He loves your little hands looking for him, tugging at his clothes to call for his attention, brushing against his when you pass him the tablet, documents, anything. He loves the busy days where he doesn't have time to eat, where he wouldn't eat if it wasn't for you sitting beside him as he works on the screens, you scrolling through your cellphone, taking little pieces of food with a spoon or a fork to bring them closer to his mouth so he could eat without even taking his eyes off the screen.

Ridiculous? Yeah. But he loved the intimacy within. The many forms your soft hands could soothe him.

But his? He hated them. He was scared of them. Their only use was to destruct, to tear flesh apart, not to...

"Show me." He asks, pointing with his chin at your left hand placed softly above your thigh.

"It's nothing."

"Let me see it." He insist and you carefully bring your arm up, placing your fingers against his when he holds out his hand for you. Your whole palm is bandaged, the work the doctor did on you was amazing, but he can still see dried blood on it.

He doesn't say anything when he finds your eyes on him, conflicted, hesitant. There is so much between both of you, so much unsaid, so much still to do. But he sees your doubt, he hates to be the cause of it. He stays still, but he wants to scream at you, to make your little head understand: "How can't you see?! Can't you see how much you mean to me?! You're the only thing in my mind when I'm fighting, because I know I have to win, I have to get out alive to see you again. Eres lo único por lo que mi corazón llama!... Can't you not hear it?"

Instead, the tips of his fingers brush on your skin, his eyes reflecting every single light of the city below.

"Come." It's only a whisper that leaves his mouth, and you need nothing more to jump into his embrace with a desperate sigh, immediately cuddling yourself up on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, looking for his warm.

Hold.

He loves to hold you.

His hands serve to hold you.

To hold you against him, to protect you from anyone who wants to rip you away from his arms. To keep you warm, to keep you safe, to let you know you're home.

"Aquí estoy." He whispers.

"I know." You reply.

You breath into his scent for a couple of minutes more, until the screams and the sirens fell low to the sound of Miguel's chest going up and down in a soothing swing, his breathing, turning into the only thing you could listen to.

By the time you got your head out of his neck, he was already waiting for you with a soft smile, smile that puts your attention on the deep cut on his lower lip.

"What happened?" You ask, carefully pulling from his flesh to see the whole extension of the wound.

He sighs, closing his eyes with embarrassment. "I bit myself during the fight."

You smile, shaking your head. Your fingernail taps against the right fang in question, testing the edge by gently pressing the tip into your fingertip.

"I hate them." Miguel breaths out. His eyes are now so dim that you struggle to say where are they looking at in the middle of the night darkness.

"Why?" You whisper, taking your finger back at his lip.

"Because I fear of them. I fear they'll hurt you like they hurt me."

You purse your lips and then take his hand placed on your hip, looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

"Is the same with these?"

He nods.

"They are made to kill. I have done so many horrible things with, caused so much damage and pain, I..."

"Did you know I'm scared of heights?" His trail of words stop at your interruption. You smile, looking down from the edge, turning away form him just a little. "Ironic, for a Spider. But I still fight with it every single day. I always get so sticky when I'm on top of a building for too long it's embarrassing but..." You raise your hand in front of him, waving your fingers with a playful smile. "I'm not sticky now. And that it's because you're holding me." You cup his face. "Those things you're afraid of, are part of the person I love. And I wouldn't change a single thing."

"Mi cielo..."

"I knew what I was getting into when I decided to love you, Miguel, so don't get all soft now. I'm not going anywhere..." You whisper. "Make me bleed."

He would be lying if he said he haven't thought about it, that he haven't succumbed to his most animalistic urges when alone in the privacy of his room, pretending it was you around his cock and not his fist. He wanted to bite, he wanted to fill you. And he wanted to tear apart with his bare talons anyone and anything that got in his way.

A part of him might be scared to hurt you, yes.

But a bigger part of him was actually scared of what he would do to keep you safe. Of what he's capable of... to keep you his.

He feels sorry for you when you cuddle against his chest in your sleep as he stands up and starts walking back inside the building, covering you with his jacket to protect from the cold wind of the city for when he swings back to his apartment with you in his arms.

He feels sorry for the innocence in your love.

Like a beast, that's what he was. A beast who loved the softness in your touch, the kind in your words. But cannot return the same love. The beast is possessive, jealous of the very air that caresses your hair. And it may act vulnerable only to you, letting you get as close to slaughter him, but knowing you'll place a kiss instead. The beast would hold you as his own treasure, a creature that must not be hurt, not even for his own hands. He would cut them off before.

He would cut them off from anyone before they touch you. For no one should ever touch what he decided, that very morning you asked how he had been, would belong to him.

AND EVERYTHING WOULD HAVE CONTINUED ON GOING SO SMOOTHLY... BUT THE DAAAAAAAAMN FINALS, ah, made their entrance.

You barely have time to sleep, to eat, to fucking breathe. Your levels of anxiety are higher than the HQ damn building and your brain is so overworked you cannot do more than what you're asked to in autopilot. You know that you're only going to be like this for approximately another two weeks, but your poor lover has suffered the last four days thinking you're sick, or sad, or worse... Mad at him. No, not in that order.

"Arañita..." He calls for you. Your hand moving over your notebook at one hundred km per hour concerns him.

"The reports are done. Peter from -5266 and Hugh from -1993 are out right now. They should be getting back at any minute. Anomaly #125 was sent to its original universe this morning." You push the tablet to him with your free hand without even looking up or slowing down your writing.

"Thank you, but..." He tilts his head, furrowing his brows. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I just need to get this done before four. By the way, can I leave early today? I need to study for tomorrow's test."

"Again? Didn't you have one yesterday?"

"Yes. We're on finals, Miguel. We tend to have a lot of them these days. That's why I'm losing my mind over here."

"Just for some tests?" You have to stop yourself to remind you it's not his fault to be smart. It's not his fault being more intelligent than almost every person you knew. It's not his fault he doesn't know what is to struggle on school. It's not his fault, It's not his fault, It's not his fault... "You haven't even touched your food." He says, looking at the little box he got you with the meal now cold.

"I... I know. I'm sorry, Mig." You sigh, looking up at him for the first time in the day. "I'm just really stressed out right now. But I promise I'll take it back home later, okay?"

This was also the fourth day you didn't stay at his place. My man doesn't want to be a burden, but he has attachment issues, ok?, and after the week you spent sleeping in his arms, it may or may not be that Miguel has been having trouble falling asleep without the weight of your body on his chest.

After watching you leave that day, Miguel found himself staying till unreasonable hours of the early morning working in the lab. There was no point on going back to his cold apartment anyway... And he had a lot of things to get done. He didn't have time to...

"Oh, it's you." Miguel jumps in his place at the sudden voice calling from behind. "I thought that poor girl had stayed here, with all the things she seems to be doing these days."

The man shakes his head, ignoring Jessica closing the distance behind him, leaning against the door frame. Miguel can almost make out the little smile on her lips without turning around, and that only infuriates him even more.

"And why do you look like a caged lion?" She mocks. "Trouble in paradise?"

Miguel's first instinct is snap back at her and ask her to leave him alone. He knows she would comply, what he doesn't know is how benefic that would be for his current situation.

"I don't know what's going out with her." He admits, letting his head fall in irritation. "She says she's having some tests right now, but she's just to... Stressed? I don't know. She's so smart I cannot conceive how bad this is affecting her." The laugh that emanates from Jessica's throat makes his ears go red. "What?"

"Oh, babe, when was the last time you went to college?" Jessica puts both of her hands on her waist, pursing the lips to avoid smiling again.

"Why is that important?"

"When, Miguel?" She demands.

"Ugh... I don't know. Like four-five years ago."

"When was the last time you failed a class?"

"Never." He immediately responds.

"When was the last time grades were important on your Earth?"

Miguel frowns. "I don't remember. The path for learning had changed long before I was born. I don't even think I ever had something like a grade. We were judged individually for our skills and our intelligence type. Not memorization."

"Exactly." She claps, pointing at him with a all-knowing finger. "Thanks to that you got the chance to develop your true abilities as a student, but our girl from 2023 it is not beneficiary of this privilege. She doesn't get the chance to strengthen in what she is good, she must memorize and memorize and memorize over and over again. Because the tests on her Earth aren't done with the purpose of just checking how is her knowledge progressing, they are done to see if she's worthy of continuing forward in her very career."

Miguel remains silent for a minute, swallowing all the new information by pieces. For someone so smart, Jessica has never see him seem so lost. The nuts in his brain begin to turn and turn until his eyes seem to light up with the clarity of the light of the new world.

"Hm." He nods. "Thank you."

The woman knows he doesn't need anything more when he turns around, typing into one of the screens something that escapes from her eyes.

During the rest of the two weeks of finals, Miguel tried to do his best to support you.

He even read all of the information about your education system, striving to understand everything in just a couple of nights.

He's a man on a mission: letting you know he's there, that you're strong and smart, and you can do it.

While you study in the lab, he leaves you be. He gets you coffee, or tea, or anything you prefer. He might even hiss at people entering his space (your space) making too much noise, pointing at you with his chin and threatening eyes.

"Hey, girl..." Peter B. comes in one morning, moving nervously under the scrutinizing gaze of your lover. "Don't be so harsh on yourself..." He gives you some awkward pats on the back, smiling. "You're doing great."

That was all it took.

"No, I'm not!" You weep, letting your head fall on the desk, shaking between sobs.

"Great. Ya la hiciste llorar." Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Here, give it to her." He calls for Peter's attention, handing him an specific chocolate.

Peter takes it with confused eyes, offering it to you, reaching out his arm as if he were to touch you, you'll explode.

"Here." He says. "Look what I got."

You raise your eyes, meeting the little packing. Then, when you look at him, Peter almost thinks he just made all worst.

"Oh, Peter... Thank you!" You take the chocolate, pulling from him to a big hug. "I love these so much, thank you! You're so kind!"

Peter lets you be, looking back at Miguel who just nods at him to let him know this wasn't his first rodeo. He pats your back, soothing you with some more nervous words until you're ready to let him go.

If you're really struggling, Miguel won't think twice to help you. He's smart, it takes him nothing more than a look to his old notes or a quick search on the internet (specially if you're studying something science related or an engineering, if you're on law or arts, oh boy, you're gonna make this man suffer) to know exactly what you need and make sure you're taking that fucking project tomorrow.

Some other days, he just catches you sleeping with your hands crossed above the table and your saliva drooling out to your notes. His jacket would then come over you, after, he would take your pending stuff and start solving problems and making notes for you to have it easier at the memorizing part of the study.

You always wake up to see the edges of your paper full of arrows, little equations and encircled key words. And, sometimes, a tired Miguel sleeping uncomfortably by your side, just waiting for you to tell him it's time to go.

The day, a Friday, where you're finally done with college (at least for a couple of months) Miguel felt it like the day his soul came back to his body.

You are smiling all day again, calling his name, doing a mess all over the whole building. And he can not be more happy about it.

He might never tell you, me might even justify himself saying he had been staying up late working in the lab every time you ask for the bags under his eyes. Because he's definitely not telling you there were nights where he couldn't even close his eyes 'cause you weren't there with him.

"Time to go home." You hum behind him, getting all of your stuff inside your backpack.

"Thank God" He rubs his neck, walking closer to you to give you a soft kiss on the forehead. "I'm dying."

You yawn, nodding. "Me too. These weeks drained me."

"Me too." He repeats, and you don't know how much he means it. "Let's just go to sleep, yeah? Hopefully tomorrow there won't be so much to do."

You smile, leaning into his embrace as you walk out the door, hearing the lights turning off as both come closer and closer to the exit.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Miguel steadies your body by pressing down on your hips, keeping your ass on the bed. You try to push his face out of between your thighs but he refuses to pull apart.

"Miguel!" You cry out, tears rolling down your cheeks cause of the overstimulation he was putting you in. "Too much, too much..."

His fingers curl inside you one more time, and your arch your back, almost rolling your eyes at the feeling. His tongue flicks over your sensitive bud again, dragging choked moans out of you. You try to squirm away but his hands pull you from your ass back at him as soon as you start moving.

"Easy there, Arañita. I'm almost done." He smiles up at you, letting you see the lower half of his face completely covered in your arousal.

"Mig... Mi amor..." You breath out, trying to push him out again when his chuckle crashes against your folds.

"One more, love, and you'll be ready for me." He sucks on your clit as he speaks, moving his fingers with an slower pace now. "Uno más, mamita, dame uno más."

He pushes his face down on you, working his tongue all around your most needy spot with his digits burying now deep inside you, hitting that soft place between your walls that makes you want to cry. You're a mess of moans and whimpers by now, but when his teeth slowly press on your clit, it's over for you. Your eyes roll back, your thighs tremble around him, encaging him in his favorite prison as he guides you through it, moaning into your skin when he feels your pleasure dripping on him, motivating his hips to hump against the mattress as a fucking teenager would do.

After you get down from your high, you look up at him to find him positioning himself between your legs, dragging the tip of his cock up and down on your folds.

"Miguel, wait, I'm..."

"You know your safe word, mamita, you can make me stop whenever you want." He places your legs on his shoulders and his hands on your hips, keeping you just as he wishes to. "I'm going in, and I want your eyes on me all the time I fuck you, ¿me entiendes, hermosa?"

You nod, watching the point where both of your bodies would join. He enters slowly, giving you time to adjust his size. But after the first hint of your hips trying to feel him even more, he pulls back and thrusts all the way in, making your head fall back as your back arches.

His right hand grabs you by the jaw, forcing you to open your eyes and observe how red his irises had turned.

"Eyes on me."

His pace speeds up, bottoming out with every thrust he makes. Your hands push at his lower abdomen, biting your lip to avoid crying out loud again.

"Too fast, Mig. Too much." You moan, your still overstimulated clit rips another whimper from you every time his happy trail and trimmed hair crashes against it. You were barely holding on, but your lover can't never get enough. His body reaches down, and as he places one hand around your neck, his other thumb toys at your clit in a excruciating pace. "Fuck! No, Miguel."

You tremble under him, wrapping your legs around his waist when you cannot think about anything more than cumming. Your nails bury on the skin of his back, dragging an out of breath grunt out of him.

"I'm, I'm cum-" You try to voice but nothing in your brain seems to work anymore.

"Do it, love. I got you." He keeps up his pace, almost kissing your cervix by now. "Cum for me, mi amor."

His hand squeezes a little bit harder on your neck and you need nothing else to see fucking white. Your mouth opens in a big O before your start trembling, shaking uncontrollably under his body, letting out the sweetest of sounds for him to hear.

He grunts, falling into the crock of your neck when you tighten your walls around him.

"I'm going to fucking fill you." He's out of breath and he curses something in Spanish you cannot make out. "I'm going to put a baby on your tummy, mamita..."

"Miguel..." You were on the verge of tears again, you cannot longer feel your legs but you surely can feel him deep inside you.

"Yes, love. Fuck... I'm cumming. I'm..." He bites down on your flesh, sinking his fangs into your skin when his hips stutter. His talons grow so big they dig into the headboard.

You moan at the feeling, hugging your body to his until he can breath normal again.

When he looks back at you his eyes have returned to that soft brown you're used too.

"Are you okay?" He asks, sending shivers down your spine when he caresses the sore skin.

"Yes." You smile and he traps your lips into a kiss. "And now I'm really fucking tired."

He chuckles, lifting his weight onto his forearms.

"Come here, amor. Let's take a shower so you can rest comfortably." He places another soft peck on your forehead. "I'll wash your hair."

You definitely know he will do more than that.

PD: Tbh with you guys, all I could think about while writing this was this tiktok:

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part iii)

summary: Joel’s delicate attachment to Leela and baby Maya deepens along with—her resistance, his denial, and the slow, inevitable way he’s always finding his way back to them. As they navigate a freak accident, Ellie sees it. He does too. Almost.

a/n: ah-woohooooo more of Joel being a thickheaded numpty, so enjoy! I would love to hear all your unhinged, lovely thoughts!

It had been a quiet few weeks for Joel.

Not the kind of quiet he liked—the stillness of early mornings, with the wind rustling the trees and a guitar strumming in his hands. No, this was the one that came after a storm, when the air was dense with the scent of rain and the world felt... upside down. Unsettled. The kind of quiet where the damage had already been done, and all that was left was to pick through the wreckage.

The kind of quiet that made a man think too much. It pressed into him, heavy and suffocating.

Since that night in the car, since he’d seen her unravel in real time, the tacit MO had changed. On more welcome news, Mal had stopped coming around. No thanks to him, of course.

Joel saw him through the window the first morning he returned to Leela's place. Mal was coming up the path with the same easy stride, hands in his pockets like he had a right to be there. God, just once, he wanted to knock the teeth off that goddamned kid.

Joel set down his hammer and exhaled through his nose. Bless Tommy for leaving the fun part to him. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped out onto the porch before the kid could even knock. The heavy door groaned on its hinges behind him, and he let it.

Mal spotted him and gave a lazy wave, stepping forward. “Hey, man. I’m just here to—”

Joel shifted in front of him. Not aggressive. Just there. An immense wall of quiet warning.

Mal stopped short, blinking up at him.

Joel wasn’t even trying to stand taller, but he didn’t need to. He just crossed his arms over his chest, let his shoulders square out naturally, let his stance say everything. He wasn’t fucking moving.

The kid hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh—is there a problem?”

“I’ll take it from here,” Joel said, voice even.

Mal frowned. “What?”

“I said, whatever it is, I got it.”

There was a pause. A moment where Joel could see the gears turning in Mal’s head, where the kid was piecing things together a little too slow for his liking.

“Okay, but Tommy said—”

“Yeah, well.” Joel leaned forward, just enough to be felt. Watched Mal’s jaw tighten, and watched him shift back on instinct. “Not anymore.”

That finally landed. Mal thankfully rocked back on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced past Joel, toward the house, then back, brows knitting together, trying to make sense of what was going on. What he'd done wrong.

"Uh... do you want help, at least?" he offered, cautious.

Joel let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh—if you could call it that. There was nothing warm in it. "You run along now."

Mal lingered for another second, like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. And like a kid being told off, he tucked his tail and left.

Joel didn’t bother to watch him go. Just turned on his heel, grabbed the door, and went back inside. “Fuckin' pest,” he grumbled under his breath.

The house was quiet—only the soft creak of the stairs, followed by the sound of careful, steady footsteps.

He looked up and saw Leela was making her way down, one hand carefully bracing against the railing. She was in sweats and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled into a low-hanging bun. There was something different about her face today—sharper, cleaner, blanker maybe. Or maybe he was just seeing her in a better light now.

She caught him staring. "Was that Mal?"

Joel simply lied, "No."

She pressed her lips together. Not quite disappointment, not quite relief. Something in between. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe later.”

Joel hooked a thumb through the loop of his tool belt, retrieving the hammer he’d slung there. He twirled it once, catching the handle in his palm.

“Don't worry about it. He’s a busy guy,” he said, keeping his voice light as he crossed her on the staircase. “Lots of shit to fix around town.”

More importantly, Leela didn’t ask why or how. Soon enough, she stopped looking for Mal. Didn’t even question when Joel started showing up every day instead with his old tool belt slung over his shoulder, standing at her door like it was the most unassuming thing in the world. She just looked at him—one glance, one unreadable flicker of those dark, tired eyes—and then moved on like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t there at all. Stiffing him, essentially.

And Joel knew that kind of distance. This gaping rupture, widened between people when something sore and hideous had been exposed. When someone had seen too much; known too much. Leela knew she’d overstepped, and now she was pulling back.

Joel knew that feeling. He’d done it plenty himself. That instinct to retreat, to pull the shutters down, to make yourself small. Hell, he’d lived it. Had become it.

So he let it happen. He let her pretend again. Didn't push, didn't say anything. He simply worked.

The nursery was coming together, slowly but surely. The pendant lights were fixed, casting warm pools of gold over the room. The shelves stood straighter, stocked with whatever Maria had been sneaking in—baby books, folded blankets, onesies, wooden toys. And the old fuchsia rug he’d found in Leela’s storage? It tied the whole damn thing together, like a relic of a forgotten life, all lived-in and warm for the baby girl.

Joel stood in the centre of it all, Maya cradled in his arms, rocking slightly on his heels. Not that she could appreciate any of this yet. A safe space of her own.

He had never been the kind of man who cooed at babies either. Hadn’t been that way when Sarah was small, hadn’t been that way in the years since. There was something about them—so soft, so fragile—that made him cautious, like he had to hold back, keep himself in check.

Maya made it easier.

"Hi," he whispered to her after her naps. "Did you sleep well? Huh, pretty girl? C'mere."

She made tiny, thoughtful expressions like she was really listening to him. Her little hands were always reaching, always curious. Right now, she was watching the lights with those big brown eyes, mesmerized by the slow shift of the shadows on the ceiling, her mouth parting slightly in wonder. Her fingers curled absently in his shirt, barely grasping, like she just liked knowing he was there.

She’d been a fussy one lately—tired, restless, wanting to be held more often than not. Lonely. And with a mama like Leela, who drifted too easily and got lost too deep in her own head, Joel figured it wasn’t a bad idea to show her around. Give her something new to look at.

“What do you think, baby girl?” he murmured, shifting her closer, his palm smoothing down her tiny back. “Did I do okay or what?”

Maya blinked up at him, her whole body stilling for a second before she let out a soft, breathy coo.

Joel grinned. “Yeah?” he chuckled. “That a yes?”

She wiggled in his hold, that gummy little smile coming alive, kicking lightly against his ribs, and Joel felt himself exhale—deep, easy, something loosening inside him. She liked it. The nursery. The lights. Him. Maybe none of it mattered in that little head of hers, but she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t fussing. She was looking at him like she trusted him, and God help him, but he wanted to deserve that.

He took her toward the shelves, kneeling carefully with her in one arm, balancing his weight as he pointed to the row of paint cans. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s pick a colour. What’s it gonna be, huh?” He tilted them slightly, exposing the faded labels. “We got white. Some kinda blue. Green.”

Maya reacted immediately, tiny fist stretching out, fingers grazing toward the muted green.

Joel huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? That your favorite?”

Her fingers brushed the side of the can, fascinated by the cool metal, a quiet coo slipping from her lips.

Joel hesitated for a second, then gave in. He really couldn't help himself. At that moment, he just had to. Slowly, carefully, he shifted her closer, lowering his head and pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her unsteady little head.

She smelled faint and sweet as always, like baby powder and fresh linens, and he let himself linger for a second longer than he should have, feeling the heat of her through his shirt, the tiny weight of her against his chest.

Maya wiggled in response, not in protest, but excitement, legs kicking slightly.

Joel exhaled, something breaking loose inside him.

Before he could stop himself, he pressed another kiss to the side of her head, then another and another, half a laugh escaping him when she wriggled in delight, her little fists stretching open, her eyes squeezing shut like she could feel the warmth of it sinking in.

Maybe she could. Maybe she knew, in that small, primal way babies knew things, that Joel was someone safe. That he wouldn’t let her fall. That he really fucking loved her.

A rustle at the doorway made him glance up from a kiss. Leela stood there, her hand lightly braced against the frame, watching him.

Joel was caught off guard, leaning away from Maya a bit, settling her lower against his chest. “Hey,” he greeted, voice low. “Just givin’ her the lay of the land.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. She only flashed a tight, fleeting smile before stepping forward, arms extending toward Maya. “You wanna take a bath with mama?”

Maya twisted in his hold, cooing eagerly now, little hands reaching for her mother. Even after everything, her mother was still her favourite person.

Joel let her go, careful as he passed her over to Leela. Their hands brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and he ignored the way it lingered, how her fingers barely curled in his before she took Maya into her arms.

“She’s been good,” Joel muttered.

Leela nodded, running a gentle palm over Maya’s back. “There’s lunch downstairs if you’re hungry.”

Joel studied her for a beat, his fingers brushing idly against his tool belt. “…Did you eat something?”

She hesitated. Too long. Then nodded, slow.

He didn’t call her on the lie. Instead, he nodded back, watching as she turned on her heel, shifting Maya closer against her shoulder. She left him with another tight, fleeting smile before disappearing down the hall.

Joel breathed out a sigh, glancing back at the half-finished room. Maya’s soft, content coos still lingered in the air. The green paint sat on the shelf, waiting.

And for some damn reason, he felt lonelier than he had in a long, long time.

It had taken him eleven days. Too long for a man like him. But he hadn’t rushed at all. He should’ve, but he didn’t. Had he been the same old Joel—good ol’ Texas Joel—this would’ve been a job done in a heartbeat. A blink, and he’d be out of her way. He wouldn’t have noticed things. Wouldn’t have lingered like a moron.

Maybe it was because of the way Leela barely spoke to him anymore. Or that she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she checked on his progress in clipped words and hums, wouldn’t even glance his way when she passed Maya to him like clockwork, a silent, wordless thing between them.

Maybe because when she leaves him standing at the porch at the end of the day, the door closing shut in his face, it didn’t feel like closing a chapter. It felt like a fucking wall going up.

Joel found her in the kitchen that evening, standing by the counter, wrist-deep in soapy water. It was late, Maya was snoozing her little head off upstairs, the house dim except for the overhead light humming low above them.

She didn’t stagger when he entered, didn’t look at him either. Just kept scrubbing the hell out of a plate, though he was pretty sure it was already clean. He dawdled near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.

He should’ve left. Should’ve let the silence settle. But he couldn't just leave it alone.

Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, leaning a hip against the counter. “Y’know, you got a dishwasher. It's half the effort,” he pointed out.

Leela gave a small huff. “Electricity’s scarce.”

Joel snorted. “So is water, darlin’.”

She finally glanced at him, just a flicker, then back to the sink.

He tapped his fingers against the counter, searching for something—anything—to keep her in this moment with him. “Made good progress today,” he said. “Maya... she tried to turn on her side. The nursery; well, I just need to fix up that dresser and—”

“Look, thank you. But I’m really tired, Joel.”

She said it without looking at him, her voice level, no bite to it. Just a statement. A locked door. He should’ve expected it, should’ve shrugged it off and moved on. Instead, something about the words, directed at him, sat wrong inside him. All that hurt-people-hurt-people-drivel that Maria used to say came back to bite him in the ass.

He hesitated, shifting his weight onto his feet. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I should get going.”

She said nothing. Just shut off the faucet, dried her hands on a towel, and walked past him, close enough that the damp heat of her skin lingered for half a second longer than it should have. And despite fighting the urge to glance back at her as she left the room, he watched her disappear down the hall.

Joel stood outside her door for a long moment, which he had conscientiously locked, staring at the chipped paint of the doorframe, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked to the porch swing. It swayed slightly in the cold breeze.

Was it juvenile to think maybe she’d prefer his company? Was it fucking brainless of him to crave somewhere to belong? A purpose? Was he meant to die alone in a strange house and surrounded by empty whiskey bottles? Maybe. Probably. But hell if he didn’t wish it anyway.

Joel didn’t want to admit it—not directly, not even to himself—but he wanted to talk to her. Not about anything in particular. Not about that night in the Maranello, or how her little, breathy laugh was possibly the best thing to hear after those roars and clicks of the world beyond, or why she’d started looking at him instead of through him.

He just wanted something. Because before, there had been something. It wasn’t like talking to most people, where you had to pick your words apart before they even left your mouth, where you had to navigate bullshit small talk or forced pleasantries. With Leela, it had been... easy. Unspoken. A warm kind of quiet, the kind where he didn’t have to think too much, where he could just be.

He'll admit it, just this once—he liked that about her. He liked that a moment didn’t have to be forced. That he didn’t have to overthink, that they had a rhythm, a delicate system between them, one that made sense even if neither of them ever put words to it.

But now?

Now, she barely looked at him. Nowadays, when she passed Maya to him, it wasn’t with that quiet, knowing ease or a friendly grin, no matter how tired it had been—it was mechanical, transactional, like handing over a set of keys. Like a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here, and he didn’t know what to call that. Didn’t like the way it made his instincts turn over, uneasy, in his chest.

All that lingering had finally paid off, and Joel had found his way in. He wasn’t going to show it, of course—wasn’t gonna give himself away like some fool—but damn if he wasn’t relieved.

After days of unending cold shoulders, after all that stiff distance, this was the first real opening he’d gotten. An excuse. A way to talk to her without forcing it.

He had been fixing a flickering wall lamp that had been bugging him for some time now, in the second-floor hallway, standing on a step stool when—

CRASH.

The whole house plunged into darkness. The light he’d been working on blinked out, along with the rest of them, and then—a groan. A pained, breathy, hitched groan from below. His entire body tensed before his brain caught up.

Then came the wailing. Maya.

Joel’s heart stammered, caught between two instincts. The damn near gutting sound of the baby girl's frightened cries and that groan—that voice—he'd distinctly heard from the basement.

Fuck. His feet moved before his mind did. He leapt off the stool, tools cluttering to the floor, ignoring the protesting ache in his knees as he tore down the hall to Maya’s room. She was red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, fists curled as she screamed, trembling from the shock.

"Hey, hey, Maya," Joel hushed, scooping her up into his arms, and pulling her against his chest. "S'okay, sweetheart. I got you. I got you."

He shushed her, palm stroking warm circles over her back, bouncing her lightly in his arms. His heartbeat was loud, hammering in his ears, drowning everything out but the damn groan still hanging in his mind.

Leela.

She was down there, in that cursed basement, alone. And that sound had been awful.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his lips to Maya’s head before pulling back. More for himself rather than her.

“I'm right here, baby. Nothin’ to be scared of.” His voice was steady—measured—but his hands weren’t. His grip on her was a little too tight. They trembled a little.

Maya sniffled, her cries quieting just enough to slow his pulse, and he took that as his chance. Keeping her tucked to his chest, he made his way down the stairs, near flying, boots thudding against the wood.

His breath hitched as he reached the basement door. “Hey, you down here?” he called, shoving it open with his shoulder, jogging down to the dim space below.

Then he saw her.

Leela was slumped against the wall, obvious that she had been tossed into it, her silhouette barely lit by the glare of an emergency lamp in the corner. She was gripping her shoulder fiercely, rubbing it like she was trying to erase the pain. Her fingers dug in hard.

The remnants of her little "science project" upgrade lay scattered around her. Loose wires, metal scraps, a circuit board still humming with life. The main plug socket was connected. Was she fucking stupid? There was a baby upstairs, and she was ready to risk her home for that dumbass machine.

And her face—Fuck. She had gone pale. Eyes squeezed shut. Her chest rose and fell like she was working through an intense wave of pain.

“Christ.” The word came out more like a breath than anything. Joel took a step forward, but when his eyes landed on the tangled wires, something burned under his ribs.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out rougher than intended, fear clawing at his throat, disguising itself as frustration.

Leela’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but sharp. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.” She held up a hand to stop him before he could kneel down beside her. “Just a bit of bruising. Maya first.”

Joel clenched his jaw.

She was right. Damn it, he hated that she was right. Maya, now hiccupping soft little breaths against his chest, was the priority.

“Right,” he muttered, though the reluctance in his voice was clear. He cast her one last look, making sure she was still upright, still breathing normal, before turning back up the stairs.

It took ten whole minutes to get Maya settled, and that was a miracle in itself. He'd resorted to pleading under his breath, but she had continued to watch him, eyes wide, refusing to let sleep take her like she knew something was wrong. She was perceptive. Just like her mother.

Finally, finally, her little lashes fluttered shut, her tiny hand still gripping onto his shirt.

Joel exhaled, relief going awash his tension. “Good girl,” he murmured, before unfurling her fingers from his collar, brushing a kiss over them and laying her back down.

Then he was sprinting again. Back down the stairs, faster than he should have been, hand gripping the railing tight.

Leela hadn’t moved much. She was still slumped against the basement wall, her breaths deep and restrained—like she was trying to breathe the pain away.

Joel came down to a crouch by her feet. “Hey.”

“I'm fine, Joel, really,” she assured quietly.

Though, he could tell she was pissed at herself. She hated being like this—vulnerable, hurting, unable to brush it off and acting like it didn’t happen. But Joel saw it. He saw her. How she'd tilted her head against the wall, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Leela truly was fine. Bruised, rattled—but fine.

Joel had checked her over once more, ensuring nothing was broken, no serious harm done, and he had to force himself to believe her when she said she’d be okay.

But her hands. Oh, Christ. The dim glow of the emergency lamp cast a dull shine over her skin, and that’s when he noticed—the raw, reddened patches along her fingertips. The unmistakable burn marks where the electricity must’ve bit into her.

"Shit." He exhaled sharply through his nose, scraping a hand down his beard as he stared at her fingers.

She must’ve seen the look on his face because she tucked her hands close to her stomach like she could make them disappear. “Seriously,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve had worse.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. She wasn’t wrong. And that made something in him burn even hotter.

“C’mon,” he muttered, nodding toward the stairs. “Up.”

Leela hesitated, but the way he stood—the way he waited—made it clear he wasn’t asking. So she sighed and pushed herself upright, and Joel stayed close, arms extended safely around her, watching the way she moved, the way her body reacted.

She didn’t stumble. Didn’t wobble. That was good. No concussion or broken bones. A knot in his chest loosened instantly.

Once they made it back upstairs, Joel had her sit at the kitchen table, lit up from the sunshine filtering through from the afternoon sun. He set a bowl of warm water down in front of her, the steam curling into the space between them. He grabbed a small tin of ointment after a bit of rustling through the cabinets, then a roll of gauze, then paused, eyes flicking to her.

She was watching him. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Joel breathed out, slow and even, then came back over, pulling a chair beside her. He reached for her wrist, gently, carefully, lifting her hands into his own. A silent ask. Permission. Lesson learned from the last time he'd touched her.

Leela tensed for half a second before sighing, letting him take them.

She was trying to play it off like it didn’t hurt. Like it was fine. But as soon as he dipped her fingertips into the warm water, she sucked in a quiet breath through her teeth.

Joel’s grip tightened just a little. He tried to squeeze everything he had felt these past few days into a single word—“Sorry.”

He worked, taking it slow, gently swiping away the dust and grime, watching the way her skin flinched under the heat. His thumbs moved gradually, steadily, like he was afraid to make it worse.

“Y’gotta be more careful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Damn wires ain’t worth all this. Remember, you’ve got someone countin’ on you.”

Leela let out a soft, tired laugh. “I didn’t know I had a nanny now.”

Joel shot her a look. “You don’t. You got me.”

She blinked at that.

Her lips parted slightly, but whatever she was about to say, she thought better of it. Instead, she let him work, let him take care of her, and trusted his instincts, and that felt like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge just yet.

Once her hands were cleaned, he dried them carefully, mindful of the more sensitive spots, before smoothing ointment over each burnt fingertip.

Leela twitched. “Ow.”

Joel grunted. “Ain’t gonna feel good, but it’ll keep it from blisterin’ too bad.”

He finished wrapping the gauze around her fingers, slow and precise, making sure they weren’t too tight. Leela stared down at her hands when he was done, flexing her fingers slightly, testing the bandages like she wasn’t sure what to make of them. Three fingers on each hand.

Joel blew out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face as he took in the house.

It was quiet. Too damn quiet. God, he hated this. That unnatural kind, where something had been cut short too suddenly—like the whole place had been stunned into silence. The shot-out lights overhead blinked weakly before finally dying out for good, leaving nothing but the cold creeping in from every corner.

It was already setting in. The draft slithered through the cracks in the windows, curling around his ankles, and sinking into the wood beneath his feet. The thermostat had shut off along with the rest of the power, which meant no heat. Not with how damn cold it got out here. Jesus, he'd forgotten to tuck some extra layers around Maya.

His eyes swept the room. A busted power grid. A rattled woman nursing bruises. A two-month-old baby upstairs who didn’t know a damn thing about survival, who didn’t understand that warmth wasn’t something she could just take for granted.

And this woman—this stubborn, frustrating woman—was already trying to stand up like she hadn’t just been thrown into a wall.

"I'll go check it out. Don't worry, Joel, I know what to do," Leela offered, pushing herself up.

Joel shot out a hand, firm, stopping her before she could get any further.

"You ain't fixin’ shit, you hear me?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, but hell if he cared. "Sit your damn ass down. You're stayin' at my place till I get this sorted."

The prospect did not sit well with her. He could see it in the way her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking to the window like she was already searching for another solution.

She shook her head. "I can't—"

"That's not an option."

She looked at him then, her brows drawing together. And he knew what she saw—knew she saw that hard-set determination in his face, the part of him that had already made up his mind.

What she didn’t see—what he’d never let her see—was the way his chest was burning with something too tight, too damn close to fear.

Because he’d walked into cold houses before. Knew what happened when the temperature dropped too low. Had seen bodies frozen stiff in the middle of the night, curled up as if that had been enough to keep them warm. Had seen what happened when people thought they could tough it out. He'd rather never see or smell that ever again.

Now, Leela thought she could tough it out. But he wasn’t about to let her gamble with a baby’s warmth just to prove a damn point. And if she thought this was some kind of negotiation, she was dead wrong. Because he wasn’t giving her a choice.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself, softening the edges just enough so he wasn’t barking orders at her like some kind of drill sergeant.

“Just for a while,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Till I can fix whatever the hell you fucked up down there.”

Leela didn’t answer right away, lips pressing into a thin line. But she wasn’t stupid.

She glanced up toward the stairs, toward where Maya was still sleeping. Then back at him. Joel could see the exact moment she gave in. Her shoulders slumped as she relented.

He nodded, standing up, already running through what needed to be done. “Good. I'll go bundle up the kid.”

X

Joel hasn't exactly planned to have company. Ever.

Maria and Tommy showed up sometimes. Ellie, too—though not without complaint. She claimed the place smelled like old people and swore visiting would tank her cool factor. But even when they came around, he never let them stay too long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before he was ushering them out the door with a gruff, Alright, get on, and some excuse about needing to be up early. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having people around. It was just—his place wasn’t made for that. He hadn’t made it for that.

It was single floor, nice and compact. He slept on the pullout couch in the living room. Not because he didn’t have that one really sweet bedroom, but because it was easier nowadays—closer to the door, closer to the window that faced the big white house across the street. His sink was a mess of dishes from last night, crusted over and rotting in the stale air. His cabinets weren’t stocked with food so much as they were with whiskey and coffee.

He came home. He ate. He slept. He woke up. Showered. Left. That was it. That was his life. It was enough and to spare.

So when Leela and Maya showed up at his front door, he wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on, then.”

Leela ducked inside first, shaking the cold from her coat, eyes flicking around the place as if she were already judging him for it. And maybe she was. Hell, Joel sure as shit would. Because this—this eyesore—was how she was gonna see him. As some tired, deadbeat old man who hadn’t even tried.

Maya stirred against her chest, her little hands fisting in the collar of Leela’s coat.

Joel cleared his throat and reached for her automatically. He needed his calm here. “C’mere, baby girl.”

She squealed at the sound of his voice, squirming, her small fingers flexing, gripping the fabric of his flannel before she finally settled against him, warm and soft. Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, a strange kind of tightness unwinding from his ribs. He hadn’t even realized he’d been bracing for something.

“She can stay with me,” Leela said softly, slipping out of her coat.

Joel shook his head. “Nah, you get some rest. You’re takin’ the room down the hall.”

Leela blinked, surprised. “And you?”

Joel busied himself with Maya, playing catch and release with her tiny fists, letting her grab onto his finger before slipping it away. “I’ll be fine. Got the couch.”

She frowned. “But you’ve got that bad back.”

Joel sighed, jaw twitching. “Yes, ma'am. Thanks for noticin’.”

Leela’s mouth quirked slightly, just a little, but enough that it softened something in her expression. “You should take the bed, Joel.”

He hummed, shaking his head, shifting Maya a little higher against his chest. “You just shot into a wall and burned yourself, darlin’. I think you’re entitled to a bed.”

She tilted her head at him, her brow pinching together like she was trying to figure something out.

Joel stared back, more stubborn than apprehensive, his grip tightening just a fraction around Maya’s small body.

He wasn’t sure what it was, that look of hers. But damn if it didn’t make him feel like he was seen in a way he wasn’t used to. Like she was really looking at him—not the grumpy bastard everyone in Jackson thought he was, not the fixer, not the old guy sleeping his way through life—but him.

Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. “Look, you’re takin’ the bed, that’s that. Maya can sleep next to you, so she’ll be closer.”

Leela was still staring at him, quiet for a long beat.

Then eventually she sighed. “Okay.”

It wasn’t much, but it felt like that little something Joel had wanted. Like an inch of the cold between them had finally cracked, let some warmth in.

Look, of course, Joel had always known his house was too damn small. He just hadn’t felt it until now.

There was no privacy to be had, not really. The pullout couch in the living room faced the bedroom door, left cracked open just enough for him to see the gentle rise and fall of Maya’s little body curled against where Leela would sleep later. The bathroom was the only one in the house, meaning if she needed it in the middle of the night, she’d have to walk past him to get there.

Not much space. Not much distance.

So when he heard the soft shuffle of her feet against the wood floor, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even have to look up from the guitar in his hands to know she’d wandered further inside, drawn toward the small corner of the living room where he kept his workspace.

It was a cramped setup—a shabby studio table shoved against the wall, two half-finished guitars resting on stands nearby. He’d only just started working on them, but it gave his hands something to do, something to create.

Leela’s fingers grazed over the unfinished wood, her touch featherlight. “I didn’t know you were this talented. A luthier.”

Joel chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Layin’ it on a bit thick.”

She ignored him, curiosity guiding her hands as she thumbed over the strings. A quiet hum vibrated through the air, not a real note, just a sound. She tilted her head, listening.

“Would you make one for me when you have time to spare?” she asked, glancing up. “I’d love to learn.”

Joel almost laughed, because—yeah. Yeah, he’d drop dead before refusing that. “‘Course,” he said, voice low but certain.

Leela’s eyes found it too easily, drawn in like a moth to an old light. He almost wished he'd hid it away.

The picture that had survived time and death, sat on the corner shelf, tucked between a coil of guitar strings and a worn-out rag, the frame dull with dust he never bothered to wipe away. The glass was cracked, a thin vein running through the top left corner, but it didn’t matter. The image was still there. She was still there.

Sarah, grinning wide, her curls bouncing as she leaned into him, arms slung around his shoulders. Joel remembered that day. He’d taken her out to some shitty little carnival on the edge of town, and let her sucker him into one of those rigged ring toss games. She’d won a stuffed bear—cheated, more like, because the booth worker had taken pity on her—and held onto it the whole night like it was the greatest thing in the world.

She looked happy. They looked happy.

And it hit him—like it always did, like it always would—how long it had been since he’d last heard her voice. Since she’d called him 'Dad!' in that exasperated, teasing way of hers. Since she’d looked at him like he was the safest place she’d ever known.

Leela didn’t say anything. She didn’t even reach for it, didn’t let her gaze linger too long. Just acknowledged it, felt it, then moved past it, like she understood that some ghosts weren’t meant to be disturbed. Let them rest.

Joel swallowed. It wasn’t often that someone gave him that kind of space—left his past untouched, let him sit with it without trying to crack it open.

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, brushing her fingers through her hair again—one of those little habits of hers, nervous and absentminded. The strands were overgrown, frayed at the ends, and he knew she probably didn’t have the time to fix it, or maybe just didn’t care enough to. He should tell Maria to give her a trim.

But, she wasn’t wearing that pearl-buttoned nightdress tonight. This one was blue. Smooth. Loose-fitting. The frilled sleeves barely touched her shoulders, and it wasn’t anything special, not really, but—he liked it. That colour looked pretty on her skin.

The thought settled in his chest like an itch he didn’t know how to scratch.

Leela watched her fingers trail absently over the wood grain of the desk. “I owe you an apology, Joel,” she murmured, her voice quieter now.

Joel listened and didn’t speak, just let the words settle between them.

“For how I’ve been treating you.” She swallowed, gaze flicking up to him, uncertain but steady. “You’ve only ever helped me, and you're so good with Maya. I know it wasn’t fair of me to just… shut you out.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

But she wasn’t convinced. She hesitated, jaw tensing, lips parting slightly before pressing shut again. There was something she wanted to say like it was dislodged deep, festering, in her chest.

“That night in the car…” She took a breath like it might help balance her. It didn’t. “It wasn't you. I had—before Maya, I was—there was—”

Joel knew that look. The way her throat bobbed, her fingers curling against the desk like she needed something solid to hold onto. Holding herself together. He didn’t let her unravel, just not tonight.

“Stop,” he said, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain.”

Leela blinked at him, studying his face, like she was trying to decide if he meant it. So he shrugged, forcing a small, easy grin.

“Perks of havin’ me around. I don’t care for the details.”

A small breath of laughter escaped her. Real, unguarded, softening the edges of her face. He loved to see it on her. “That's a relief.”

Joel leaned forward, rubbing his palm over his knee, the dull ache settling in from the long day.

His voice was lower when he spoke. “It’s just nice to be there, y’know?” He wasn’t good at this—saying shit like this—but it began to get easier with her. “With Maya. And you. There's more purpose than just shooting things beyond the fence.”

Something flickered across Leela’s face.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, and her knuckles paled with how tightly she gripped it. “You’re welcome home anytime, Joel. My door’s always open for you.”

Joel’s chest pulled tight.

He looked at her. And he thought about that damn oak door, how she never locked it, how he’d always given her hell for it in his head. And how, for the first time, it didn’t feel like carelessness.

It felt like trust. Not in this boring town of survivors. But in the neighbour across the street who'd ferreted his way into their lives.

Leela took a slow breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “So, you don’t have to come around just to fix things next time.”

Her voice was softer now. And then—something else. A small, almost shy laugh slipped past her lips, barely there, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say this next part out loud.

“Come to eat. To talk. To see Maya.” A beat. “And me.”

Joel felt it then—the shift. It wasn’t big, wasn’t some grand, earth-shaking thing. But it was there. He felt it.

"Maya loves you so much."

Joel glanced at her, unable to hold back the sympathy. He should’ve just let it sit. Should’ve just nodded, grunted something, and let the conversation move on. But instead, he said, low, “That bothering you?”

Leela hesitated, but only for a second. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her neck. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

Joel stayed quiet, watching her.

She let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “It’s just... I don’t feel like her mother. Not really.” Her voice was even, but he could hear the strain underneath, the sharp edge of something she didn’t want to say aloud. “I do everything I’m supposed to. Feed her. Hold her. Change her. But it’s just... a list to get through.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I thought it would be different. I know it's such an awful thing to say.”

Joel felt that like a punch to the gut. He knew what she meant. Knew how goddamn isolating it could be—to go through the motions, do the right thing, and still feel like you’re on the outside looking in.

“She’s yours, darlin',” he said after a moment. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—at making sense of feelings, at giving comfort. He was trying. “That’s what matters. Sometimes it's not a magic switch, you can't just flip it on and feel it. Sometimes, you grow to love someone. Over time, energy, effort.”

Leela scoffed, quiet, barely there. “That all it takes?”

“No,” Joel admitted. “But it’s good enough.”

She finally looked at him then, something cautious in her expression, something raw. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to say anything else. Just let the silence stretch, easy and open, not asking for more than she was willing to give.

Leela swallowed, nodding slightly, like she was tucking the words away, considering them.

The space between them, once weighed down by hesitation, by careful sidesteps and unspoken rules, felt… lighter. Like the tension that had settled into the cracks between their words was finally easing, letting some warmth slip through.

And that? That did something to him.

His throat worked around something unspoken, and he rolled his shoulders back, shifting from feet to feet, like he could physically shake whatever the hell was loose inside him. The words that wanted to come didn’t.

Instead, he settled on something simpler. Something safer.

“You should get some rest.”

Leela’s gaze lingered, searching, like she was trying to read something in his face. Then she nodded, flashing a grin. “Sure,” she murmured. “Goodnight, Joel.”

Joel held her gaze for a moment longer. His fingers flexed at his sides, a familiar itch settling in his chest, the kind that always came when he stood in doorways when someone was walking away and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow or stay put.

He watched her retreat into the room, disappear behind the cracked door, and stand there for a moment before finally turning away.

The door was open again. And that was the thing about doors.

They worked both ways.

X

While on the road, Joel had spent years sleeping in places that barely counted as beds. Hard ground. Rusted truck seats. Creaking, sagging mattresses in abandoned buildings where one wrong turn meant waking up dead. Even now, safe inside these walls, inside this town where people thought fences and routine were enough to keep the bad out, behind homes with locked doors—well, should have locked doors—he never truly slept deep.

Always on alert. Always half-ready. Even in the comfort of a home he could call his.

Joel lay on the couch, stiff as the thing itself, staring into the rough fabric. He wasn’t asleep—he never really was—but he kept his back turned anyway. It felt like the right thing to do, a courtesy or some form of privacy in a house too damn small to actually have any.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Long enough for the warmth of the fire to ebb. Long enough to hear the wind pick up outside, rattling at the windows. Long enough to wonder if Leela had finally managed to fall asleep.

He exhaled through his nose and, without really thinking about it, rolled over onto his side, eyes shifting toward the bedroom.

Leela was out cold.

Her hair had been pulled back into a loose braid, but strands had escaped, curling softly against her cheek. One hand dangled into the mattress as if she’d fallen asleep patting Maya and never quite finished. He could see the slow rise and fall of her chest, deep and steady, her body given over to exhaustion.

Joel frowned as his eyes drifted lower. The blanket had slipped, barely covering her waist, her legs left bare to the chill of the night. One knee peeked out, the curve of it catching the dim, murky light of the bedside lamp. He felt his jaw tighten, his fingers flexing at his side. Wasn’t she cold?

But then his eyes landed on the baby in front of her, and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased right out of him.

Maya was not asleep. Flat on her back, legs kicking sharp, barbed movements, her tiny fingers flexing in the air, opening and closing like she was trying to grab something invisible. Every so often, she let out a soft little coo, her breath light, testing, careful not to wake her mother.

Joel squinted. Lifted his head a little. Maybe she was just shifting in her sleep.

Nope, the kid was fully awake. Big, round eyes blinking up at the ceiling, mouth open in a little round ‘o’ of discovery, her hands reaching for her own damn feet, like she’d only just realized they were attached to her.

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. He could just leave her be. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t fussing. She'd fall asleep on her own.

But then she spotted him.

Her entire little body bucked, like the excitement was too much for her tiny limbs to contain. A bright, panting laugh bubbled from her mouth, and her hands curled, fists flailing like wanted to launch herself toward her.

Joel sighed. That was it. No walking away now.

Ignoring the slow, persistent cramp in his back, he shifted, pressing his hands into the pullout and pushing himself upright. His knees popped when he stood, and he winced, rolling his shoulders as he made his way into the bedroom. The floor groaned under his feet, but Leela didn’t stir. She was too far gone, too lost to the bruises and the exhaustion pressing her under.

Maya, on the other hand—beamed up at him, wiggling harder, completely unbothered by the late hour, her tiny hands batting at the air.

Joel sighed through his nose and crouched down beside the bed. He held up a finger to his lips. “Ssh, ssh,” he murmured like she had any damn understanding of the concept.

Her fists continued to flail, little feet kicking the air, and he sighed, leaning down to scoop her up. She fit into his arms easily, the way she always did—small and naming the nook to herself, all warm skin and bundled sleepiness. Sleep fired right out of his system.

“You're gonna wake your poor mama,” he whispered to her.

Shifting Maya against his chest, he glanced at Leela again. She hadn’t moved a muscle, fast asleep. But the blanket had slipped low, barely covering her waist, her arms left uncovered to the cold.

Joel hesitated for only a second before leaning over, taking the edge of the comforter and tucking it around her, careful not to wake her. The fabric pooled at her shoulder, and she sighed quietly in her sleep, sinking into the warmth of the bed, but not waking.

Good. She was finally catching up on sleep. When was the last time he'd seen that girl rest? Never. She'd always woken up the earliest, wandering between her papers and blackboards in the living room.

Maya let out a content little hum against his shoulder, and Joel blew out a breath, stepping back out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. He wasn’t going to bother putting her back on the bed. She was too awake for that.

Instead, he plunged back onto the couch, settling into the cushions and adjusting her against his chest. She curled into him easily, her featherlight weight pressing against his ribs. She hummed again, a soft, breathy little thing, and then—one of her fists landed against his sternum with a dull thump.

Joel huffed, peering down at her. “You tryin’ to knock the wind outta me, trouble?”

Maya lifted her head to blink up again, dark eyes round and glassy in the dim light, looking like she had something important to say. Then her fist lifted again, this time smacking more of a lazy pat than anything with real intent.

He narrowed a playful glare on her, shifting her a little higher against him. He poked at her cheek. “We got some problems, or is this just your way of lettin’ me know you’re still awake?”

She didn’t answer—fucking obviously—but she did something close to it. Her mouth rounded in a small, exaggerated ooh, and her fingers fumbled against his shirt before one of them caught onto his.

Joel felt the soft, clumsy pull of her grip, then the unmistakable wet warmth of her mouth closing around the tip of his finger.

He grimaced, but not in any real discomfort. “Great, there you go. You're lucky you're so beautiful.”

Maya suckled lazily, brows furrowing like she was concentrating really hard on the task, and Joel exhaled, letting her gnaw as much as she wanted.

Joel stared at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, careful circles against her back.

She was a happier baby now. Not screaming. Not crying as much. Just there. Comfortable and safe.

He swallowed against the feeling mashing against his ribs. His jaw unclenched, let his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. And he let out the longest breath known to man.

It had been years—years since he’d felt this weight, this warmth, this need pressed against him. It was a different life, a different world, but somehow, it wasn’t. His body still knew this, still remembered the rhythm of it, the quiet intimacy of a baby trusting him enough to just be here, curled up against his chest, with no fear, no hesitation.

And goddamn him, but he loved it. Loved the small breaths puffing against his collarbone. Loved the way she looked up at him, slow and sleepy, tapping her tiny knuckles against him like she was checking to make sure he was still there. Loved that he didn't have to think about anything, not feel like the whole world was closing in.

Loved this.

He wasn’t thinking about the past. No, he wasn’t. But if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t admit it.

The sound of the front door unlocking jolted him.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his entire body tensing for a fight as his hand instinctively curled around Maya’s small back, protective, ready. His other hand curled into a loose fist at his thigh.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside.

Ellie.

“Joel?” she whispered, peering at him in confusion.

Joel just stared at her. Not because she was here—she was always stopping by when she damn well pleased—but because for the first time in his life, he was the one who forgot to lock the damn door.

Maya shifted against his chest, making a soft noise, her tiny fingers still curled around his. Joel gave her a small, reassuring bounce as if she’d needed one.

Ellie, meanwhile, was still standing there, taking in the sight of him on the couch, a whole baby in his arms, and the bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at the woman asleep inside. The pretty neighbour that had Joel all riled up.

Her eyebrows lifted and mouth twitched as she crossed her arms. “This isn’t a hostage situation, right? Am I an accomplice now?”

Joel sent her a flat look. “Whatever gave that away?”

Ellie then continued to stare at him and at Maya.

It was the kind of look Joel had gotten used to over the years, the one where she tried to figure out if she was hallucinating. Because she’d seen Joel Miller do a lot of things—wrangle Clickers, nurse a cold one, fix up a rifle—but sitting on his couch, cradling a whole-ass baby like that? It was a new one. Like unlocking a new character in a video game.

Her lips pressed together, eyes still flicking between him and the kid, and then—she snorted.

“Oh, man,” she whispered, shaking her head, a shit-eating grin spreading over her face. “I wish I had a camera to capture this gold.”

Joel sighed. “Alright, get on with it.”

Grinning, Ellie plopped herself down beside him, the whole couch shaking, immediately leaning in close to peer at Maya. Almost as if she was the first infant she'd seen in her life.

“Hi, baby,” she cooed, voice going all high-pitched and ridiculous. “Hiiii.”

Maya blinked at her, unmoving, her fists curled safely in her mouth, her tiny brows furrowing as if she were trying to figure out just who the hell this new person was.

Ellie wiggled a finger in front of her. “Here. Go on, grab it.”

Maya did not. She just kept staring, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, utterly mystified by the sudden intrusion.

Joel huffed. “Guess she ain’t impressed.”

“Guess she’s got taste, you dick,” Ellie shot back. Then, her face softened, a little smirk curling her lips. “She’s fucking adorable. Look at those eyes, damn.” Joel barely had time to process the warmth that spread through his chest before Ellie tacked on, “So, definitely not yours.”

His scoff came out before he could stop it. “Oh, real funny, kid.”

Ellie chuckled, finally settling back against the couch, still watching Maya like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “How come they’re here?”

Joel didn’t go into the details, never liked to. About Leela’s bruises, about how she’d been too damn stubborn for her own good, about how he’d practically had to drag her in here to sleep in his bed.

Instead, he just muttered, “Blackout. Gonna head back in the morning and check it out.”

Ellie hummed like she knew there was more to it but didn’t feel like prying.

For a while, they just sat there in silence, and Joel simply let himself watch. The room was dim, the fire in the hearth burned low, throwing flickering shadows across the worn wooden floors. The cold pressed against the windows, creeping in through the cracks, but in here, it was warm—quiet, steady. Both in him and around him.

Ellie leaned in closer, her breath puffing softly against Maya’s round little cheek as she wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “What about this? You like this?” she murmured, tapping her tiny nose, and making a series of stupid clicking sounds.

Maya blinked, floored by this, her wide eyes tracking Ellie’s every move like she was watching the most fascinating thing in the world.

It took another few moments, but then—finally—Maya’s tiny fingers reached out, wrapping shyly around Ellie’s outstretched one. Not tight, not possessive, just curious. Testing.

Joel felt that feeling again, twisting deep in his ribs, imperceptive and calm and unnameable. He could get used to that feeling. It plugged every scar, physical and mental, until his shoulders felt ten times lighter.

The kid he’d sort of raised, playing with the baby he was yet to.

And for the first time in a long time, that muddle just… settled. It was late, too late in life for this kind of thing. But hell, cut him some slack.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring into the last of the fire, watching as the embers pulsed and flickered, struggling to stay alive. His hand absently smoothed over Maya’s back, following the slow rise and fall of her breathing, feeling the tiny weight of her against his chest. She was still. Not fussing. Just there.

Ellie shifted beside him, stretching her legs out, resting her arms against her knees. She wasn’t in a hurry to fill the silence. She just sat there, watching him in that way of hers, like she saw more than she let on.

“So,” she finally said, voice casual. “How’re things between you and…?”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Just flicked her chin toward the bedroom.

Leela was still dead to the world, sunk into the kind of sleep that didn’t let you turn over, didn’t let you dream. Her hand had slipped out from beneath the blanket, fingers curled loosely against the mattress. He wondered how long it had been since she’d let herself rest like that, without one ear open for some threat, without her body coiled tight, waiting for the next hang-up.

Joel looked away. He shifted slightly, adjusting Maya, keeping his voice even. “There’s nothing between us.”

Ellie hummed like she wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, no shit.” She stretched her arms behind her head, smirking. “She’s way out of your league.”

Joel snorted, shaking his head. “No argument here.”

He didn’t need Ellie to tell him that. He was thickheaded, but he wasn't blind. Leela was… Leela. Stunning in that exotic way, compassionate as a human, insanely intelligent. And him? What was he exactly, a cut-throat? A fighter? A relentless fucking human who just refused to die? Twenty years ago, a woman like that wouldn’t have given him the time of day, much less a second glance. A girl like her, back in the world before, would’ve had a whole life ahead of her, a whole set of possibilities. Not this. Not him.

And maybe that’s how it should’ve been. Maybe that’s why this didn’t make any sense.

He tensed his grip on Maya and felt the way she instinctively burrowed against him, curling her little fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She cooed again, watching his mouth move to form words.

He could be something for her. If Leela wanted it, he could carve out a space in Maya's life, be her constant, be her safety net. Hell, be this baby girl's father. He would compromise in a blink. That was different. That was right.

But having Leela herself? That was something else entirely. That was dangerous. That was selfish. There were too many ways it could go wrong. Too many ways it would end badly.

Not because of him, or her, or anything either of them did—just because that was the way life went. He wasn’t made for this kind of thing anymore. Wasn’t built for it. He was too damn old, too set in his ways. And even if she—somehow—wanted this, wanted him, what then? How long until he fucked it up? How long until he lost it?

The way he always did.

He swallowed hard. “I’m too old for her,” he managed to mutter.

Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You're fucking kidding. The world ended. There is no standard. And you still care about what, an age gap? Brownie points? Jesus, Joel. You've been through too much to care.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept his gaze on the fire, jaw tight.

It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about how it looked or what people would say. Hell, no one would care. He wouldn't care. They were past that kind of bullshit.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still impossible.

Because Joel knew himself. He knew what it was like to want something real, to care about someone so much it hollowed you out from the inside. And he knew how fast it could all go to hell.

It was about the fact that she still had so much time. That she could still find someone real, someone better. That she deserved more than a haunted, greying man, who could barely sleep through the night, combing through his days, who lived waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

And she deserved better than a man too tired, too worn down by life, to give her more than what little he had left.

Ellie sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Y’know…” she started, then stopped.

Joel glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly.

She didn’t go on right away. Just drummed her fingers against her knee, staring into the fire, her face unreadable. For once, she wasn’t running her mouth, wasn’t making a joke to cut through whatever was settling between them. She was thinking. That alone put him on edge.

Finally, she said, “It’s different. These last few weeks. Even Tommy sees it.”

Joel frowned, not at the words themselves, but at the way she said them—slow, cautious, like she wasn’t just talking to him but trying to make sense of it for herself.

Ellie had always been good at reading him, sometimes better than he wanted. But this—this was different.

She flitted her gaze toward the bedroom, where Leela was still out cold, her body barely stirring under the blankets. Then to Maya, curled up against him, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt, her soft weight pressed into his chest. Finally, she looked back at him.

She didn’t spell it out. Didn’t need to.

Joel swallowed, shifting slightly where he sat, adjusting Maya’s weight in his arms. His hand smoothed down her back, more out of habit than anything else. He glanced toward the bedroom too, toward Leela, who hadn’t moved an inch. Yes, it was different.

But Ellie wasn’t done. She hesitated, rolling something over in her head before finally letting it out.

“It’s… good, y’know? You having this nice thing.” She waved a vague hand toward the baby, toward Leela. “You don't usually let yourself have nice things. Something that’s not just me.”

Joel’s breath caught.

Ellie had always been his reason for waking up in the morning, the one thing keeping him tethered to whatever life he had left. And she knew that. Knew it in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought with tooth and claw to prove she didn’t need him to keep her standing. That he had his own life. But now, sitting there, she wasn’t mocking, wasn’t teasing. She was just… saying it. And she was goddamn right.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just pushing forward because he had to, wasn’t just surviving out of habit. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall.

He had something to come back to. Something steady. Something small and warm and his, even if he didn’t know what the hell to do with it yet.

He looked down at Maya, at her tiny, trusting weight in his arms, at the way she twitched slightly in her sleep, lips parting around a breath. His hand smoothed over her back again.

Ellie saw the moment it clicked. The way his face shifted, just slightly. She smirked, satisfied. And that her good work here was done.

Then, just like that, she clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Well,” she said, voice slipping back into that familiar teasing lilt, “guess I’ll let you get back to your hostage situation.”

Joel rolled his eyes, settling deeper into the couch as Maya nuzzled against his chest. The kid was out cold now, her little fist still tangled in his shirt.

Ellie was already heading for the door when she threw out in a whisper, “Oh—almost forgot. Maria asked me to tell you to bring your girl by the dam sometime this week.” She smirked, holding up air quotes. “Said she’d like ‘inventor insight.’”

His expression deadpanned. “Maria ain’t letting her go anywhere near machines.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Ooh-kay. Controlling much?”

Joel gave her a warning look. “Ellie.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “I’ll just tell her myself.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, already seeing how that would go. If Leela knew Maria was interested, she’d want to help. She’d go, eager to prove herself, eager to be useful. And then she’d get herself hurt again, pushing past whatever limits she had, just like she always did. That wasn’t happening.

“She’s stayin’ away,” he muttered. “She’ll go, then want to help. Overdo it. Get herself hurt or worse.” He gave Ellie a pointed look. “Better not.”

Ellie let out a sharp laugh, all evil intent. “And you’re telling me there’s nothing between you two?”

“Ellie,” he hissed, too fast, too sharp—just as Maya stirred slightly against his chest, her little face scrunching. He froze, holding his breath, waiting to see if she’d wake.

Ellie’s smirk was damn near insufferable.

“Denial,” she sang out, drawing out the word like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.

Joel sent her a flat look.

Ellie just wiggled her fingers in a wave and made for the door once more. “Night, old man.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet house, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Joel exhaled slowly, his hand smoothing absently over Maya’s back again.

Denial. Maybe. He wasn't ruling it out yet.

X

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[inseobts]

Idk if u do request but can you do Scary reader x One piece men? Law, Shanks, Sabo, Ace, Croc, The monster trio & whoever else you want! Basically the reader is really scary but {{char}} finds their scariness attractive.

Attractive Scariness

a/n: sorry but at some point I got out of ideas lmao

characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, law, ace, shanks, sabo and crocodile

words count: around 0.4k - 0.9k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

You’re used to fear.

The wide eyes, the shaky hands, the people stumbling over themselves to get away, etc. It’s always the same. Ever since you ate your Devil Fruit, people have called you a monster. Even when you’re not fighting, your presence alone makes people nervous.

So when you land on this island and step into a small village, you already expect the usual reaction.

And you get it.

The streets clear as soon as you walk in. The market stalls empty. Even the shopkeepers pretend not to see you.

You sigh.

“Again?” you mutter “I just want some food…”

You’re about to turn around when someone doesn’t run. A boy in a red vest and a straw hat stands right in front of you, grinning like he doesn’t even notice how scary you are.

No. He notices. He just doesn’t care.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, eyes shining “You’re super strong, huh?”

You blink “What?”

“I can tell!” He nods, completely sure of himself “Strong people have this feeling about them. And you feel really strong!”

You stare at him. That’s… new. No “stay away from me” or “please don’t kill me.” Just pure excitement.

Luffy tilts his head “What’s your power?”

You hesitate. Usually, this is the part where people scream. But he’s looking at you like a kid waiting for a magic trick.

You raise your hand. A shadow swirls around your fingers, shifting like smoke. The air around you grows heavy, dark, unnatural.

Luffy gasps.

“That’s so cool!”

“…Huh?”

“You can control shadows? Or darkness? Or... wait, is it nightmares?” He’s practically bouncing “Can you do giant shadow hands? Or make yourself super big? Or—”

You blink at him “You’re… not scared?”

Luffy grins wider “Why would I be? You’re awesome!”

This has never happened before. Ever. You don’t know what to do.

Then Luffy grabs your wrist “Hey, join my crew!”

Your brain short-circuits “What?”

“I’m Luffy! I’m gonna be King of the Pirates, and I need strong people on my crew. And you’re really strong!”

You open your mouth, then close it. You look at him, at his bright, careless smile, at the way he’s just standing there, holding onto your wrist like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’re just a person.

Not a monster.

“…You’re weird” you say.

Luffy laughs “People tell me that a lot.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then, for the first time in forever, you smile.

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll join you.”

Luffy cheers, throwing his fists in the air “Yes! This is gonna be awesome!”

You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for. But for once, you don’t feel like a nightmare.

You just feel like you.

Years have passed since you met Luffy. Since he grabbed your wrist, called you strong, and changed your life without even trying.

Back then, you weren’t sure what you were getting into. Now, you know.

Being with Luffy means chaos. It means waking up to find him hanging upside down from the ship’s mast, laughing like it’s normal. It means fighting beside him, watching him charge straight at danger without fear—because he trusts you to have his back.

It means love.

A love that is loud and wild, but also simple. Easy. Because Luffy has never been afraid of you. Not then, not now.

Right now, you’re on an island, sitting in the shade while the crew runs around. The villagers are keeping their distance, just like always. Even after all these years, people still fear you.

But it doesn’t matter anymore.

Because across the field, Luffy is waving at you, smiling so wide it makes your chest feel warm. He doesn’t care that people avoid you. He doesn’t care that you’re “scary”, to him, you’re just you.

He runs over, plopping down next to you with a grin “Whatcha doin’?”

You raise an eyebrow “Sitting.”

Luffy gasps dramatically “No way. That’s crazy.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder. He just laughs, leaning against you without a care in the world.

For a while, you sit there together. The sun is warm, the breeze is nice, and Luffy is… Luffy. He hums a little song under his breath, playing with your fingers like he’s fascinated by them.

Then, he says “You know, you’re kinda scary.”

You pause “Oh?”

He nods “Yeah. Like, super scary. When you fight, people freak out. Even Zoro said you’re the last person he’d wanna fight seriously.”

You wait for the usual words to follow. Monster. Freak. Too much.

But instead, Luffy grins and squeezes your hand.

“I love it.”

Your heart stops for a second.

Luffy keeps talking, like he hasn’t just turned your entire world upside down “It’s awesome! You’re so strong, and you do that cool shadowy thing, and when you get serious, even the bad guys look like they’re gonna cry.” He laughs, eyes shining “It’s really cool.”

You don’t answer right away. Because what is there to say?

For so long, your power was a curse. Something that made you different. Something that made you alone.

But here, with Luffy, it’s just another part of you.

“…You’re an idiot” you mumble, looking away.

Luffy laughs “Yeah, but you love me.”

You roll your eyes “Unfortunately.”

He gasps “What?!”

You shove his face away, and he just laughs harder, wrapping his arms around you like an octopus. He clings to you, laughing and warm, and you sigh, pretending to be annoyed.

But the truth is, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Because you are strong. And scary. And Luffy loves it.

And that is more than enough.

── .✦ Roronoa Zoro:

Zoro knows strength when he sees it.

He can sense it in the way people move, in the way they breathe. Some fighters hesitate, some carry doubt, but you don’t.

From the moment he meets you, he can tell. You don’t just fight. You hunt. And for some reason, he can’t take his eyes off you.

It starts on an island known for its warriors. The crew stops to rest, but Zoro wants a challenge. A real fight. So when he hears rumors of a swordsfighter so deadly that even bounty hunters avoid them, he doesn’t hesitate.

But when he finds you, it’s not what he expects.

You’re not some old master or a towering brute. You’re just… you. Sitting under a tree, sharpening your blade like you have all the time in the world.

Zoro stops a few feet away, arms crossed “You’re the one they’re all scared of?”

You glance up. Your eyes are sharp, your aura heavy, and for a second, it’s like the temperature drops.

Zoro grins. Oh, yeah. This is gonna be good.

You sigh, standing up “You here to fight me too?”

He smirks “Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

Something flickers in your gaze, something dark and dangerous. Then you smile, slow and sharp “You’ll regret that.”

And then you move.

It happens fast. One second, you’re standing still. The next, your own blade is inches from his neck. Zoro barely blocks in time, his instincts the only thing keeping his head attached.

His blood rushes.

You don’t fight like normal swordsfighters. Your movements are smooth, calculated, but there’s something more. Something predatory.

Zoro grins “Not bad.”

You tilt your head “Not bad?”

And then you attack for real.

The clash of steel echoes through the trees. Zoro meets each strike, but he can feel the difference in the way you fight. You don’t waste movement. You don’t test him. You go straight for the kill.

Most people would find that terrifying.

Zoro finds it hot as hell.

His smirk widens “You don’t hold back, huh?”

You don’t answer, but there’s something in your eyes... curiosity, maybe. Like you’re testing him.

Good. He likes a challenge.

The fight goes on, fast and brutal, but in the end, neither of you go all out. It’s just a taste, a promise of something more. When you finally lower your blade, Zoro does the same.

You study him for a moment, then nod “You’re not bad either.”

Zoro huffs a laugh “High praise.”

You sheath your sword and turn away “I’m going back to town. You coming or what?”

He watches you go, smirking to himself.

Yeah. He’s definitely interested.

Years Later – Zoro should probably be concerned that his partner is one of the most terrifying people he’s ever met.

But he’s not.

In fact, it just makes him like you more.

Right now, you’re standing on the deck of the Sunny, staring down a group of bounty hunters dumb enough to challenge you. You haven’t even drawn your sword yet, but the way you look at them, sharp, unreadable, deadly, makes them hesitate.

Zoro leans against the railing, watching with amusement. He already knows how this will go.

One of the bounty hunters shifts nervously “Y-you gonna fight or what?”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly “You first.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Then they charge. Big mistake.

Zoro watches as you dodge effortlessly, your blade a blur. The fight lasts seconds. By the time you sheath your sword, your opponents are on the ground, groaning in pain.

Silence. Then, Luffy cheers from the mast “That was awesome!”

Zoro smirks. Damn right it was.

You turn to him, raising an eyebrow “You just gonna watch?”

He shrugs with a smirk “I was enjoying watching... and didn’t wanna get in your way.”

You walk over, stopping in front of him “You’re getting lazy.”

He scoffs “Oh yeah?”

You lean in, voice low “Yeah. Maybe I should fight you next.”

Zoro feels a familiar rush of excitement. His hand twitches toward his swords “You sure you can keep up?”

You smirk “Try me.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Lost in you, in the fight, in the thrill of having someone who meets him blow for blow.

You’re terrifying. And beautiful. And stronger than hell.

And he wouldn’t have you any other way.

── .✦ Vinsmoke Sanji:

Sanji has seen all kinds of people. Beautiful women, powerful warriors, even actual monsters. But he’s never met anyone like you.

You meet in a quiet, dimly lit tavern. The crew stops for a meal, and Sanji, always on the lookout for interesting faces, notices you immediately.

You sit in the darkest corner, barely touching your drink. Your posture is relaxed, but there’s something wrong about it, like you could strike at any moment. The air around you feels heavy.

People glance at you and quickly look away. A group of bounty hunters at a nearby table seem tense, whispering among themselves.

Sanji watches as one of them inches toward the door. His hands are shaking.

That’s when he realizes, they’re afraid of you. A lot.

Sanji takes a slow drag of his cigarette. Interesting.

“Hey cook, what are you doing there, standing like an idiot.” Zoro says while they all sit at a table.

He’s about to turn back to his crew and reply to that marimo when the bartender makes a mistake and accidentally spills a drink on your sleeve.

The entire tavern stops breathing.

The bartender goes pale “I—I’m so sorry—”

You say nothing. You don’t even look at him. Just slowly, carefully, you pick up a napkin and wipe your sleeve.

The silence stretches.

Sanji almost laughs at how scared everyone looks. What, do they think you’re gonna kill him for a drink spill?

The bartender swallows “Please, let me—”

“It’s fine” you say.

Your voice is quiet. Smooth. Too calm.

The bartender flinches anyway.

Sanji watches as you set the napkin down, push your drink away, and stand. You turn toward the door, and the crowd parts around you, everyone desperate to get out of your way.

Sanji, curious as hell, does the exact opposite.

He steps into your path, smiling “Leaving so soon?”

You stop and lift your gaze, as everyone there gasps.

Most people can’t meet Sanji’s eyes for long. His confidence, his sharpness, it makes them squirm. But you?

You stare right through him.

For the first time in a long time, Sanji feels his heart skip.

“…Who are you?” he asks.

You tilt your head slightly “Does it matter?”

That voice. Calm. Slow. Like a knife dragging against silk.

Sanji exhales smoke, smirking “I’d like to think so.”

You study him. And for some reason, he feels like he’s the one being hunted.

Then you smile, small, unreadable “See you around… cook.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

Sanji stands there, heart pounding as he thinks, oh, I’m in trouble.

Years Later – Sanji likes to think he doesn’t scare easy. He’s faced warlords, monsters, and the wrath of Nami’s fist.

But nothing terrifies him more than the way you just appear.

“Sanji.”

“GAH—!”

He jumps, nearly dropping the plate he’s holding. You’re suddenly right next to him, quiet as a shadow.

He clutches his chest “How do you do that?!”

You blink “Do what?”

“That!” He gestures at you wildly “I didn’t hear you at all! You just—just materialized!”

You tilt your head, amused “I walked in.”

“No, you haunted in.”

You hum in thought “Maybe you should pay more attention.”

Sanji groans, running a hand through his hair “You’re gonna kill me one day, I swear.”

“Wouldn’t be much fun,” you say, smirking slightly “I’d miss this.”

Sanji pauses. Then, with a slow, dramatic sigh, he pulls you into a hug.

You stiffen at first, but he’s patient. He knows you’re not used to softness.

When you relax, he kisses the top of your head “You’re cruel, y’know that?”

“Am I?”

“You make my heart stop every damn day.”

You smile against his chest “Good.”

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

Law prides himself on being composed. No matter the situation, he never loses control.

But then he meets you, and for the first time in a long time, he feels something close to unease.

It happens on a stormy night. The Heart Pirates dock at a quiet island, and Law sets off alone, drawn by rumors of a dangerous individual hiding in town. Some say you’re a ghost, others call you a demon.

He doesn’t believe in superstition. But he believes in threats.

So when he finds you in the ruins outside of town, standing perfectly still, eyes dark and unreadable, he watches you carefully.

“You’ve been causing trouble” he says, testing your reaction.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. The wind howls through the ruins, but you remain as still as a statue.

Most people shift under his gaze. But you? You don’t even blink.

Law narrows his eyes “Who are you?”

Finally, you tilt your head “You already know, don’t you?”

Your voice is calm. Steady. Wrong.

It reminds him of the quiet before a scalpel slices skin.

Law tightens his grip on Kikoku “What’s your ability?”

You step forward, and the ground cracks beneath your foot. A shadow flickers at the edge of his vision, stretching unnaturally.

“Does it matter?” you ask.

Law doesn’t flinch. But something deep in his chest tightens.

Because he knows that feeling. The quiet hum of danger.

And yet, instead of fear, he feels something else. Intrigue. He's actually really attracted and he can't deny it.

It takes Law a while to notice. To really notice.

Because you’re fearless in battle. You fight like a force of nature, silent and merciless, the kind of presence that makes enemies pray they don’t cross your path. You don’t just win fights, you end them.

And yet, when you’re with the crew, you’re… different.

Law catches it in small moments.

The way you ruffle Bepo’s fur when you think no one’s looking. The way you always make sure Penguin and Shachi get extra food after a long day. The way you quietly fix things around the ship before anyone else notices they’re broken.

And he feels it most with him. Like when you sit beside him in the submarine’s dimly lit halls, comfortable in silence, just existing next to him without expectation. Or when you lean against him after a rough mission, exhaustion making you a little softer, a little less guarded.

Or, most obviously, when you think he’s asleep.

He catches you once, fingers brushing against his hair, barely there, like you’re memorizing the shape of him.

He should say something. Call you out. But he doesn’t.

Because for some reason, the realization that the person who terrifies even seasoned killers, is so unbelievably gentle with him?

It does something to him.

Something dangerous.

Years Later – Being in a relationship with you comes with some complications.

Like right now.

“Sit still, damn it” Law mutters, pressing bandages against your side.

You sigh “It’s just a scratch.”

Law glares at you “It’s a stab wound.”

You shrug “Same thing.”

He clenches his jaw, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him “I swear, you are the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

You smirk “And yet, I’m still your favorite.”

Law groans, but he doesn’t deny it.

Because despite everything, your terrifying strength, your eerie presence, your complete disregard for injuries, he can’t help but be drawn to you.

You are the only person who unsettles him. And somehow, you’ve also become the one person he trusts the most.

He huffs, finishing the bandages “Try not to die.”

You grin, leaning in “Worried about me, doctor?”

“Tch” He flicks your forehead “Shut up.”

And despite himself, he smiles.

The next time you get hurt, Law doesn’t even bother hiding his frustration.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters, tightening the bandage around your arm “One of these days, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You watch him, amused “Would you miss me?”

He scowls “Shut up”

You smirk “You would.”

Law clicks his tongue, looking away. He hates how smug you sound. Hates it even more because you’re right.

Instead of answering, he sighs, finishing the bandage. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses a hand against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re lucky I like you” he mutters.

For the first time, you freeze.

Then, slowly, you smile. And Law knows he’s in so much trouble.

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

On a nameless island, a pit stop for pirates and criminals alike, Ace hears the rumors first, stories about a lone warrior, someone so deadly that even bounty hunters won’t go near them.

He thinks it sounds like fun.

So when he walks into a bar and sees everyone stiffening at the mere sight of someone sitting in the corner, he knows he’s found you.

You sit alone, idly spinning a knife between your fingers. Your expression is calm, unreadable, but the tension in the room is thick.

Ace grins, making his way over “Mind if I sit?”

You don’t look up “Do what you want.”

He plops down across from you, resting his chin in his hand “Y’know, people are real scared of you.”

Silence.

Ace watches you carefully. You don’t move like a normal fighter. There’s something off about the way you breathe, the way your presence lingers like a shadow stretching too far.

It should probably freak him out.

Instead, it makes his blood rush.

“So,” he continues, smirking “What’s your deal? You a bounty hunter? Are you here to fight?”

You finally meet his eyes. Your gaze is sharp, calculating, like you’re dissecting him without lifting a finger.

"I was just curious who everyone was talking about, turns out it was you."

“…You’re not scared of me?”

Ace grins wider “Should I be?”

The knife in your hand stops spinning and or a split second, the air feels heavy.

Then, slowly, you smirk “Maybe? You tell me. That's what you came here for, isn't it?”

Ace laughs. Loud, bright, genuine.

And just like that, he decides that he actually finds you very attractive, and isn't letting you go so easily.

Years Later – Ace still remembers the first time he saw you fight.

He has always been the kind of guy who laughs in the face of danger.

He doesn’t hesitate to charge into battle, doesn’t flinch at the thought of death. He’s faced warlords, marines, even entire armies.

But when he saw you fighting? For the first time in his life, he felt like prey, even if you weren't fighting him.

How you moved like a phantom, striking fast, silent, merciless. How your enemies barely had time to scream before they hit the ground.

Everyone calls you terrifying. A monster. A nightmare in a human form.

And yet, right now, curled up against him, grumbling sleepily as he wraps his arms around you Ace can’t help but laugh.

You groan “What? You going crazy now?”

“You,” he teases, resting his chin on top of your head “You’re supposed to be the scariest person alive, but look at you.”

You swat at his chest “Shut up.”

Ace just grins, pulling you closer “Nah. I like reminding you.”

"You're always so annoying..." you say turning to not let him see you blush.

Because despite the way you fight, despite the way you terrify your enemies, Ace has seen what no one else has.

How you tuck into his blankets when you're alone. How you always make sure the crew eats before you do. How you fuss over him when he pretends his injuries don’t hurt.

You act all tough, all sharp edges and killing intent.

But Ace knows the truth.

You’re soft. At least, with him.

And that makes him fall for you even more.

He turn your head so that he can see you and with a smirk he says "Don't worry you're hot both ways, I don't mind your soft side at all"

Then he kiss your forehead and you try to hide again, making him laugh softly.

── .✦ Shanks:

Shanks has seen a lot in his life.

He’s fought warlords, crossed paths with the most dangerous men on the seas, and stared death in the face with a grin.

But when he meets you, he realizes he’s never met someone who could scare him and turn him on at the same time.

It happens in a crowded port town, where pirates and mercenaries walk side by side, tension thick in the air. Shanks and his crew are enjoying a round of drinks when Benn nudges him, nodding toward a shadowed corner of the bar.

“Oi, I found out that one’s got quite the reputation.”

Shanks follows his gaze and sees you.

You sit alone, posture relaxed but too still. There’s something about you... something in the way the people around you refuse to meet your eyes, in the way the bartender serves you with hands that tremble, scared to even do his own job.

The crew isn’t easily shaken, but even they seem wary.

Shanks just grins. Because if there’s one thing he can’t resist, it’s a challenge.

“Think I’ll go say hi.”

Benn sighs “Of course you will. Never doubted it.”

Shanks strolls over, drink in hand, and slides into the seat across from you without asking.

You don’t react. Just lift your gaze and meet his like you’re peering into his soul.

He whistles “You’ve got quite the stare.”

“You’ve got quite the nerve...” you reply smoothly.

Shanks chuckles “I get that a lot, actually.”

Silence stretches between you. He expects you to get annoyed, to tell him to leave, but surprisingly you don’t.

You just watch him. Measuring. Calculating. And damn if it doesn’t send a thrill up his spine.

Finally, you speak “You’re not scared of me.”

Shanks smirks, tipping his drink toward you “Should I be?”

Your eyes glint with something sharp. Dangerous. Interested.

“Maybe not, but who knows.”

Shanks leans forward, grinning “I like my odds.”

"I can see it..."

Years Later - “You’re doing it again” Benn mutters.

Shanks blinks “Doing what?”

Benn nods toward you. You’re across the deck, casually sharpening a blade, the crew giving you a very wide berth.

“You’re staring like a love-struck idiot” Benn sighs.

Shanks laughs “Can you blame me?”

Because despite years of being with you, despite knowing exactly how terrifying you can be, Shanks still finds himself completely captivated whenever you're fighting or not.

He’s seen you end fights with a single strike, watched entire battlefields fall silent at your presence. You are ruthless when necessary, the kind of person who doesn’t waste time with threats, just action.

And yet when you think no one’s watching, he sees the little things.

How you make sure the younger crew members eat first. How you adjust someone’s coat when they’re not paying attention. How, late at night, when exhaustion weighs heavy, you let yourself lean into him.

And Shanks?

He eats it up.

Because out of everyone in the world, you choose to be soft only with him.

Later that night, as you both sit on the deck watching the waves, Shanks stretches, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You roll your eyes but don’t push him away.

He grins “Y’know, for someone so scary, you’re kinda sweet.”

You turn, raising a brow “Wanna say that again?”

Shanks chuckles “Not if I value my life, and I do.”

You smirk, leaning against him just a little.

And that small, rare gesture is worth more to him than any treasure. He's totally in your hands, can you believe it? Because even he something looks at himself and shake his own head at the thought, but at the end who cares? He's with the most attractive person out there.

── .✦ Sabo:

Sabo isn’t the type to scare easily.

He has fought world nobles, infiltrated enemy territory, and stared death in the face more times than he can count. Fear isn’t something he entertains, it’s something he’s learned to push aside, to control.

But when he meets you?

For the first time in a long while, he actually hesitates.

It happens in a revolution-friendly town, the kind of place where people whisper about rebellion but fear retaliation too much to act. Sabo’s here on business, but what he doesn’t expect is to hear a name spoken in hushed, almost fearful tones.

A name that isn’t a government official or a bounty hunter, but yours.

“Who are they?” he asks a local, intrigued.

The man pales “Someone you don’t want to cross.”

Sabo just smirks “Is that so?”

He should probably be cautious. Should probably listen to the fear in the man’s voice.

But instead, he just wants to meet you more.

You’re exactly as the rumors say. You're cold, calculating and dangerous.

When Sabo finds you, you don’t attack him. You just watch him. Still. Silent. Your presence alone feels heavy, like the weight of an unseen blade resting against his throat, daring him to make a wrong move.

Most people would crack under it.

Sabo just grins “Heard a lot about you.”

You don’t react “Likewise.”

He hums, studying you. Most would be unnerved by your unwavering stare, the cold calculation in your eyes. But Sabo finds it fascinating. Finds you fascinating.

He hums, studying you “And? What’s your verdict?”

Your eyes narrow slightly, assessing him like he’s prey “Too early to tell. I don't judge based on rumors.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, a quiet tension settling between you. Sabo knows he should be cautious, he knows he’s facing someone whose strength is being feared even among revolutionaries.

But all he can think is — Damn. They’re kinda hot.

Years Later – It’s funny.

Everyone fears you. The Revolutionary Army sees you as a force of nature, one of their strongest, deadliest members. You’re efficient in battle, merciless when necessary. People whisper about you in the same breath as high-ranking officers, speaking of you like a phantom, something to be respected, but never approached.

But Sabo sees more than just the deadly aura that makes people tread lightly.

He sees the way your eyes gleam with amusement when a mission goes exactly as planned. He sees the way you tilt your head in interest, studying your enemies as if they’re puzzles to be solved before being discarded. He sees the way you move, every motion precise, effortless, a dance with death that you never lose.

And he loves it.

Loves the sharp edges, the lethal grace, the way you make his heart race, not with fear, but with something far more intoxicating.

And yet, he also sees the moments no one else does.

You, sitting beside him late at night, absentmindedly tracing circles against his palm.

You, making sure Koala doesn’t overwork herself, leaving her favorite snacks on her desk without a word.

You, rolling your eyes but still letting Sabo pull you into a hug after a long mission, even though your reputation could probably shatter just from being seen indulging him.

“You know,” he teases one night, tilting his head, “for someone so scary, you’re kind of a softie.”

You give him a flat look “Take that back.”

Sabo laughs, eyes gleaming with challenge “Nope. Never gonna happen.”

You grumble something under your breath but don’t pull away, and he counts that as a win.

Because out of everyone in the world, he knows you’re only ever like this with him.

And as much as he adores every part of you, it’s that razor-sharp danger in your eyes, that power in your every movement, that makes his blood sing.

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

And damn, does he love you for it.

── .✦ Crocodile:

Crocodile has met aaaall kinds of people.

Cowards who grovel at his feet. Fools who think they can challenge him. Liars who smile while plotting his downfall.

But you? You don’t fit into any category.

Because when he first meets you, standing over the broken bodies of bounty hunters, face calm, eyes cold, he doesn’t see fear. He doesn’t see arrogance.

He sees power.

And for the first time in a long while, he’s interested.

When in Rainbase, long after the fall of Baroque Works, Crocodile has been rebuilding, regaining influence, cutting down anyone foolish enough to think he’s lost his edge.

And then you show up.

A ghost in the desert, they call you. A storm without warning. The kind of person who doesn’t make threats, just leaves bodies in their wake.

Crocodile hears the whispers. He almost ignores them.

Until one of his men ends up dead.

Then it's when he decides it’s time to meet you himself.

He finds you in a back alley, wiping blood from your blade.

You don’t look surprised to see him.

“You’ve been causing many problems” he says, exhaling smoke.

You tilt your head, unconcerned “That depends on who you ask.”

Crocodile’s lips curl into something amused. He’s used to people trembling in his presence. But you? You just stand there, watching him with the same detached intensity one might give a corpse.

It should irritate him.

Instead, it makes his blood thrill.

“I don’t like loose ends,” he says “So tell me, why shouldn’t I kill you?”

For the first time, you smile.

Not kind. Not warm.

Just sharp. Cold. Dangerous.

“You could try, I'm happy if you try.”

The air shifts.

Crocodile’s grip on his cigar tightens. His instincts, honed from years of surviving the worst of the worst, tell him that fighting you would not be easy.

And he likes that.

Years Later – Most people don’t look him in the eye.

Most people don’t speak without permission, don’t challenge his decisions, don’t dare to stand too close.

You do all of that.

And Crocodile lets you.

Because unlike the weaklings who grovel before him, you don’t need protection. You don’t need his power to survive.

You’re strong. Cold. Unshaken by blood or war.

And that makes you the only person truly worth his time.

One night, you’re both on the balcony of his hideout, looking down at the city below.

Crocodile exhales smoke, glancing at you “Most people would rather die than be in my company.”

You don’t even blink “Most people are weak.”

He chuckles, low and dark “That so?”

You finally meet his gaze, and in your eyes, he sees something sharp. Something dangerous.

Something that matches him.

He smirks.

Because finally, after years of dealing with fools, liars, and cowards, he’s found someone who is exactly his kind of monster.

[rosenclaws]

Over and Over Again || DOFP!Logan x Reader

Summary: Logan wakes up in 2023 in a brand new timeline. In this world you're still alive and you're married, but he doesn't remember a thing.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending

wc: 3.5k

a/n: damn bro these song fics keep getting longer and longer lmao. Anyways here is my third instalment of a fic based on “Would You Fall In Love With Me Again” from Epic the Musical. I hope you like this one too! If you wanna read the other two you can find them here and here

Yesterday everything made sense. Yesterday you woke up next to your husband Logan, made coffee, graded a few essays, trained with Logan in the danger room, and then went to dinner. You kissed him good night and turned out the light to go to bed. Today? Your whole fucking life is being flipped upside down.

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw Logan standing barefoot in Charles' office. He had this look on his face. A mix between confusion and grief. A longing in his eyes that just didn't make sense when you had kissed him good morning only a few hours ago.

"You're alive?" Logan says breathlessly, his eyes widening as the words leave his mouth.

Realizing his mistake immediately. But he couldn't help himself. Not when the last memory he had of you was holding you as you died.

"Charles, what's going on?" You asked in a panicked voice. Logan, this Logan, your? Logan, reached out for you but you stepped back. You don't know why but you just did it. Though it's hard to see the hurt in Logan's eyes when you do.

"My dear," Charles says softly, his eyes darting from you to Logan.

"I think you should sit down for this."

You aren't the only one to be called into Charles office. Standing around you was Ororo, Jean, Scott, and Hank. Before you stood Logan with his arms crossed as Charles weaves a wild and frankly impossible story.

This Logan is not the man you knew.

He's from an alternate timeline where the X-Men were being hunted and eradicated, the world being over run by these things called the Sentinels. How everyone in this room was dead in Logan's world. The last chance they had was sending his consciousness back in time to stop the chain of events and according to Charles he had done it. He had saved the world and everyone in this damn mansion. But at the cost of his own memories, his own life in a way.

"Jean, please stay. I want you to help in attempting to get his memories back. The rest of you thank you and please do not tell anyone else about this." Everyone starts to move but you.

You stay seated in your seat, unsure of what to do. Do you go up to him? He's still your husband after all, but is he? You feel his eyes staring into your head as you finally make your move and get up. Walking right up to him.

"Hi, Logan." You say softly.

"Hi." You bite your lip nervously as you try and think of something to say. There's this awkward tension between the two of you. Something you haven't felt since you first met. Though you guess this is technically a first meeting. It's really confusing.

"Logan, shall we begin?" Charles cuts through your thoughts. You don't want to leave, in fact you have a million questions that will pour out once you figure out how to talk to him. But it's going to have to wait.

"I uh...I'll find you after." He mumbles, his hand moves to cup your face but he stops before he can actually touch you.

"Yeah, I'll see you after." You smile awkwardly and gently grab his hand, giving it a small squeeze before leaving. Logan wants so badly to hold on, to tighten his grip and never let you leave his side. But he can't. So he just lets you go.

You waited. Hours passed and you heard nothing from Logan or Jean or Charles. Every hour you'd pass by the office, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. It was tearing you apart just waiting for them to be done. But that's all you can do.

By the time the sun goes down you give up on waiting for Logan. Slinking to a small corner of the mansion. What if something horrible happened? What if they can't get his memories fixed and he'll never remember what your life was like together. How you met, how you fell in love, how he proposed, your first dance. Did he truly forget it all? You rest your head in your hands as you listen to the grandfather clock tick and tick.

Or...does he remember it all. Does he remember it and regret it? You're dead in his timeline. So what if you two were never meant to be together, what if he remembers both timelines and...he doesn't want you anymore.

You trudge back to your room, wanting to just sleep. Maybe when you wake up tomorrow this will all be some insane dream. Unfortunately you forgot that you share a room with Logan. As you open the door you see him sitting on the bed. A cigar in his hands as he stares out the window. Though he quickly turns around when he hears you.

"Hi, again." He says, snuffing out the cigar.

"Hi." Fuck can you say any other word but hi to his man?

"How did it go with the professor?" You ask, wringing your hands together behind your back. Logan shrugs and the look on his face doesn't give you much hope.

"Not great." You just nod, unsure of what to say next.

"I um, Chuck set up another room for me so...I'm gonna sleep there tonight." Logan winces as he sees your face fall. He doesn't want to be apart from you but it's what's best. He needs to sort out his...well everything. Besides, he's practically a stranger to you now.

"Oh." You squeak out.

"If that's what you want." It's not.

Still Logan just nods his head and stands up, grabbing a few things and silently slipping past you.

"Room 246. I'm in room 246." He tells you, staring at you one last time before leaving you alone in your bedroom.

You sleep like utter shit. You're so used to having Logan by your side that being alone just fucking sucks. You miss him so much. You contemplated going to his room but you didn't think he wanted you there. Logan has another session with Charles in the morning. You only see a glimpse of him before he disappears into the office. You wonder if he feels just as miserable as you do.

The next week is filled with the same tension and unbearable awkwardness. It's like he's a ghost. Only there when you turn around, out of the corner of your eye. You hated it. God it was awful, you longed to be next to him. For him to hold you again, kiss you. You don't even know why he's avoiding you. Logan had always been difficult when it comes to opening up but Logan, your Logan was getting better at it.

It's well into the night and you're still sitting in an empty classroom. You don't really sleep in your bed anymore. It reminds you too much of him. There's a couch near your desk anyways. With Logan in memory recovery you have been covering his classes. You sit in silence as you grade the latest test when you hear heavy boots approaching you.

"It's late," You look up to see Logan leaning against the doorframe.

"I know, but I need to get this done." You gesture to the stack of tests next to you.

"You need to sleep, I've noticed you haven't been doing that much." Your heart skips a beat, has he really been keeping tabs on you like that.

"I'll be okay Logan, really." You say gently. But your answer isn't good enough for him. You watch as he walks over to your desk and grabs half of the tests and a red pen.

"Logan It's fine really," You argue but he doesn't listen.

"What if-" You stop yourself before you finish the question.

"What if my history is different? Don't worry sweetheart I went back to the 70's not the civil war." The nickname rolls of his tongue with ease, he doesn't even realize he said it until he sees you get shy.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Logan apologizes, silently kicking himself. He never should have come here. He just. He just really misses you.

"Don't apologize, It's just been a while since you called me that." You try to hide the soft smile by propping a paper up to block your face. Time passes, the only sounds being the scribbling of pens.

"Damn, Was I that bad of a teacher?" He asks as he crosses out a whole paper in red pen. You giggle and Logan looks up, a smile on his face as he hears that sweet sound.

"You're not a bad teacher, you're the favorite actually. Though sometimes you play favorites with your students." You tease, remembering how easy Jubilee could get out of being late just by bringing Logan coffee in the morning.

"Favorite? I doubt that." He snorts, Logan isn't exactly the fresh faced happy go lucky teacher that you bring an apple to. In fact he never considered himself much of a teacher of anything.

"It's true, you're tough on them but they just love you." "That doesn't sound like me." Logan jokes, though he quickly regrets his word choice when he sees your eyes cloud with sadness.

"I..." He sighs, great he fucked this up already.

"It's okay, sorry I just, I'm still getting used to all this." You offer him a small smile but he can see right through it. You're still his wife after all and he knows you.

"How are you? This must be a lot for you." You ask, turning the conversation away from you.

You've been so focused in your own grief that you hadn't given what he must be feeling much thought. You start to feel guilty, I mean this can't be easy for him either. Logan sets the red pen down. Sighing as he runs his hands through his hair.

"I'll be alright sweetheart," He doesn't want you to worry about him.

"Please, talk to me." You reach your hand out.

Your left hand. The one with the wedding band still sitting on your finger. Logan's breath hitches as he recognizes that ring. It's a little worn from the years of wear but he knows it. He bought that ring for you a long time ago.

"I feel like a ghost. I remember my old timeline and Jean and Charles have been able to unlock bits and pieces of this one but it doesn't feel real." He admits.

"Do you regret it? Changing the timeline?" You ask and Logan shakes his head.

"No." Not at all. In fact even with all this confusion he would do it again in a heartbeat. Anything if it means you're alive. You start to ask another question but a yawn cuts through your words.

"Alright, it's bedtime now." Logan says with little room for argument. He gets up and heads to the door but you don't follow. He turns around to see you laying out a blanket on the couch.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You jump at the harshness of his voice.

"I've been sleeping on the couch the last couple nights." You say casually.

Though to Logan it's like a knife to the heart. Not on his watch. You roll your eyes seeing the look on his face, that protective grumpy look.

"It's comfortable and my room is too far, I'm just going to take a short nap. You grumble. You always were stubborn and Logan knows there's no changing your mind.

"Fine." He shuts off the lights and walks over, sitting on the edge of the couch putting a pillow on his lap.

"Logan..."

"Come on, just a nap right?" You're too tired and if you're honest too selfish to pass this up.

To be this close to Logan again is a dream. You settle down with your head in his lap groaning as your head sinks to rest on his big thighs. Logan drapes a blanket over you, his hands coming to rub your back in a gentle soothing motion. It doesn't take long before you're out like a light. Drifting to sleep faster than you have all week.

When you wake up you're not in your classroom anymore. In fact you're in a bed with the covers tucked in and the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Just a nap right?" You mimic in a high pitched voice as you get out of bed. It becomes very clear the moment you spot the clothes in the corner of the room that this isn't your bedroom.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's it is. You take one of the pillows and hug it to your chest. The smell of Logan's cologne wraps around you. Fuck you missed waking up next to him. You gently set the pillow down and swipe one of the shirts sitting on the floor before darting back to your room.

"Good morning sweetheart, sleep well?" Logan asks as you walk into the kitchen.

"Yeah, I haven't slept that well in a couple days." You sigh as he hands you a cup of coffee.

You take a sip and to your surprise it's perfect, just how you like it. Before you can say another word Logan is already gone. The hope in your chest deflating just a little bit. But last night was the closest you've been since he came back. It's a step in the right direction.

It's another week of dancing around each other. You talk more, laugh more. He still sleeps in a separate room but you find yourself spending more time together. It's little things that you notice first. That he still hates pop music and he drinks black coffee. His favorite brand of beer is still Molson. In small ways it's like you have him back. But then you see that he picks the salt and vinegar chips over plain and it all comes crashing down again. How stupid is that? Heartbroken of his favorite chip flavor? But to you it's just a reminder that he is different. But does that even matter?

You find yourself drifting to sleep in your bed this time, holding onto Logan's shirt as a way to soothe you to sleep. But you're quickly pulled from dreamland by a loud knock on your door. It's frantic and quite startling. You throw the covers off and stumble to the door, throwing it open to see who's bothering you so late.

"Logan?" You ask half asleep, rubbing your eyes as you see him standing in front of you. You notice the fearful look in his eyes and it seems to snap you awake. You step aside and let him in.

"I didn't mean to wake you. I just needed to see you." He's tense and his eyes keep darting around the room, like he's waiting for an attack. Seeing you is slowly helping his brain but every time he closes his eyes his nightmare replays in his head. He looks down at his hand and swears he sees blood.

"Logan, come here." You take his hands, covering his palms with yours and guiding him to the bed.

"I don't want to bother you sweetheart," He mumbles, his resolve breaking pretty quickly as he lays his head next to yours.

"Tell me about it, your nightmare." He furrows his brows in confusion, how did you know?

"I know that look." You cup his face and smile. It feels so right to be next to him right now. Logan sighs, his hand covering yours as he just soaks in being next to you. That nightmare felt so real, probably because it was.

"It was the day I lost you. In my timeline."

"The sentinels?" You ask but he shakes his head.

"No you...you died before they were even created. Probably for the best. It was a mission. A simple one that went to shit so quickly." It was all Logan's fault. He woke up every day knowing that if he had been faster, been better. You would still be alive.

"They took advantage of my super senses, they overwhelmed me with noise and smells. I tried to fight through it I really did, but I was too weak." Logan feels you wipe his cheek, a tear he didn't even realize was falling.

"By the time it was over, you were fatally wounded. I held you in my arms. I begged you not to go. Not to leave me but it was too late." Your eyes cloud with tears as Logan tells his story.

The absolute grief in his voice, god how horrible. You don't know what you'd do if Logan died, how you'd even continue on. Yet this man kept fighting, kept saving peoples lives. Even when he wanted to give up and walk away.

That's the Logan you know. He'll always be the hero he never thinks he is. So what if there's a few differences. At his core Logan will always be the man you fell in love with.

"I'm so sorry," You whisper, you crawl onto his chest and hug him tightly.

Your face buried in his neck. He holds you tight. Breathing in the smell of your shampoo. He holds you for a long time before loosening his grip on you. The urge to stay like this forever is strong but there's a nagging in the back of his head. He's over stayed his welcome.

"I should get back to my room." He gently lays you back on the bed and moves to get up.

"What?" You ask in disbelief, scrambling to grab onto his arm.

"Please don't go Logan. Please the last two weeks have been horrible without you. I miss you, I miss my husband." You beg, tears falling down your cheeks.

"Sweetheart I'm not the man you married." He wipes away your tears.

"I miss you too. So fucking much. But it's best I keep my distance."

"Logan please! What do you mean you're not the man I married?!" You grab his shirt and pull him close to you. Logan grabs your wrists firmly but gently.

“You were my guiding light, the only thing that kept me going in the right direction. When I lost you, It felt like I lost myself." He tries to pry your hands off of him but you stand firm.

"I stayed with the team, I fought and killed and maybe they called me a hero. But it was never the same. I lost my way."

"But you saved the world, you're still my hero." Logan just chuckles sadly.

"I didn't give a fuck about the world." He confesses. He did care. Sort of. He knew that he was the X-Men's only hope when he got sent back. But his real motivation, his true motivation was you.

"Sweetheart, I may have saved the world but I did it for you. It’s always you.” He did it for the chance that he could save you, that somehow going back to 1973 would undo everything, that you'd be alive. He would sacrifice everything if it meant you got to live another day.

So when he woke up and saw that it had worked, he had never felt such relief. But the way you looked at him, you were scared. So uncertain. He couldn't just pick you up in his arms and kiss you like he had dreamed of. You were married in this world but he understood that he had essentially replaced the Logan that you knew.

So he kept his distance. The more he learned from Charles the more the other Logan sounded better. This Logan never had to stab Jean or watch his friends die one by one. How could he ever compare? He'd rather you be alive, even if it breaks his heart.

"I love you Logan, I love you so much." The words flood out of your mouth, unstoppable as you finally get the chance to see the truth about Logan.

"You're mine. Always. We belong together. Our love transcends timelines, universes, and all that bullshit."

"Don't you love me?"

"Of course I fucking love you don't you ever doubt that." He snaps.

He pushes you away because he loves you, he doesn't think he's worthy because he loves you so fucking much. He'd kiss the ground you fucking walk on if you asked.

"Then listen to me Logan." You grab his face and smash your lips on his, kissing him desperately.

Logan groans as he wraps his arms around your waist. You fall onto the bed, Logan propping himself up with his elbows. You tug on his hair, messing it up as you comb your fingers through it. You pull apart breathlessly, almost brought to tears from just getting to kiss your husband again.

"You're it for me Logan, forever." You mumble as he rests his forehead against yours.

"I love you too sweetheart, I missed you so much." He cradles your face in his hand, legs interlocked as the sheets become a tangled mess.

"How long has it been since you saw me?" You ask, Logans eyes filling with tears as he listens to your heart beat against his chest.

"Over 50 years." As the moon shines through the window the only thing on both of your minds is how lucky you truly are to have found a love like this.

To be destined to be together in every timeline, every world. It's you and Logan.

[shy-writer-999]

How many dreams to say "I love you?" (ii)

Summary: Zoro can’t stop dreaming about you, his best friend and crewmate. When his dreams start to wander from themes of romance and tenderness, he finds himself splitting at the seams. How long can he keep up this balance of night and day before he starts to go crazy?

Part 2 of 3 (or 4). ~5k words. CW: Mostly smut / PWP! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Poor, pervy Zoro. Non-consensual voyeurism, masturbation, toys, kissing. NSFW content - minors stay away!

Part 2: A double life is unsustainable.

As much as Zoro told himself that he learned his lesson—don’t eavesdrop on conversations that are clearly not meant for your ears—the dreams about you didn’t stop.

Days went by and he could find no reprieve from the phantom version of you at night. Torture wasn’t the word for it. Agony, more like. He was in agony. Every night.

While the swordsman affirmed to himself that the dreams were a non-issue, and that they’d inevitably stop soon, you were rapidly starting to infect every single facet of his life.

This duality was maddening—at night, he’d answer to a fantasy world with you, where you treated him like some precious thing, called him ‘baby’ or ‘honey,’ and kissed him. But during the day you were his crewmate, friend, and nothing else. He’d smile at you like usual, sit by you at dinner, and tell himself that nothing changed.

This was a half-truth. The only thing that had changed was Zoro. You were behaving typically, maybe a bit quieter than usual, but he told himself that he was overthinking it.

The issue was that you wouldn’t leave him alone at night, and each of your sickeningly heart-melting smiles during the day was making his heart do that twisting thing. He couldn’t stand it.

Zoro didn’t know why his brain wouldn’t abandon this fixation with you—it had almost been a week; how much longer would this keep up? How many more tender moments would he share with you at night before he went insane during the day? If he got to a breaking point, what would fix it?

The dreams were festering inside of him. Confounding this effect was that the quality of sleep he was getting was atrocious. It’s like he wasn’t able to rest properly at night because the dreams were so concerningly lucid—he felt like he almost wasn’t dreaming at all, just living in an alternate reality, a reality turned upside down, where you loved him and smothered him in affection. A reality where he liked that.

Zoro had no one to confide in about his troubles—you were the person who he was the most emotionally close to. If he could have told you, he would have. But he was worried that it would change something. What would blurting out his dreams and baring these hidden thoughts accomplish, other than make you uncomfortable?

If he did that, you may get the wrong idea. He wasn’t trying to come onto you, he wasn’t in love with you, didn’t have feelings for you, etc. Zoro didn’t think he was capable of romantic love, it just wasn’t in the picture for him and never would be. But that wasn’t the issue here, he told himself. In Zoro’s mind, the problem was that he was being tormented by you at night and couldn’t help it. He was at a loss for what to do.

You were one of the highlights of his days, even before the dreams started. Now he could feel himself, more than ever, looking forward to those moments and latching onto them during the day. He harbored the suspicion that his brain would memorize your face more each time. The dream version of you kept getting more lifelike, more brilliant, more real. It was uncanny.

After the first three nights, Zoro started to brace himself. He knew what was coming when he fell asleep. He knew you’d be there waiting for him in some new scenario.

DREAMS 5, 6, & 7: “You’ve been a bit spacey recently.”

The fifth dream Zoro had about you was one where you held his hand (literally, just you holding his hand, nothing else). Your hand was warm and soft—it felt like it was made for him, like you were made for him. You ran your thumb across his skin and squeezed his hand through your intertwined fingers.

It was a short dream. When he woke up, he could still feel your hand on his. If he kept his eyes closed, if he stayed still, he could feel your fingers, your weight, maybe even your breath against his neck…

When he woke up, he was befuddled. Seeing you on deck the following morning, he glanced down at your hands. Would they feel the same as they did in his dream?

The next night, in the sixth dream, you studied his face quizzically.

“What’s wrong babe? You’ve been a bit spacey recently.” Your eyes explored his face imploringly.

He said something in response. He couldn’t remember what it was, and it was of no consequence. After you studied his face more, you remarked, “Zoro, you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” He flushed even in his sleep and woke up moments later to a quicker heartbeat than was normal. This was seriously starting to concern him. As mundane as these sequences were, they were abnormal and confusing.

Were these dreams some subconscious manifestation of a nascent health problem? Or was he not training hard enough? Perhaps this was some form of self-performed punishment for being so distracted by your presence? Maybe he needed to double down on the stoicism and the ascetism.

The seventh dream was also mundane. You were wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of his sweatpants; you kissed him and told him he smelled good. He had seen you wear his hoodies before, in real life. You always had an excuse (“mine are all in the washing machine, can I wear some of yours?) and he always looked at you more than normal.

There was something about you in his clothes that stirred him inside. He didn’t know what was up with that. Something squeezed inside of him at the sight of your face peeking out of his hoodies, your limbs filling up his shirts and sweats; he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The morning after the hoodie and sweatpants dream, Zoro woke up perplexed. His dreams, in the wake of the conversation he overheard, stayed relatively romantic. They weren’t straying from themes of tenderness and endearment (well, except that first dream, the shower sex one).

The romance is what baffled him the most—he had never looked at anyone with romantic intentions before, so why was his brain throwing it at him? Why you, in particular? It was mystifying, suffocating, and excruciating.

There were floodgates inside of him, pooled up dams of emotion, burgeoning romance, desires and fears, and your conversation with Nami sent a shockwave through those walls. They began to crumble, and new cracks showed every night.

Zoro tried not to worry, but he had an understanding that this odd trend of (what was it at this point?) six nights consumed by you was only sustainable so far as the dreams stayed this way—tender and, above everything, mundane.

He was a regimented man. He stuck to a clear and concise schedule, as far as waking up, feeding himself, working out, etc. But the dreams threw a wrench in his daily routine. The negligent quality of sleep he was getting, even after only six days, was starting to have quite the effect on him.

He was barely keeping it together by the six-day mark, dark circles deepening into sunken rings under his eyes. He concluded that he couldn’t handle anything farther than these dreams of kisses and cuddles. If the dreams changed—if they got explicit, he told himself—then he’d start to really lose it.

Emotional turmoil be damned, he could retain a sense of normalcy as long as his waking hours went on as usual and nothing else changed. He may be exhausted, but he could cope. He hoped the dreams would fade into absurdity, cease, and leave him the hell alone.

This was a self-deluding hope.

DREAM 8: Breaking point

The next night, Zoro dreamed that he was walking around the ship aimlessly. He did a lap around the deck, meandered lazily through the galley, and checked the crow’s nest. It seemed like the whole thing was empty. Where was everyone?

He sauntered to check out the sleeping quarters. All the doors were open, the lights were off, and the cabins were empty, except yours. Your door was ajar and the light was on—he felt an overwhelming sense of curiosity. As Zoro walked towards your door, time seemed to alter. He moved in slow motion, laser-focused on your cabin, approaching slowly with bated breath.

As he got closer, he started to hear something.

It was a mix of sounds. There was a wet sort of clacking sound, first, and when he got closer to your door, he also heard faint gasps and gentle moans. His heart beat faster. He reached the door—it was only a couple inches open. He knew way lay ahead.

The sounds were getting louder. He leaned in, staring through the miniscule gap between the door and doorframe, to see what was happening. His hand was poised on the doorknob, ready to push it open.

When Zoro saw what was happening inside, he froze.

You were lying on your bed naked, thighs spread, propped up on your pillows. Your face was contorted into an expression of bliss, mouth agape just slightly, brows pinched together, eyes closed. His gaze travelled down to fix on your breasts, a perfect pair in his opinion. But your arms looked like they were moving, so his gaze trailed down farther. He saw clearly now that you were touching yourself.

You were moving one finger very slowly in and out of yourself; your sensitive spots were red and inflamed, juices seeping out and covering your thighs and hand. He listened to your labored breathing and heard the messy sounds echo through the room.

When you stuffed another finger in yourself, he heard you murmur something, but he couldn’t quite make out what you said. He leaned closer, his proximity to the door threatened to push it open.

You let the sound out again. He heard it this time.

“Zoro.”

Your moan was quiet and needy. He was mesmerized—you moaned his name again and moved your fingers faster. Your pitch increased, your body tensed up, you were so wet that arousal was pooling beneath you, saturating and staining the sheets.

He thought you were about to orgasm when you stopped suddenly, drawing your fingers out of yourself with a gasp.

Reaching to the side, you picked something up. Zoro’s brain registered it with a considerable lag—that was a vibrator. That was your vibrator. He saw it once on accident, when he offered to grab some of your laundry and put it in with his load.

That must have been months ago. When he walked into your room and looked for your hamper, the vibrator caught his eye, sitting on your bed as plain as day. You had forgotten that it was there. He found himself blushing and pretended like he hadn’t seen it. But now it made an appearance in his dream—how sick and twisted.

You pressed the toy into your entrance, pressing it inside yourself with it for a few moments before you pulled it out again. Every thrust of your wrist was coupled with a keen of his name.

The vibrator was dripping wet. A string of your arousal connected the tip of the vibrator to your core and his eyes followed as you brought the toy to your clit. Pressing a button, the vibrator sprung to life, filling the room with a low whirring and pulsing sound. You whined his name again and pushed the vibrator back and forth on your sensitive nub, toes curling in pleasure. Your other hand crept down and snuck a finger back into yourself.

Zoro was hypnotized by the sight of you getting off with both your vibrator and fingers, evidently touching yourself to the thought of him. Your moans got louder again, along with the obscene sounds emanating from down there. He could feel his erection. He was painfully hard.

You started to writhe and squirm.

“Zoro, fuck,” you mewled, tone pathetic and desperate. “Fuuuucccck me, Zoro, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your thighs started to shake.

It seemed like you were about to cum. He wanted you to cum, wanted to see you cum from fucking yourself with your fingers and toy to the thought of him—but right when you started moaning the loudest, right when you were one good pulse away from screaming his name, Zoro woke up. Of course.

Upon opening his eyes, he was immeasurably frustrated. Any time that these dreams, sexual or not, seemed like they were coming to a climax, he’d always wake up. It was like his brain was telling him to go fuck himself. And he was about to.

He couldn’t take it anymore, it was like his mind was playing games, like it was edging him or trying to piss him off. He was rock hard, about to cry from frustration, wishing more than anything that he could just have you, but knowing that would and should never happen.

Zoro had been telling himself that the dreams were just an aberration, a mistake, that he could forget about them during the day because they only were a nuisance at night, and nothing really happened in them that would impact his day in any meaningful way. But the narrative of the dreams not impacting his day didn’t hold up when he started to fist his cock while thinking about you.

He was forced to face the facts—the dreams were getting worse to the point where they started to bleed into his waking hours.

The morning after Zoro dreamed about you masturbating, he had to step away. Seeing you walk around the deck, interacting with you and watching you walk away… it was too much.

He went to the bathroom, locked the door, and palmed his growing erection until he couldn’t hold back anymore. Unzipping his pants and sneaking a hand into his underwear, he started to touch himself.

Maybe it had just been too long since he orgasmed (or even touched a woman). Sure, that’s what all of this was. His brain was grasping for straws because he was too repressed, right? You were there in front of him every day, so his brain had to make do—this was just a matter of proximity, nothing more. This is what Zoro coddled himself with, soothing his worries for a few moments. It had just been too long.

While he squeezed and stroked his aching length, he could barely keep in the feral grunts and groans threatening to leave his mouth. He bit his lip. Every time his fist grazed his angry, leaking tip, his cock twitched. It felt so good, but it would feel even better, if only…

At first, he tried to not think about you while doing it. He felt guilty enough as it was, having explicit dreams about his closest friend. But when his hand was wrapped around his shaft and precum trickled down his fingers in clear rivulets, the image of you touching yourself seared in his brain, unrelenting and arousing.

“Zoro.”

His name had sounded otherworldly when it parted your lips, coated in tones of lust and desperation. Just like the dreamscape he entered every night, composed of only thoughts, his thoughts in this moment could stay internalized too, couldn’t they? Kept private? This could be a one-time thing, hell, maybe it would make the dreams and nagging thoughts go away altogether. It had been too long, after all. Against his better judgment, the swordsman indulged. Just this once.

Scattered scenes flashed through Zoro’s mind the instant he decided to let his thoughts wander. All of it thundered at once like a maelstrom.

First, the look of your eyes, glossy, rolling back in your head in ecstasy. Then, the image of him shoving his cock in your wet mouth and watching you choke on it. The feeling of scissoring his fingers inside of you, of pulling your hair, of listening to your whimpers while he wrenched orgasms from you, pushing his fingers into your mouth while you sucked on them and made eye contact with him, watching your body writhe and writhe and writhe… every morsel and droplet of your envisioned pleasure fueled the force that was Zoro’s fist on his cock.

It would be hot and sloppy. Filthy.

You’d tell him to “keep going,” you’d dig your fingernails into his biceps, drool from how good it felt, swallow up his inches like nothing—he revered you, craved you, and worshipped you. He needed all of you. Wanted to smell you, taste you, hear you, and have you. He was getting carried away.

What if you walked into the bathroom right now? The door was locked, obviously, but the mental image of you stumbling across him like this gave him some sort of nasty thrill. If only you approached him, sunk to your knees and opened your mouth, petted him and praised him—

When the swordsman came all over his hands, he felt vile. He felt like a hypocrite.

He always called Sanji a pervert and derided him for his lack of control around women, and now here Zoro was, getting off on a dream he had about his own friend and crewmate. And what’s worse is that he didn’t look away in the dream when he saw you touching yourself. He didn’t even try. (To be fair, it’s not like he had control over what he dreamed about, nor could he control what he did in them, but that was a nonfactor to him.)

Zoro felt like shit.

The next time you talked to him, he turned crimson. He seemed distracted. He had been working out more than usual, so you told yourself it was the post-workout glow. You’d never seen him blush a day in your life, but sure enough, it was creeping up his neck and slowly starting to take over his cheeks.

He tried to forget his trip to the bathroom, but your pretty face made his heart thump and his stomach turn. He tried to forget the mental images his brain conjured up in his rabid state of desire. It was futile. He felt like he was going to be sick.

In your brief conversation after dinner the same day, you asked Zoro if he’d grab a drink with you. “It’s been a while,” you smiled at him, same as ever. “Let’s catch up in the next couple days over some sake. Deal?”

He hesitantly agreed. He missed you—the real you, not the dream version of you. When he said yes, you beamed at him, and his mouth went dry. He needed to get a grip and figure out what the fuck his problem was.

Zoro gave up on talking to you about the conversation he eavesdropped on over a week ago. He felt like he missed his opportunity (which is arguable) and, more than that, he felt like he wouldn’t know how to approach that conversation. What would he say at this point? “Hey, I’ve been having vivid dreams about you and I’m going fucking crazy?”

No. So, he kept it inside. He figured that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Would he ever admit that he heard the conversation? He wondered about this. Maybe he’d never fess up to it. Maybe he’d keep it to himself, internalize once again. But he was quickly learning that when he tried to stuff these huge emotions back inside of him, they got bigger, louder, more unruly. It was like psychological warfare, except the assailant was his brain.

At this point, the dreams felt all-consuming. He’d get so wrapped up in them at night that he felt like he was in a daze during the day. Perhaps he was being dramatic, or perhaps his brain was desperately struggling to regulate a whopping load of emotions he had never encountered before, or rather, that he had never let himself acknowledge before.

He worried that you could tell something was off with him. You could.

Later, you asked, “Hey Zoro, you doing ok?”

He stuttered out a response, flustered by your presence, falling apart in seconds. It was very unlike him. “Wha—? H-hey, uh, yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just checking on you. You’ve been a bit spacey recently.” Your expression was one of concern. He seemed off, not to mention those dark circles of his. Was he getting sick? Was the insomnia coming back?

Upon hearing your words, it was like a lightning bolt hit Zoro. “You’ve been a bit spacey recently.”

What an insane coincidence. You said those very words to him in a dream a few nights ago, after which you complimented his eyes. He froze for a second, then tried to play off his shock with a yawn.

“I feel fine.” He shrugged. It wasn’t convincing in the slightest. “Just haven’t been sleeping the best.”

The paranoia was coming—did you know that he was dreaming about you? Had he been acting weird? Could you tell that he was thinking about you every moment of the day? God forbid, were you starting to form the misconception that he liked you in some romantic or erotic way? Fuck. This was getting ridiculous. Get a grip, man, he told himself.

You tried to ignore how odd he was acting. If he said he was fine, then he was fine.

He tried to convince himself that he was fine. He tried to wait it out and see that his attempt at convincing himself was effective.

It was not.

DREAM 9: A shocking revelation

Zoro’s dream the following night was delightful and concerning.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with something. Maybe he was sharpening a sword, refitting a sheath, polishing his boots… something like that. That part was foggy. Behind him, Zoro felt a weight on the bed. He knew it was you.

You scooted close to him from where you were sitting and reached your hands under the hem of his shirt. Your fingers ran over his bare skin, relishing the feeling of his abs and happy trail, every inch of his taut, tanned skin. You reached around his front and wrapped your arms around him. Your palms were warm, and you moved closer, body flush on his from behind. It was not lost on him that he could feel your breasts pressing on his back.

“Zoroooo,” you cooed right in his ear. Goosebumps. “You’re no fun. Pay attention to me. I’m bored.” You were whining.

You tickled him, poked him, kissed his back through the fabric of his shirt. You were all over him and it felt like your hands were everywhere. You were begging him to put down what he was doing and give you his undivided attention.

“Fine,” he responded in mock annoyance, rolling his eyes and putting his things away. He turned, maneuvering his body so he was facing you. “What do you want me to do?”

You pouted. “I don’t know. I’m bored. Let’s lay down and cuddle. Please?”

The scene shifted. You two were lying in bed, facing each other. You were eye to eye, arms thrown over each other. Zoro tucked your hair behind your ear, breathless. He was enamored, entranced by your beauty and admiration. Your hand was placed under his shirt, resting on his side. The skin contact felt electric. You leaned in and started to pepper his face with kisses—a recurring theme in these dreams. He must have really wanted that.

He closed his eyes.

You first brushed your lips lightly over his, and then you moved to kiss all over one of his cheeks, all over his forehead, his other cheek, his chin, his nose, his eyes, his jawline, ending at his lips again. You nuzzled his nose, ran your fingers through his hair—it was like you couldn’t get enough of him. Your lips were soft, meeting his delicately. When you pulled away from him. You held eye contact, an affectionate smile playing across your lips. He smelled you, felt you, and felt enveloped by you.

Zoro leaned in and kissed your forehead. You giggled and pulled him closer.

He could feel himself starting to say something in the dream, working up the nerve to say something that made his heart feel like it would stop. The words were getting caught in his mouth, they felt like they were taking forever to form…

They were words he almost said to you once before in a dream. He forced them out through his cotton mouth and hesitation.

“I love you.”

When the words left his lips, that twisting feeling happened inside of him so intensely that it must have detonated something. Each piece of shrapnel sent bolts of lightning through his body; he felt like he was vibrating, euphoric, every nerve on fire. He couldn’t breathe.

The dream version of you looked into his eyes and nodded. “I know you do, Zoro. I see you.”

Buzzing, Zoro felt like he wanted to rip his heart out of his chest and give it to you. He wanted you to see him, to see every part of him, to bare his soul to you and say ‘look, here is everything in me, here is every part of me.’

You were about to pull him into another kiss before he awoke up with a start, sweating and practically shaking.

Zoro’s heart was beating out of his chest. He sat up. Immediately, his first instinct was to check whether or not you were really in his bed. You weren’t—to both his relief and disappointment. He checked the time—3:36AM. Far too early. But he couldn’t fall back asleep now, not when his heart was pounding like this.

Why did he tell you he loved you?

It would be an understatement to say that Zoro’s mind was racing. He recalled that in one of his first dreams he wondered if you would still feel lonely if he embraced you. But if he did more than embrace you, if he gave all of himself to you, what then? What would you feel if he did that?

Would you stop feeling lonely and sad if he gave everything to you, even his heart? Would you give him yours, in return?

He ruminated on the concept of giving all of himself to you. What did that mean, and why did the thought pass through his mind when he was dreaming?

To give you all of him, for you to see every part of him… was that love? Is this what it meant to love? If giving you every part of himself meant spending every moment with you that he could, kissing and caressing you, making you feel better, listening to every word you stored up inside, sharing every word he stored up inside… The realization hit him like a train.

He wanted that. He ardently wanted to fill in the hole that loneliness had carved out of your life. And he realized that there was one in his life, as well. A lacuna of would-be companionship that he had forever thought was out of reach.

Could he give you what you needed? Is that what love is? To share yourself with someone else, to want them, to cherish them, care for them, see them for who they are?

He wanted to give you all of him. He didn’t want you to feel lonely, sad, or distressed ever again. He wanted to always be there, he wanted you to know you could tell him anything, wanted to know you like the back of his hand, and he wanted you to know him like that, too.

Zoro understood now what that twisting, thumping feeling inside of him was. No, it wasn’t arrythmia, or indigestion, or anything of the sort—it had been lying low for months, boiling under the surface. It all clicked into place.

That stirring and twisting feeling? It was the feeling of that lock inside of him breaking into a million pieces. The lock around his heart that prevented him from wanting to love and from knowing how to… it was gone now, obliterated.

That impenetrable lock, the lead chains, the crushing weight of it…  He used to think that the key to that lock didn’t exist. But now that you were here, Zoro realized that you were the missing key. You were the one capable of ripping open that relentless opacity, that stoicism, that brick of pain that he tried to ignore and train away. You had ripped it to shreds, like it was nothing. You did it over the course of many months, many days, and even in his sleep.

Zoro realized that he was in love with you.

He wanted to recognize you completely and absolutely, and for you to do the same to him.

Zoro wanted to take showers with you and take turns shampooing each other’s hair. He wanted to hold your hand in public, feeling and seeing nothing else but you. He wanted to come home after a long day and hold you tight, kiss you and call you sweet names. He wanted to nuzzle your nose every day and drink up every smile like he was starving for it.

To think that you were so sad and lonely you cried? That shattered him. Hearing you be so vocal about it, seeing a different side of you that he never knew before—maybe he never felt this emotion until he met you for a reason. Now that the pieces were falling into place, he saw that it was you. It was always you. It was only you. It would only be you forever.

He did not have another dream about you for three nights.

< previous part | masterlist | next part >

taglist: @riftmage27 @eggrollforyou @imhwajaez @wiyenspanel @xxmysticxxx @moonmaiden1996

a/n: thanks so much for reading! part 3 is going to be a minute - lmk if you want to be on the taglist! i have yet to write (most of) it.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Boy Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Spencer is focused on not hurting you and keeping a healthy distance, but his whole world is turned upside down when he hears a male voice in your apartment.

Words: 3,9k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alzheimer, blood. references to what happened with maeve (no direct mention). painter!reader. post prison reid (with so much trauma). lack of communication. angst. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This chapter was veryyy difficult to write because I really wanted to show both points of view, and I killed myself researching the deeper consequences of three months of confinement to be realistic with Spencer😭 I hope this makes sense to you.

Most days in apartment 23 were lonely and very decadent.

Generally, Spencer Reid woke alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person, the sheets cool and undisturbed on one side. Coffee came first, a dark, bitter brew that filled the air with its sharp aroma. He would stand by the kitchen window, staring out at the skyline, lost in thoughts that circled endlessly but led nowhere. His medical books were always on the table, their spines cracked and pages marked with notes and highlighter strokes. He pored over them not out of passion but desperation, chasing elusive cures for his mother’s Alzheimer’s. The phone rested nearby, a constant reminder of his work, its silence pressing heavier with each passing hour.

When there was no call, which was really weird, he filled the void with repetition. He’d toast bread or fry eggs for a meager breakfast, then venture out to the coffee shop on the corner. The routine was painfully predictable: the same stale donuts, the same barista with the tired smile, the same seat by the window. Thirty-two minutes, start to finish, every time. If the phone didn’t ring even then, he’d wander aimlessly to the library, where the scent of old paper offered fleeting comfort, or return home to let classical music fill the otherwise suffocating quiet. He was always pleased to hear songs without lyrics that could further suffocate his brain. It was a nice way to wait to be needed.

But one day, the loop cracked. Midway through his meticulous routine, something—or rather someone—broke through the fog of his predictability. You moved in next door.

And then, all of a sudden, his quiet time between classical sonatas, coffee, and huge books was interrupted by your cat, and consequently, you. His whole routine changed right away. He no longer woke up alone in his bed because you and Mittens took up all the space that was left and more. He didn't just buy one coffee anymore; now he bought two, with an extra brownie that you loved. He didn't lock himself away to read non-stop because he had you to talk to and give him the support that no book could ever give him. He stopped listening to so much classical music because you liked watching him analyze the lyrics of your favorite songs. He stopped waiting for calls from work to feel useful because you always seemed to need him.

And he welcomed all the changes, because the biggest one was his favorite: you.

Everything about you captivated him from the moment he saw you hauling an absurd number of canvases into your apartment. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Your presence turned the once-sterile hallway into a place of possibility, where running into you felt like a small miracle. But what amazed him most was how you transformed his apartment, a place he once thought of as lonely and very decadent, into a home. It wasn’t just the way Mittens treated his space like her second domain or how your art supplies slowly began to infiltrate his coffee table. It was the warmth you brought with you, the way you made him feel seen and understood in a way he never had before.

But since Spencer was used to it, nothing good lasted. But since Spencer was used to it, he'd rather leave than be left behind again.

You two were almost like strangers now. The warmth that had once filled his days was gone, replaced by a hollow silence that lingered in every corner of his apartment. There were no more mornings waking up together, no shared cups of coffee, or lazy conversations about nothing and everything. Even your casual hallway encounters had dwindled into fleeting moments, a rushed “good morning” as you passed each other without meeting his eyes.

Now, his mornings were cold and solitary once again. He sat alone at the small kitchen table, the other chair pushed neatly against the wall as if to erase any memory of you. The second coffee cup he’d grown so used to buying stayed behind at the shop, and the barista didn’t even ask about the brownie anymore. Instead, he carried a single steaming cup back to his apartment, where it joined the growing pile of books that had reclaimed their place as his only companions.

He buried himself in his medical texts with a desperation that bordered on obsession, but even the words on the page couldn’t hold his attention. He visited his mother at the nursing home you had helped him find, but the comfort he once felt from knowing it was close had turned into an aching reminder of how involved you’d been in every part of his life. And to make things worse, the job that had always been his refuge was gone too. Temporarily suspended, he had nothing to distract him, no cases to pour himself into, and no purpose to latch onto. He was adrift, waiting for his boss to negotiate with the bureau, waiting for his life to have some semblance of meaning again.

This morning was no different from the others. A bleak repetition of what his life had been before you. Spencer sat on his couch with a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm. His fingers gripped the edges of an open book, but his eyes skimmed the words without processing them. The air in the apartment was heavy, stagnant, broken only by the soft, repetitive scrape of Mittens’ claws against the fabric of a cushion. The sound grated on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoo her away. In truth, he was grateful for the small disruption, even if it came from a cat that seemed to sense his turmoil.

But something changed this time. From the corner of his ear, a sound, a voice, pierced the thin walls of the place. It was not so loud, but it was unmistakable. A man's voice. Deep. Low. Tense. And from your apartment.

His body tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heart stopped for a few seconds. The voice was unfamiliar; he knew it wasn't one of his friends because he knew them all, but there was still something about it that made him uneasy. It was almost...harsh. The words, though distorted by distance, still had a tone that made Spencer catch his breath. It wasn't an argument, he didn't even hear your voice respond or even give the slightest sign that you were okay. It wasn't so loud, but the pressure of the voice, the possibilities behind it, didn't sit well with you. Especially since you were always reluctant to let anyone into your home.

At that moment, a deafening crash shattered the fragile stillness of the apartment. The sound reverberated through the walls, shaking picture frames and sending a cold jolt straight down his spine. It was the kind of noise that demanded attention, the kind that twisted in the pit of your stomach and told you that something was horribly wrong.

Then, silence.

No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.

It was the silence that gutted him most. His mind instantly spiraled into the worst-case scenarios. Blood pooling across the floor. Your voice screaming his name in pain, only to be silenced. The flicker of movement as someone fled the scene. He couldn’t stop the flood of images from invading his mind. They were vivid, visceral, and rooted in the darkest parts of his imagination.

The silence dragged him back to the nightmares. The ones he’d woken up to every night in that tiny, suffocating prison cell, his heart racing and his breath shallow. Nightmares of iron bars and shouts echoing down narrow corridors. Nightmares of blood in the courtyard, spilling from faceless bodies while the sun mocked him with its indifferent light. Nightmares of whispered threats and the press of a blade against his ribs. They had told him they’d hurt everyone he loved, and for months, he’d believed them.

He had learned survival then, how to block out the fear, how to guard his thoughts, how to endure. But the nights were a different story. He’d lie on that hard, narrow cot, willing his body to rest while his mind conjured the only thing that could keep him sane: the image of you. You smiling. Laughing. You safe. It was the only thing that had kept him alive in a place that wanted to devour him whole.

And now, this silence threatened to destroy that fragile illusion of safety.

Without even thinking, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his new pistol, and his fingers brushed the cold steel. He paused, thinking about how he never thought he would need it in a place like this, a safe apartment in a decent neighborhood, where the most dangerous thing that had ever happened was Mittens knocking over a vase or spilling his hot coffee. Yet now, everything felt wrong, the voice he’d heard earlier, the crash, the gnawing dread in his chest that whispered, you’re too late, for the second time.

His breathing quickened as his hand closed around the grip, pulling the gun from the drawer. The weight of the gun in his palm momentarily calmed him and made him feel in control again, but his mind was already racing, imagining the worst. What if something had happened to you? What if that voice was threatening you or, worse, trying to hurt you? What if that man had already hurt you and that's why your voice couldn't be heard? What if he failed you like he failed in the past? Spencer tightened his grip on the gun, his mind racing as his feet moved faster toward the half-open door of your apartment.

With his body paralyzed with fear for you and his mind screaming for him to come in and make sure you were safe, the door creaked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were standing in the middle of the room, disheveled but unharmed. The sight of you, alive and unhurt, should have brought him relief, but instead, it only stirred confusion. The kitten-faced shirt he had given you for Christmas was wrinkled, your hair wild and unkempt, and faint streaks of dust and paint covered your hands. His eyes darted past you to the man beside the sink, leaning casually over the counter, focused on his work. The sink was dripping steadily, water pooling beneath the cracked faucet, and there, next to it, lay a jagged shard of broken glass on a rag. The man, dressed in worn work boots and a faded flannel shirt, was tinkering with a wrench, his brow furrowed in concentration as he replaced the faucet head.

Damn.

For the first time, Spencer Reid realized something. His instincts were wrong. His mind had misfired. His thoughts, clouded by the lingering darkness of his past and the fear, had led him to the wrong conclusion. For the first time.

The man’s voice broke the silence. “Good thing you called me when you did,” he said cheerfully. “Could’ve ended up with water damage if this had gone much longer. Would’ve been a real shame for your paintings.”

At the mention of your paintings, your most cherished works, your soul poured onto each canvas, your body tensed, a chill running through you. Instinctively, you turned toward the wall where they were propped, vibrant colors peeking out from behind the half-open door, but it wasn’t the paintings that caught your attention.

It was Spencer.

Your heart slammed in your chest as your eyes met his. His face was tight with something you couldn’t decipher, but your gaze was drawn inexorably to the thing in his hand. The weapon he was awkwardly attempting to hide beneath his jacket. The sight hit you like a punch to the gut, your pulse spiking with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and raw fear. It was like the world shifted on its axis, everything around you turning to static, muffled noise.

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth went dry, your throat constricting. No words could come, not while your mind raced, trying to make sense of this moment that felt like a nightmare, and yet, it was all too real.

The man, Mike, your neighbor, remained oblivious, still focused on the task at hand. “All set here,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his hands on a towel, his back still to Spencer. “Just keep an eye on it, and let me know if anything else leaks.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah…thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Spencer shifted his weight, and you saw his hand, tight on the gun, pressing it awkwardly against his side in an attempt to hide it further. It only made things worse. His actions were clumsy, frantic even, as if he couldn’t decide whether to conceal it or confront you. And you saw it all, the frantic, fearful energy that was pulsing in the air between you. But what stung the most wasn’t just the weapon; it was the confusion in his eyes, the distance that had grown between you, and the unsettling realization that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you why he was here. Why did he have to carry that gun knowing that you had never even liked to be near the drawer where it was kept?

Mike, noticing a subtle shift in the atmosphere but not understanding its source, glanced at Spencer briefly, his expression faltering slightly as if sensing the subtle change. But he said nothing. He simply gathered his tools and offered an awkward, polite nod. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day,” he said, too focused on his exit to feel the heaviness that hung in the air. “Always happy to help. Just call me if anything else comes up.”

You didn’t speak. You just moved, stepping forward with a forced smile that felt more like a mask, positioning yourself subtly between them. Your movement was calculated, deliberate, blocking Spencer, hiding the gun, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Will do,” you said, the words sounding like a brittle lie in your own ears. The brightness of your tone was a poor attempt to mask the tightness in your chest, the hurt you couldn’t quite articulate.

With a nod, he headed toward the door, giving you a wave as he left. “Have a good day!”

“You too,” you managed to reply, your voice thin and strained. You barely registered the words before you were practically ushering him out, closing the door swiftly behind him, the finality of the click of the latch echoing in the silence that enveloped the room.

After a moment, you turned slowly, your hand slipping from the doorknob. Your eyes met his, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks. His expression was raw, his brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles white where they clutched the gun now tucked awkwardly against his side. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else, something darker, harder that you never saw before.

“What,” you began, your voice shaking, “were you thinking?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and erratic. His mind, racing at full speed, tried to make sense of the words he needed to say, the ones that would make everything okay, the ones that would make you understand. But nothing fit. Nothing was enough to explain the panic that had taken hold of him, the fear that had driven him to do something he never would’ve imagined.

His gaze darted between your eyes and the gun still clenched in his hand, and a surge of self-loathing flooded him. He looked like a madman. He felt like a madman. His hand twitched, as if it were trying to pull the gun back, to shove it into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. But it was too late. He had already brought it into your life, into your apartment.

You took a cautious step toward him, each movement deliberate, careful. Like you were walking on glass, afraid that the slightest misstep would shatter everything between you. Your eyes flicked down to the gun, and your throat went dry. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the sick feeling in your stomach. “Put it down, please,” you said, your voice steady but thick with unspoken emotions.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the grip. Then, as if the weight of your words had finally broken through, he blinked and seemed to snap out of a trance. His gaze dropped to the gun in his hand, and a wave of something, shame, regret, maybe even self-loathing, washed over his face. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the table near the entrance and set the weapon down.

The sound of the metal meeting wood was louder than it should have been, echoing in the oppressive silence of your apartment. The sharp clink made you flinch involuntarily, your body tensing as if bracing for something that, thankfully, didn’t come.

“You brought that into my apartment,” you said finally, your voice low and trembling.

“I thought—” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

“You thought what?” you interrupted sharply, spinning around to face him. Your eyes were blazing, the fury in them cutting through him like a blade. “That you could just storm in here with a gun? That this—” you gestured toward him, your hand shaking, “—was the right thing to do? Even when you know how I feel about…this stuff?”

He knew, of course he did. He knew how much you hated his work and all that it involved, even though you tried hard not to show it every time he told you about it. Spencer knew that anything to do with violence gave you nightmares that only his company and many cartoons could alleviate.

“I thought you were in danger,” he whispered, his voice quieter now but laced with desperation as he took a tentative step toward you. His hands rose slightly, palms outward, as though to show you he wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you. “I heard a man’s voice, and then I didn’t hear you at all. There was a crash, something breaking…and I—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, trying to stop the panic that clawed at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought—God, I thought you were hurt.”

God.

He didn't usually say that word.

“You didn’t know because you didn’t ask.” The words shot out of you like arrows, and the sting was sharp. You took a step back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to shield yourself from the wave of emotion crashing over you. “You didn’t call, you didn’t knock, you didn’t think.”

At that moment, Spencer wasn't sure if he was more hurt by your words or the fear that still haunted your gaze. It was almost as if you were afraid of him, his own mind told him. And it hurt, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and your eyes narrowed as you stood there, fighting to regain control of your emotions. “If you weren’t ignoring me like the plague, you’d know that my apartment flooded a month ago. I’ve been trying to get the plumbing fixed, but I haven’t had the money until now. That’s what I was doing,” you said, your voice trembling but stronger now, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. “That’s why I had someone over today. He was fixing the leak. He’s just—he’s just a plumber, Spencer. He’s our neighbor from the fourth floor.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it all in, the weight of your words sinking into him like a stone. The irrational fear that had gripped him moments ago now seemed distant, almost laughable in the face of what he had just done.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words were stuck, tangled in the knot of regret and guilt in his throat.

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything, in his eyes that might show you he understood, that he truly realized how wrong he was. But all you saw was the same deep sorrow, the same painful awareness of the damage he had caused.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but cutting through the silence. “Or what happened these last three months that changed you so much.” You shook your head slowly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But that wasn’t it. That’s not how you protect someone. That’s not how you show you care.”

The finality in your words hit him like a blow to the chest. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he looked truly broken. He stood there, vulnerable and raw, his lips parting as if to speak, but all that came out was a quiet, defeated whisper. “You’re right.”

His voice was barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of every ounce of regret he felt. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to protect you…or anyone.” His gaze dropped, his hand flexing at his side as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I haven’t learned.” He exhaled sharply, a sound that was half a sigh and half a plea. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he stepped forward, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he feared any sudden motion might shatter what little remained between you. His hand reached for the gun on the table, the clink of metal against wood echoing in the room like the final note of a requiem. You flinched at the sound, a subtle but unmistakable movement that made Spencer freeze in place. He saw it, the fear in your eyes, the way your body tensed, and it broke him in ways he didn’t know were possible.

Without another word, he tucked the gun securely away and turned toward the door. His steps were heavy, deliberate, like a man walking toward his own execution. He didn’t look back as he opened it, his silence saying more than words ever could. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the room, leaving you in a deafening, suffocating quiet.

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of his absence crashing over you. Your chest ached, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t stop. For the first time, you weren’t sure if he was still the same man who had made you fall in love.

Because your Spencer would never have hidden a gun in his apartment, even when he was supposed to be suspended and without one. He would never have brought it to your home, especially after hearing you say a thousand times how scared you were of arms. And most of all, he wouldn’t have left the way he did now. He would have stayed. He would have held you, kissed your forehead, and asked for forgiveness a thousand times over until you knew, without a doubt, that he regretted every moment of his mistake.

But he hadn’t. And as the silence pressed down on you, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man you had loved was still there…or if he had already disappeared, piece by piece, in the last three months.

You certainly didn't know a lot of things.

[itneverendshere]

hiiii, i just read the school spirit fic with rafe AND ITS THE BEST FUCKING THING. i need a part 2 desperately please, i need rafe to play the best game he is ever played and everyone it’s like wtf but like omg. AND THE LAST GOL HE LIKE DEDICATES IT TO READER POINTING TO THE BLEACHERS. and then reader just goes with it and they fuck… please i need it

you ask and you shall receive! hope you enjoy <33

school spirit and all! - soccer!frat!rafe cameron (+18) - part ii

warnings: smut! paring: smart!reader x bimbo!rafe <3; pope being an absolute menace; read part i here; part iii word count: 4.7k

you were losing your fucking mind.

what were you thinking? oh, right! you weren’t.

the entire situation felt surreal, but there was no backing down now.

plus, when did some little dick hurt your feelings?

it was a win-win like you said before. if he won, you got laid after months without feeling a human's touch. if he lost, you wouldn't get laid and just walked away. either way, you’re not entirely disappointed with the outcome.

or at least that’s why you’ve been telling yourself.

as you walked to the stadium, your heart pounded in your chest, legs threatning to give out underneath you. yeah, you were a little nervous. but you blamed it on pope for giving you so much shit about the game.

he’d been insistent on you learning the rules, the players’ names, even memorizing their more common plays. it felt like he was trying to coach you into a small version of josé mourinho. 

everyone knew you were not the type to get invested in sports, let alone a college soccer match, but today was different and you were stupid enough to let your best friend convince you to wear a stupid jersey with rafe’s name and number on it.

13.

of course that walking disaster of a man would choose the unlucky number for himself. 

as you entered the stadium, the noise of the crowd was overwhelming. the chants, the cheers, the jeers—had you mentioned this was your first time watching a game? in real life? you knew people took this seriously, but it felt absolutely insane to witness it.

you could see the players warming up on the field, rafe among them.

he looked so different out there, focused and intense, very different to the reckless, unpredictable guy you were used to.

you followed pope like a lost puppy, and quickly found your seats in the stands, right in the middle of a sea of fans. some were dressed in the team's colors, others wore jerseys like yours, proudly displaying their favorite player's name and number. you felt out of place, a fraud among true fans, but there was no turning back now.

“turn that frown upside down, you gonna scare the bitches away.”

you rolled your eyes, “stop calling everyone bitches.”

from the corner of your right eye, you saw pope leaning closer, and without so much of a glance, you could tell he was about to spew out something stupid to piss you off.

“why are you so tense, hmmm? you’re getting laid tonight bro, cheer up!”

your hand instantly lifted to knock some sense into his head, “keep it down!” you hiss in his ear, “jesus.”

he just laughed, entirely unfazed by your irritation. “relaxxx, no one’s paying attention to us,” he said, casually draping an arm over the back of your seat. “they’re all too busy worshipping our soccer gods.”

you couldn’t help but glance around, noting the faces of fans who seemed to live and breathe for this moment. it was a different world, one you never quite understood.

you looked back at the field, your eyes finding rafe again. he was in his element, effortlessly moving through the warm-up drills, every motion proof to his athleticism. for a moment, you allowed yourself to appreciate the view. his jersey clung to his body, emphasizing muscles you hadn’t really paid attention to before…closely.

“hey,” pope nudged you, pulling you out of your reverie. “you’re drooling.”

“shut up,” you muttered, but couldn’t help the slight smile tugging at your lips, “i’m assessing the task.”

“don’t worry. rumor has it he’s big.”

you shot pope a glare, half-amused and half-exasperated. "do you ever shut the fuck up?"

pope just chuckled, shaking his head, “i’m dead serious.”

you were quiet for a minute. eyes drifting along rafe’s body, stopping—

“how big?”

“what?”

“how big.” you muttered under your breath, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to smack your friend for his relentless teasing.

he only sent you a wink, “you’ll find out soon enough sweetcheeks, it’s okay.”

"you’re so annoying," you gritted trough your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your stomach, “so annoying.”

pope just grinned, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "the game’s starting, enjoy the view.”

the game started, and you tried to follow along, remembering pope's endless lectures. but rafe was everywhere, moving with a kind of grace you didn't know he possessed, toned legs carrying effortlessly across the field.

you watched him, transfixed, as he commanded the team, shouting orders and making plays. it was like seeing a different side of him, a side you couldn't reconcile with the rafe who caused so much chaos in the library. it was kinda hot. when he touched the ball, your heart leaped into your throat. you could see the determination in his eyes, the fire that drove him. 

then, it happened.

he dribbled past defenders as if they were mere obstacles in his way and then, he unleashed a powerful strike, the ball soared through the air, a perfect arc that left the goalkeeper rooted to the spot. time seemed to slow down as everyone watched with bated breath. then, the net rippled as the ball slammed into the back, and the stadium exploded.

"and cameron with an explosive start here! just six minutes into the game, and he's already showing us why he's a force to be reckoned with. that was a textbook example of skill and determination, folks! he saw the opportunity, he seized it, and he made it count! our boy is back!”

“holy fuck!” pope all but screamed in your ear as the crowd went wild, “what the hell did you tell him?!”

you turned to him, still sitting, momentarily speechless, as the realization sunk in that maybe your unconventional motivation had really ignited something within rafe. 

"i don't know," you managed to shout back, your voice drowned out by the crowd.

deep down, you knew, perhaps it wasn't about the specifics of what you promised but the audacity of your offer that spurred him on.

as the game rolled on, rafe's presence on the field took over. every move he made sparked cheers and chants from the crowd, adding to the electric atmosphere. it was a far cry from your usual indifference to sports, but you couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement of it all.

in every pass, every interception, and every almost-goal, whenever he got the ball, the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath, as did you, waiting to see what he'd do next.

you were a hypocrite.

because he scored, again. 

when you thought, he was done showing off and making you eat your last week’s words up, you saw him turn to the stands after he celebrated the last goal with his teammates and your heart dropped to your ass.

there was no way in hell he was going to find you in that sea of people, right? you were safe. he was scanning the crowd, your section...searching for... you.

"shit," you muttered under your breath, trying to shrink into your seat. 

“yeah, that’s on me. sorry. told him your seat.”

if you weren’t about to puke, you would’ve punched pope in the face, instead you chose to keep your head down, eyes rooted to your beat up adidas, resisting the urge to bury your face in your hands.

“he’s coming up.”

you lifted your head, looking at pope incredulously, “he’s what?! pope, don’t fuck with me.”

“i’m sorry it was just too funny,” pope snickered, shaking his head, “he’s not coming, but he’s staring at you with those love-sick puppy eyes.”

you reluctantly glanced down to find him staring directly at you, chest heaving as he brushed a few stubborn strands of sweaty hair away from his forehead.

you almost, key word almost, gasped at you handsome he looked.

then a grin spread slowly across his lips. without breaking eye contact, he subtly raised his hand, a gesture only you could understand.

and it hit you.

it was a callback to your shared sign language class in freshman year.

how the fuck did he remember that? you didn’t. not until he did it. 

hi beautiful.

you’d never felt the need to swoon over a man before. now you might. after what feels like an eternity, but were just mere seconds, you gathered your courage and raised your hand, mirroring his sign for a simple "hi" and adding a tentative smile.

it was an easy gesture, but it felt…different. rafe's smile widened in response before he turned to run back into the field.

pope, ever the instigator, nudged you again. "that was smooth.”

the glare returned to your face.

the rest of the game unfolded in a blur. rafe continued to dominate the field, scoring goal after goal with precision and skill that left you in awe. each time he celebrated, you found yourself holding your breath. 

when the final whistle blew and the stadium erupted in celebration, your jaw was nearly on the floor.

had he played like that his entire life? was this the same boy that you threatened to punch in the face if he didn’t get his life together? the team's victory was clear—a resounding 4-0 win.

"remember that name, folks—rafe cameron. he's not just a player; he's a game-changer. and with plays like that, he's proving why he's a standout talent on this field today!"

"well," pope finally managed to say, his voice tinged with disbelief, "looks like you're in for a ride."

you could only nod dumbly as you watched rafe celebrate with his teammates, the bond between them palpable even from a distance.

you swore you even saw him hug jj. 

as the stadium began to empty, you lingered in your seat, watching as rafe disappeared into the locker room with his team to shower. eventually, you gathered your belongings and followed pope out of the stadium.

“you gonna wait for him here?”

“i don’t know,” you groaned, itching to warm your freezing hands, “didn’t plan ahead.”

"so..." pope started again, "what's the plan now? going to find him?"

“i told—“ 

you were about to drill some common sense into pope when you feel something touch your back. not just something. a warm, blazing palm settling at the end of your back.

you froze, your heart racing as the warmth seeped through your jacket.

“cameron, nice game, for once.”

ignoring pope’s teasing, you leaned your head to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. and there he was. looking at you with that same confident tilt on his pretty lips that had both infuriated and intrigued you countless times before.

"hey," rafe said, his voice slightly breathless from the intensity of the game.

"hey," you managed to reply, your voice surprisingly steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“oh okay. i get it.”

rafe glanced over at pope with a knowing smirk. "thanks for coming out, man.”

“you’re welcome by the way.”

rafe ignored the comment, eyes remained fixed on you. "glad you could make it," he said, his tone softer now.

“okayyy, i’m leaving. stay safe, byee!”

“pope,” you yelled out as he excused himself, “my dorm keys are in your car.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

you stared after pope, mouth slightly agape, as he disappeared into the crowd. you'd have to figure that out later. for now, there was rafe, standing so close that the air between you didn’t seem enough. 

"guess we're stuck together,” you said, trying to sound casual, mentally cringing at how stupid it sounded.

rafe only chuckled, the sound low and warm against your skin, "seems like it."

“sooo—“

before you could finish your sentence, his hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

and then he kissed you

it was messy, sensual, his lips moved against yours with a hunger that took you by surprise, but you didn't pull away. instead, your hands gripping his broad shoulders as you kissed him back.

clearly, you were losing your fucking mind, but you didn't care.

he just felt so good.

his hands roamed up your lower back, pulling you even closer as if trying to merge you into him. his kiss was demanding, with a sense of deep-seated need that you hadn’t anticipated from him.

your fingers tangled in his hair, wondering if you’d ever get the chance to do this again after tonight. when you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, his forehead resting against yours as you tried to regain your composure. 

his thumb brushed gently over your cheek, “we’re leaving now.”

you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “now?”

“yeah, now.” rafe’s voice was resolute, leaving no room for argument.

he hoisted you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing. oh wow, you liked this.

“what are you doing?” you managed to gasp out, clinging to his shoulders for stability. he was so fucking strong it nearly made you want to eat him whole.

“taking you to bed,” he replied, his voice low, “we’ve got unfinished business.”

the walk to his dorm? you couldn’t remember.

you were acutely aware of the curious stares from other students, but you didn’t care. maybe the day after.

rafe cameron was carrying you on his arms inside his fraternity and when he finally reached his dorm, he kicked the door open with his foot, carrying you inside, before locking it. he set you down gently, his hands lingering on your waist as he stared into your eyes.

there was a fire there, an intensity that made your knees weak.

“that wasn’t fair, y’know."

your brows furrowed in confusion.

“tempting me for weeks.”

“well—i didn’t think—nmph!”

his lips were on yours again, the kiss just as needy as before. you melted into him, your body pressing against his as you gave in to the sensation of his hands exploring your back, pulling you closer. your fingers fumbled to remove his shirt. he’d showered after the game but you were still wearing his jersey. he helped you, pulling it off in one swift motion, revealing the chiseled muscles beneath. you couldn’t help but run your hands over his chest, enjoying at the hard planes of his body.

his hands found the hem of the jersey, “you’re gonna wear this to every game, you hear me?”

you tilted your head to the side, in mock confusion, “who said i'm going to your games?”

he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hands worked to pull the jersey over your head.

“oh, baby. you will. you won’t be able to stay away.”

“confident, are we?” you teased, even as your breath hitched at the way his hands roamed over your now-bare skin, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“you’ll see.”

he was kissing you.

again.

more insistent, acting like couldn’t get enough of you, and you reveled in the feeling of being wanted so intensely. his hands slid down to your hips, gripping you firmly as he lifted you, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist.

you felt the hard press of him against you, a reminder of just how much he wanted this—wanted you. he carried you over to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness despite the urgency in his movements.

 he hovered over you for a moment, his gaze roaming over your body, “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” he murmured as he trailed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking as he went along.

you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. “then stop talking and show me.”

that was the only warning rafe needed.

his hands were everywhere—tugging at your shorts, tracing the curves of your body, then he finally rid you of your remaining clothes, and you couldn’t help but shiver as the cool air hit your heated skin.

but it didn’t last long, not with his body pressing against yours, his warmth enveloping you. you lost yourself in the sensation—the taste of him, the feel of his hands gripping your thighs, the way he pressed into you.

“are you sure?” he asked, his voice a breathless whisper against your lips, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt.

“god, yes,” you all but mewled, your hands clutching at his arms, needing him to just do something, “need you to touch me right now.”

his fingers trailed down your body with deliberate slowness, “tell me how.”

you could barely form a coherent thought, let alone articulate what you needed, your mind stupid with need, every nerve ending screaming for him, but somehow, you managed to speak.

“everywhere.”

a slow, predatory smile spread across his lips, and he dipped his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud, drawing a gasp from your lips. his hand moved to your other breast, squeezing and kneading as his mouth worked its magic. 

“like this?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing.

son of a bitch.

“yeah, oh, just like that,” you breathed, your fingers threading through his blonde hair, holding him close. “don’t stop.”

he didn’t.

his mouth and hands continued their relentless assault on your senses, driving you up the fucking walls. his lips trailed down your stomach, planting wet, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that left a trail of fire in their wake.

oh you needed to be fucked all right.

when he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive area. 

“rafe,” you pleaded, your hips lifting off the bed in demand, “don’t be a dick.”

he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. “so needy,” he teased, but his voice was filled with reverent awe.

without further warning, he buried his face between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with a hunger that made you cry out. he licked and sucked, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place as he devoured you. 

this man ate pussy like the champion that he was and you loved it.

his tongue flicked against your clit with precision, with ease. rafe was relentless, his mouth working you to the brink, then easing off just enough to keep you on edge.

“fuck, rafe,” you gasped, your hips bucking against his face, desperate for more.

he growled in response, the vibration adding another layer of pleasure, and you felt yourself hurtling toward your first orgasm of the night. he must have sensed it, because his pace didn't change, his tongue moving in perfect rhythm with the throbbing need building inside you.

your head was spinning as you looked down at him and met his heavy-lidded gaze searing a path straight to your core. you could only grab his bicep for stability, digging your nails into his smooth skin.

and then, with a final, well-placed flick of his tongue, you came apart, your body trembling as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. rafe didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding you through your climax until you were a boneless excuse of a mess beneath him.

you never came so fast in your life. 

when he lifted his head, his lips glistened with your arousal as he crawled back up your body. he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you whimpered into his mouth, the sensation of his weight pressing you into the mattress grounding you as you came down from your high.

“holy shit,” you breathed when he finally pulled back, his eyes blown dark with lust, “good job, cameron.”

he grinned, a boyish, cocky smile that somehow made you want him even more. “glad you enjoyed it,” he murmured.

you reached down, fingers fumbling with the waistband of his shorts, desperate to feel him inside you.

“your turn,” you pulled his shorts down enough to free his cock. it sprang free, hard and heavy, and you couldn’t help but wrap your hand around it, stroking slowly.

oh wow.

so big big.

your hand moved around rafe’s cock lazily, feeling its weight and heat in your palm. he hissed through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into your touch. you couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of him—so strong, so utterly at your mercy.

“fuck, you’re a fuckin' tease.” rafe muttered, his voice strained as he watched your hand with hooded eyes, his hips thrusting slightly in time with your movements.

you felt a surge of power, knowing you had this effect on him.

you grinned up at him, loving the way his breath hitched with every stroke. “don’t like it?”

his laugh was breathless, shaky. “oh, i do. but this—” he broke off with a groan as you squeezed him a little harder, “—this is something else.”

without breaking eye contact, you guided him towards your entrance, positioning him at your slick opening. he paused, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation. 

“condom?” 

you nodded, your heart pounding in anticipation. “yeah.”

rafe reached over to the nightstand, fumbling for a moment before retrieving a condom. you watched, heart racing, as he tore open the foil packet with his teeth, the sound sharp and thrilling in the quiet of the room. he rolled it on swiftly, his movements sure and practiced. with the condom in place, he positioned himself between your legs.

he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you until you thought you might break. the sensation was overwhelming, a delirious pleasure that made you gasp, holding on for dear life as he filled you completely.

“god, you feel so good,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him, his hands cradling your face tenderly. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you managed to say, your voice trembling from how good he stretched you. “’m good. just—move.”

rafe didn’t need any more encouragement.

he started to thrust, slowly at first, each movement making you wonder how you'd never done this with him before. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him to go faster and he listened, his pace increasing, thrusts becoming more urgent.

“can’t believe— fuck, oh, this is happening.”

“rafe,” you moaned, your voice breaking with every thrust. “just—don’t stop.”

his hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. he rubbed it in relentless circles, sending jolts of pleasure through your entire being. 

“fuck, that’s it,” rafe groaned, his thrusts becoming sharper, his grip on your hip tightening ,“so fucking beautiful.”

his lips found yours in an all-spit kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matched the never-ending pace of his hips. your fingers dug into his broad shoulders as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak.

"oh shit," you gasped, breaking the kiss as the sensations overwhelmed you, “rafe,” you gasped, your fingers digging into his back, “i’m—”

“i know,” he cut you off, his voice strained. “me too.”

you whined, helpless, your hips still rolling, chasing every last drop of pleasure, every nerve in your body on fire. and then you were falling, your orgasm crashing over you, leaving you breathless and shaking in his arms, your cunt tightening around his cock like you never wanted to let go.

his jack fell slack, eyes squeezing shut, completely lost in it, your climax triggering his own as he buried himself deep inside you, body shuddering as he came, his moans low and hot in your ear. rafe cursed, the sound going straight to your pussy as his hips stuttered, his whole body locked up. his cock twitched, pulse after pulse of hot cum spilling inside the condom, so much, too much, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

you held onto him, feeling the pulses of his release, the primal intensity of it making your head spin. for a moment, neither of you moved, both trying to catch your breath, your bodies still intertwined. then, rafe rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were lying against his chest.

you could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. you lay there in silence for a while, just enjoying the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest. you felt strangely happy, considering everything that had led to this moment, but you didn’t want to question it.

“so,” his fingers trailed lazily up and down your arm, “does this mean you’re coming to my next game?”

“not sure.”

the sensation of rafe still inside you, combined with the aftermath of your shared orgasm, left you both in a haze of pleasure.

but you weren’t done yet.

there was a need within you that demanded more, a desire to push the boundaries even further.

you slid out from beneath him, leaving him lying on his back. his blue eyes widened slightly as he watched you, curiosity and anticipation written all over his face. you settled yourself between his legs, your hands tracing the defined muscles of his abs before wrapping around his still-hard cock, after you pulled and tied the condom, throwing it into the garbage can in the corner.

“w—what are you doing?” 

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you focused on stroking him slowly, your hand gliding up and down his length, feeling the pulse of his desire beneath your fingers. rafe groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, his hips lifting slightly in response to your touch.

overstimulation was a bitch. so were you sometimes.

“you won, right?” you replied, your voice sultry. “here’s your prize.”

his breath hitched, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “are you trying—oh fuck. trying to kill me?”

you smirked, increasing the pace of your strokes, your thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum that had gathered there. “is that a complaint?”

“not even close,” he managed to say, his voice strained.

you could see the tension building in his body, his muscles tensing, his breaths coming faster. you leaned down, letting your tongue flick over the head of his cock, tasting the salty sweetness of him. he jerked, a guttural groan escaping his lips, his hands fisting the sheets beneath him.

“baby,” he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as you took him deeper into your mouth, your hand still working the base of his shaft, “shit.”

you reveled in the power you had over him, how his toned body responded to your touch, your voice.

you bobbed your head, taking him as deep as you could, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him hard. his hands moved to your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you, but not forcing you.

it only made him hotter.

the sounds he made, the way he writhed beneath you, only spurred you on. you wanted to push him over the edge, to see him come again because of you. you pulled back slightly, your hand pumping him faster, your mouth focusing on the sensitive head, your tongue swirling around it, teasing him mercilessly.

“’m so close,” he gasped, his grip on your hair tightening. “please, don’t stop.”

you had no intention of stopping. 

you increased your pace, your hand and mouth working in perfect harmony, driving him towards his release. you felt his body tensing even more, his breaths coming in ragged pants, and then he was coming, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he spilled himself into you with a hoarse cry.

you swallowed every drop, savoring the taste of him, the satisfaction of knowing you had pushed him to this point. when you finally pulled back, rafe was a panting mess, his eyes half-lidded, his body trembling.

“you just made me fall in love with you, again.”

"what?"

[pastryfication]

Can you pls do an Oscar x driver reader fic where the reader is Landos sister and she has a pretty bad crash at a track and it’s Oscar and Landos reaction to her crash 🩷

this is more than anything i’ve felt before

pairings: oscar piastri x f2 driver!reader, lando norris x sister!reader content warnings: mentions of a crash and ambulance. note: i have such a hard time writing driver reader idk why but i hope you like this!! might be the only driver reader i’ll finish sorry to everyone else who’ve requested it it’s just so difficult for me to get it right.

the day it happens is one of those days where everything feels right—your lines are sharp, your pace is blistering, and every turn brings you closer to victory. you’re in control. you can feel the car, every bump, every shift, every breath you take inside that helmet.

you know lando and oscar are watching from the mclaren garage, their eyes glued to the screens. lando, your older brother, forever protective even when he tries not to be, always torn between pride and worry whenever you race. oscar, your boyfriend, the reigning king of calm on the track but never quite able to mask his nerves when it comes to you.

they’re your constants. you can almost picture lando’s anxious frown and oscar’s quiet focus, hands clasped together as he watches you drive. the media loves to joke about you being the apple of mclaren’s eye, caught between the team’s two golden boys. but those headlines don’t bother you. for you, this is where you belong.

as you approach the next corner, the race intensifies. there’s another driver fighting you for position, pushing you to the edge. you hold your line, confident and unafraid. but in an instant, it all goes wrong. the car beside you swerves just a touch too far, clipping your rear wheel.

everything spins out of control.

the car whips violently, tires screeching as you slam into the barriers. you feel the impact reverberate through your body, the jarring shock of metal against metal. the world around you blurs as the car crumples, and for a moment, everything fades.

———

oscar watches, heart pounding in his chest, as your car smashes into the barriers. the noise of the crash echoes in his ears, drowning out everything else. he doesn’t even hear the commentary, the frantic radio calls, or lando’s shout of your name beside him. all he can see is you, trapped in that twisted wreck, and you’re not moving.

oscar has seen crashes before—hell, he’s been in more than a few—but this is different. this isn’t just another driver, another car. it’s you. the girl who turns his world upside down, the one who’s always been his calm amid the chaos. and now you’re motionless, surrounded by smoke and broken carbon, and he’s never felt so terrified in his life.

beside him, lando’s pushing through the crowd, his face ashen, eyes wide with panic. “we have to get to her,” lando says, but his voice is shaking, the fear cracking through his usually steady tone.

oscar doesn’t move. he’s rooted to the spot, watching the screen like it’s his lifeline, praying for any sign that you’re okay. he feels sick, his stomach churning, every second that you’re not moving like a knife to his chest.

“she’ll be fine,” oscar whispers, more to himself than to lando. but the words sound hollow, and his voice wavers. because he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know if you’re okay, if you’re hurt, if you’re—

“i should’ve been there,” lando mutters, his voice thick with guilt. “i should’ve been able to protect her.”

oscar shakes his head, trying to keep himself together even though he feels like he’s breaking apart. he’s used to being the calm one, the steady presence on and off the track, but now he’s unraveling. it’s not just the crash—it’s the terrifying realization of how deeply you’ve entwined yourself into his heart, how much of his world revolves around you.

he thought he knew what it was to love you, but this feeling—this bone-deep fear, this raw, overwhelming need for you to be okay—is something else entirely. all he can think about is you—the way you laugh when you beat him in a stupid game, the way you scrunch your nose when you’re deep in thought, the way you find his hand after every race, holding on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he’s always known he loves you. but this? this is more than love. it’s a kind of need that’s woven into his very being, and it’s terrifying, how much losing you even for a moment rips through him, leaving him hollow.

when the medics reach you, they work fast, extracting you from the mangled car with careful precision. oscar’s eyes are fixed on you, his chest tightening with every second that you’re unresponsive. the ambulance arrives, and they load you onto a stretcher, still no movement, no sign of you waking up.

“please, please, please,” oscar whispers, his voice cracking. he doesn’t care about the cameras capturing every moment of his raw fear. all he cares about is you, and he’s never felt more powerless.

lando’s shoulders slump, his hands shaking as he stares at the ground. he looks at oscar, and for once, they’re not just teammates or rivals—they’re two people who love you, and right now, that’s all that matters.

minutes feel like hours. oscar’s world narrows down to the screen, to the updates that aren’t coming fast enough, to the endless questions that nobody seems to have answers for. finally, lando’s phone buzzes. oscar watches as lando answers, the tension etched into every line of his face.

“she’s awake,” lando says, his voice thick with relief, tears shining in his eyes. “she’s bruised up, but she’s awake. they’re taking her for checks, but she’s okay.”

oscar lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and without thinking, he pulls lando into a hug. they cling to each other, relief and fear and everything else pouring out as they try to steady themselves. it’s messy and raw, but they need it. they need to feel that you’re going to be okay.

oscar pulls back, wiping at his eyes and trying to find the words. he’s never been good at this—at showing how much he cares, at letting himself be vulnerable. but he knows one thing for sure: he’s never letting you go without making sure you know just how deeply he loves you.

as the ambulance speeds away, oscar watches, feeling that familiar surge of love and fear. you’re tough—tougher than anyone gives you credit for—and you’re going to be back. you’re going to be alright.

and when you are, he’s going to be right there, holding onto you just a little bit tighter, because you’re everything to him.

for now, though, all that matters is that you’re still here, still fighting. mclaren’s favourite girl, his heart’s safe place. you’re the reason he races, the reason he loves, and the person he’s willing to hold onto with everything he has.

[ladybyakuya]

| ALL I WANTED + GOJO SATORU .

+cw. — female!wife!reader x clan-head!husband!(sub)!gojo satoru, arrange marriage, hurt, angst, canon typical elements, smut, f!masturbation + m!masturbation & orgasm interruption.

+wc. — 2.3k

+syn.— satoru comes home from a bunch of missions only to find his wife in their shared bedroom not wanting him, or waiting for him but busy seeking pleasure that was his share to pour into you.

+notes. — special thanks to @gojoest for hyping me up with this idea. & thanks to @sugurouge for beta reading otherwise this never get posted lol | redirect to blog navigation.

The current head of the clan you belong to, your father stands facing his back to you. He is now the housemaster, not your father. “You’re going to be married,” said he, as his palms remained tightly clasped at his back while he looked out through the window. What you once called home became a distant memory in an instant. “You’re going to be married—” as his face turned towards you, “to Gojo Satoru.” you could figure out why he was looking away. “That monster!” he screams tears streaming down his face as his lips tremble in rage and disbelief; how of all people did the marriage broker who has been his friend for a long time have even agreed with such a decision? The thought of him suggesting the idea to the council does not even cross your father’s mind. How utterly naive! a low grunt followed as your father swatted away his chair knocking it down to the ground before killing every bit of hope you had despite the rumors. “This marriage. . . it is nothing but a hopeless dream. ”

Yes! You knew that already. The housemaids and staff just love to gossip about the doom of their sole source of bread and butter. The moment your father summoned you into his study room and told you the news while staring at the greenery of the garden of this mansion you knew your life was going to turn upside down and it did, just like you expected yet you were still disappointed, frustrated even when you came back to your room. 

Satoru Gojo is the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in history ever known since Sukuna Ryomen was sealed. No other name has ever made it to the pages of jujutsu history. He is at the top of the jujutsu society regarding status, power, fame, and money. So, what do you do with the strongest of all? worship them out of devotion? subdue them with offerings lest it might lash out? swearing loyalty out of fear? Those were the thoughts that stemmed at the back of your mind when you first came to know about the fact that you were going to be the wife of the Gojo Satoru from a maid whose life never even crossed the threshold of your home. Her world was limited to the mossy parts of the mansion you resided in. Still, she could tell what kind of marriage you would be walking into.

Nothing shocking happened even on the night of your wedding. It was just as you anticipated. Two different futons were kept side by side. There was no sharing of words, glances, or kakebuton . Just both of your backs faced each other. At dawn, you woke up with your wedding kimono intact, a stainless white futon, and an empty room without Gojo. 

The maids here knew better than to talk about it, even behind your back. They were aware of the power and status you held and that made everything a lot worse than you expected it to be. You had access to a lot of things, the family history archives, the financial sources, his previous missions— everything tied to him. Your husband, Gojo Satoru, was the clan head as well as the master of this mansion so there were no elderly people pushing responsibilities onto your shoulders like back at home. There was a sense of serenity in the air but how could you breathe it in for the rest of your life? 

Satoru Gojo was the kind of man whom one could easily desire. Despite being his wife and the future mother of his children, trying to love him felt like a cyanide for you. You wanted your husband, not some Satoru Gojo oozing with knowledge and power. You wanted to look him in the eye, not just his back which you barely get a glimpse of at the crack of dawn as he occupies the sad side of the bed under a separate duvet. In earlier stages of this marriage, there was no curtain separating you and your husband’s side of the bed but after a month of utter silence and stealing glances, the first thing he installed was a curtain in the shared canopy bed. If he needed some privacy he could easily ask you to shift into another room but he bothered to talk one of those clan servants to install a fucking curtain as if the silence was not enough of a gulf in between you two. 

Sometimes you thought that he was cheating on you but you always pushed it under the rug telling yourself, “You’re the wife of Satoru Gojo. No one can take that from you unless you walk out of this marriage. Not your father. Not that marriage broker —”

— Not even Gojo Satoru himself because he only married you to silence those nosy elders of his clan who pretend to be oh-so-worried for him. You were not foreign to that concept, after all, you are wrapped in the same shroud for all your life.

“You’re the wife of Gojo Satoru . . .No one . . .” 

“You’re the wife of Gojo Satoru . . .” 

“You’re the wife . . .”

“You’re . . .”

But the thought of getting his dick sucked by some other woman or man, or him putting his dick into someone — it filled you with too much anger to sleep in bed that night. For the first time, you miss home because there you are free to go anywhere even at night. 

Satoru came home early that night, which was odd for his schedule, and was greeted with an empty bed after a long while. The sky is yet to be cracked open by sunlight. It is still too dark to be wandering around. Where could his wife have been gone to at this hour? He takes a spoonful of strawberry ice cream from the giant tub he held in his other hand before starting to look for you. But where should he look first? He does not know anything except the fact that he had put veils in different places of his house just to keep this house free of low-energy cursed spirits. Those veils sure did their job well but sometimes they would keep out non-sorcerers, people like you. His heart rejoices at the thought that he has to look for you in places only he is aware of, which means this is going to take a little less time, and he will find you much faster. Come to think of it, he has not been in the library section for a while but it is still as spotless as the first day he came here. Have you been visiting? Man! That sure worries him.

The pink layer of the tub has come down to half along with its skin being wet while the spoon is still experiencing the fierce appetite that Satoru had for anything sweet. He stands at the entrance of a long hallway before checking, thinking that this is the last place he has to look for but could it be possible that you were embarrassed enough to go back to your home?

Ahh…ahhh!

The spoon hits the wooden floor with a dull clatter as a wretched realization comes crashing down through his veins. Have you been cheating on him all this time? In his house? With some lowly servant ? Well, that sure makes it easier to end this sham of a marriage. He opens the door of a certain archive room as swiftly as possible trying to minimize the sound of his presence, making sure he does not shock you awake from your rendezvous. He is determined to catch you red-handed but when he opens the door he witnesses something that could have knocked the lights off his brain if he were not one of the greatest sorcerers of his time. The sight was not something of a fair appetite for ordinary people yet you sat by the marble slab of the giant window, with one of your arms nuked under your sapphire jinbei in between your legs as your skin glowed under that pale moonlight as if diamonds and pearls were embedded on your skin. 

You were sweating, arching your body, moaning and all your husband could do was watch in awe. Your free hand travels from the bottom of your cleavage and up to the apex of your nape as you turn your head opening your eyes for a brief moment. You see the world so blurred that it spikes your approaching high, but as you open your eyes for the second time your high is gone like it never existed. Your husband, Gojo Satoru stood before you like an ivory statue of certain abandoned ruined cathedrals. The dress covers most of your body so a wave of relief washes over him despite realizing how dangerous the spot you chose . . .to . . .umh. . . pleasure yourself . 

How long? How long was he watching you ? You shift your body to face him, and your hand slowly emerges from the warmth between your thighs. Satoru tries to ignore but traces of your arousal and his yearning are flourishing like fluorescence on your fingers as it rests on your thigh. You watch him gulp. Suddenly, Gojo Satoru is out of words. Teacher to his students of Jujutsu High, the strongest sorcerer, Nanami’s certified yapper is suddenly out of words. The slight slice of your boobs visible through your robe does not help either in the coherency of his thoughts. He had plans. He had plans to walk out of this marriage without being tainted as a “cheater” because the jujutsu society is so fucked up that they will not stop until they found this particular person that had made this marriage impossible to work on so that you, the wife, had to walk out it and dear God, they certainly are not fond of obstructions.

“What a nice place you chose to—” he finally looks away to keep the tub of semi-molten room-temperature strawberry ice cream on some bookshelf but before he could shift back his gaze on you again you were gone like a storm. The sound of your footsteps echoed in his ear till it stopped before he heard the click of a door. He does not understand if you are just too dumb or too brave to act the way you are acting right now. He follows you as a grunt of dismissal escapes from his chest. As he stands in front of the bathroom door he drowns yet again in utmost disbelief. He can still hear your shrill gasp of pleasure and he is not liking how his cock is responsive to it. At first, he hesitates to touch himself but the faint sound of your moans, the wet squelching sounds of your fingers moving in and out of your damp folds despite the door of the bathroom being locked buzzes in his ears like bees out in the hunt of honey. 

Satoru gave up . You hear a thud as you continue to finger yourself knowing full well that your husband must have followed you all the way here after witnessing you in such a state. Indeed, you could have been accused of cheating on him without him checking the door and it would have been much worse. He sits against the bathroom door unfurling the black ribbon with a swish to take his cock out of his baggy white pants. The tip is already leaking. His cock is throbbing in his palm as he encapsulates his fingers around it, moving his fingers up and down slowly. On the other side of the door, as you could finally feel the pinnacle of your high you heard a soft groan; a pain, that seemed familiar, was palpable underneath that shrill cry of pleasure. Still when your fingers touched the part inside you that almost felt like unknotting something from inside you, at the basal of your navel Satoru’s hand moved faster to chase the similar high that had started to bubble in his body under the influence of your ripples of pleasure. You heard your husband moan as tears rolled down your cheeks when you closed your eyes feeling the knot finally unwinding.

Perhaps, both of you came simultaneously. Perhaps not, because you immediately opened the door after you had calmed from your high, only to be greeted with Satoru sitting right at the opposite wall of the bathroom door, legs folded in L-manner so that he could keep his hand over his knee. His cock is still visible through his white pants and it is still so hard. One of your eyebrows raises in silent reply . Satoru notices that. He looks at you and then looks away. You extend your hand towards his face, gaining his stern azure pair of eyes shining against whatever dim light the crack of the bathroom door could allow. There was no sign of resistance in him so as your palm touched his cheeks, you waited and gave him time to protest. yet none ever followed,  instead, he surrendered to your touch, and your fingers curled under his chin as you ran your thumb over his lips. Satoru coiled against your touch imbibing as much as he could like a tide being high enough to touch the moon . . .a familiar voice shocked both of you awake.

“Lady Gojo. . .” 

[marauder-misprint]

Ahhh congrats of 500!!!

For the dialogue prompts, could I request #52 “what do you want from me?” with any (or all/poly) of the marauders? Maybe some miscommunication tropes and some good old hurt/comfort with a happy ending?

Thank you for the request! This could've been like 1.2k words but I started writing the build-up and I like it too much ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

I don't write for poly so I chose James - Hope you enjoy!

Your death wish

James Potter x reader

3.2k words

cw: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst

It was an extraordinary day when James realized he did not love Lily. He loved the version of her that he created in his head and fantasized about, which was not the real girl. It turned his world upside down. He sat on his bed alone, with the curtains drawn and staring straight ahead. There wasn’t a thought in his head. 

You were sitting with your friends in the common room and after a while, you really noticed that James wasn’t there. At first, you thought maybe he was at a quidditch practice you forgot about or something, but all the other players were around. As was Sirius, so that knocked out detention since one rarely had it while the other didn’t. You turned toward the Marauders.

“Oi, where’s Potter?”

“Dorm? Dunno. Not here,” Sirius answered, staring at the wizards’ chess board in front of him. He slowly reached out and moved one of the pieces.

“He had a thought and it fried his brain,” Remus said.

You looked at Peter, hoping he’d give you a better answer. 

“He’s having an existential crisis and won’t come down,” he said before moving one of his chess pieces. “Checkmate, Padfoot!”

Sirius swore loudly. “Moony, you play him! Sick of losing…” 

You rolled your eyes and looked at the stairs. So James was theoretically up those stairs in possible need of a friend and his closest two were trying to beat the third in chess and failing. You got up and went to their dorm. You stood outside the door for a second before knocking. 

No response.

So you knocked again and called his name. Still no response. When you knocked a third time with another call of his name and no response, you opened the door and entered the room slowly. 

You tried not to gasp at the state of the room. It was like a tornado had come through and instead of cleaning up the wreckage, the boys simply made paths from their beds to the bathroom and the door. But, only one of the beds had its curtains drawn so you approached that one. 

“James,” you sang as you stood next to his bed.

There was a noise that sounded something like a grunt and a groan. You gripped the curtain before realizing the slight risk of opening it.

“Are you at least semi-decent?”

“Mhmm.” 

A response you recognized! You smiled as you threw the curtain open and were met with another grunt-groan. James recoiled into himself at the sudden light. 

“What’s up with you, Potter?” you asked, leaning against the bedpost at the foot of his bed. “Lupin said you had a thought and it fried your brain.” 

Once again, you were met with silence. You sighed as you scanned the room. You didn’t see what you were looking for. You crouched down to look under his bed. There it was: James’ broomstick. You grabbed it. Standing up, you slung it against your shoulder and headed for the door.

“Well, if you don’t mind me borrowing this, just stay in bed,” you said casually.

As soon as you were outside the room, you broke into a run. If James took the bait, you needed your head start. 

For a moment, James didn’t move. It took him a second to get out of his head and process what had just happened. Then, he was swinging his legs on the bed, pulling on his shoes and sprinting after you. 

When you reached the bottom of the stairs and bolted towards the portrait door, Remus said, “She’s mad, that one.”

Peter laughed. “More like a death wish!” 

The thundering footsteps of James and the expression on his face only confirmed the reason for the boys’ comments. It was common knowledge that no one touched James’ broom. You were no exception. 

You didn’t stop running until you heard the faint slam of the portrait and the Fat Lady’s scolding. 

Turning around briefly, you hollered, “Come and get me, Potter!” 

And then you were off again. You kept running until you were outside. Then, you were mounting the broom and kicking off. James was faster than you on foot, but with the advantage of your head start and his broom, there was no way he’d catch you. You flew to the quidditch pitch and did a lap. Then you went to the goal posts. With careful finesse, you jumped to the hoop and perched yourself on it, holding James’ broom across your lap. 

When James made it to the pitch, because where else would you have gone with his broom, he stopped in the locker room and grabbed your broom from storage. He stalked onto the pitch and scanned the air before spotting you in the goal post. 

“I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU!” he yelled.

“Got to catch me first,” you responded with a wicked grin. 

James mounted your broom and kicked off the ground. You only had a few seconds to remount his broom and take off. You led him over the Forbidden Forest. Whenever he got close to catching up with you, you dipped below the canopy. Something about the chase made you cackle, especially when you heard the thwack of a branch hitting James and the following string of swears.

Eventually you came across a small clearing. You slowed down and slid off the broom in a graceful dismount. James didn’t see you stopped and overshot the clearing. Once he circled back and landed, he lunged at you. You were backed up against a tree with his hand gripping your clavicle. 

“What the hell were you thinking!” he growled at you.

You couldn’t help the smile on your face, which only made him angrier. 

“I was thinking that you needed to get out of that pretty little head of yours. See, you’ve gotten out of bed, left your dorm and gotten some fresh air!”

His facial expression softened but his grip stiffened.

“So, what had you down?”

He sighed. “Just a reality check.” He paused. “And now I have to see what’s actually real.” 

Your smile twisted as you looked up at him.

“Your flying skills are real. As is the thrill of a chase,” you told him, earning a dry chuckle from him. “But, uh, Potter, you either gotta slug me or kiss me if you’re going to keep holding me like this.”

His face flushed a brilliant red as he gently let go of your shoulder and took a step back.

“Ah, erm, sorry. You did take my broom though,” he said, stumbling through his words. 

You shrugged. “A means to an end. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You really think you deserve a thank you for thievery?” he chortled in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah. What’d your other friends do to get you outta your funk?” 

He didn’t answer.

“They were playing chess, Potter. Chess.” You took a step towards James and pressed a finger to his chest. “I took action.” 

“How ‘bout this: I’ll buy you a butterbeer?” 

Your smile grew.

“That’d be great. Shall we go now? Don’t feel like heading back to the castle just yet.” 

He nodded and you swapped brooms with him so you were each riding your own. Madam Rosmerta gave you both a strange look when you entered the Three Broomsticks. While it wasn’t uncommon for students to sneak out of the castle when it wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend, it was rare for them to enter with brooms. 

Rosmerta was already pouring two mugs of butterbeer when James called out, “Can we put it on my tab?” 

“Only because I know you’re good for it,” she said as she slammed the mugs down in front of you.

James laughed. “You won’t serve me again until it’s paid off, I know, Rosmerta.” 

As you talked and drank your butterbeers, James decided that his friendship with you was real. More real than anything he had with Lily.

---

From that moment, you noticed a shift in James. The biggest change was he stopped asking Lily out, but there were other smaller changes. You grew closer with him and you swore that how he looked at you changed. It was softer, kinder and filled with… admiration? You didn’t tell anyone about this, nor did you tell anyone about the growing feelings you had for him. Whenever you saw him slipping into that funk, you threw whatever was in your hands at him and told him to take a flight. He usually listened. 

Then there was a particularly rough quidditch match against Ravenclaw. Gryffindor lost. The locker room was tense and no one was talking. The rest of the team showered and headed back to the castle in silence. You lingered a little bit after your shower to see if James wanted to walk back with you, but he seemed to be attempting to use all of the water in Hogwarts. You walked back alone and waited for him in the common room. 

When James finally came up, the entire room quieted. He didn’t look at anyone. He stared straight ahead with a blank expression as he marched directly to the stairs. You frowned as you got up to follow him. 

“Still has that death wish, I see,” Sirius muttered while giving the boys a sideways glance.

You were only a few steps behind him, but by the time you reached his dorm, he had already slammed the door shut and was laying face down on his bed horizontally. You carefully took the path to his bed, sitting at the foot of his bed near James’ head. 

“James,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He grunted. “It’s not the end of the world.”

He lifted his head just enough to not muffle his voice. “Love, we lost. We’re not undefeated anymore.”

“So what? Now we have something bigger to train towards. Plus, we still have the best record.” 

He turned his head to look at you. You responded with an unimpressed look.

“Sit up, James. Up, up, up. We are not moping.”

Reluctantly, James rolled onto his side and then sat up, leaning against his headboard while you still sat at the end of his bed. He scooted over before patting the spot next to him. You climbed to the top of the bed. Then, as if reading each other’s minds, you rested your head on his shoulder so he could rest his head on yours. 

“You can be upset we didn’t win. Don’t bring down the entire house with your attitude though,” you told him in a soft voice. “You know younger students look up to you and they see how you handle losses. And, well, monkey see, monkey do.” 

You felt him nod. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then he moved. It was subtle at first with slow, small movements. His hand reached yours and held it. You didn’t move. Your heart started to beat quickly.

“Maybe… maybe I can have one win today then?” he asked, his head still resting on yours.

“Yeah? What would that be?”

He lifted his head and looked down at you.

“Would you want to be my girlfriend?”

---

James did have a win that day and he considered himself to be winning every day since. He laughed at himself for all the time he spent yearning for a fictional Lily when you were there the whole time and you were real. The boys constantly told you that you had a death wish but you both knew that they liked how you affected each other. 

You were heading up to the boys’ dorm to study with James for your 7th year finals. The door was cracked open, voices drifting into the stairwell. 

“I need to, Padfoot. I have to think about the future. I can’t leave Hogwarts and have a girlfriend.” 

“Prongs, I get it. But what if you’re rushing it?” 

“I’m not. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s something I have to do.”

James was speaking with such conviction. You felt like someone sucker punched you. You wouldn’t breathe. You thought James was as in love with you as ever. Everything was going good. Great, even. You were so goddamn happy with him and here he was, talking to Sirius about breaking up with you? You couldn’t walk into that dorm. Instead you turned around with your books hugged to your chest. 

You still had to study for your finals so you went to the library. You found an open spot at the long tables in the middle of the library. Usually, you would have opted for a more secluded table. You hated working in open view, but you knew you had to. If James came looking for you, he wouldn’t dare break up with you in the middle of the library. You were safe for now. 

The afternoon slipped away from you. Your studying wasn’t progressing as well as you had hoped. Your mind drifted back to James every few review questions, every few notecards, every few pages. Rather than memorizing spells and potion ingredients, you questioned every part of your relationship from the past year and a half. Every conversation, confession and shared joke was put under scrutiny. What changed? 

You didn’t leave the library until Madam Pince kicked you out. You didn’t pause to see who was in the common room when you got back to Gryffindor Tower; you went straight to your dorm. You put your books away and got ready for bed silently. 

James was in the common room when you got back. He stood up as soon as he saw you enter the room. He almost called your name, but you were on a mission to disappear. He slumped back into the airchair he had been sitting in. You were supposed to meet up with him to study earlier, or at least he thought you were. He could have sworn you agreed to meet in his dorm hours ago, but apparently you had studied elsewhere without him. 

“Ooo, someone’s in trouble,” Peter teased. 

James glared at him. He assumed Peter was correct but didn’t want to admit that out loud. Not when he had no idea what he could have done to upset you. You always met in his room to study, and if you had made plans to study elsewhere, you would meet in his dorm first and then go study. And certainly, one missed study session wouldn’t piss you off that much. 

But maybe he was wrong. The following days, your demeanor changed. You didn’t touch James as much. You still sat next to him and walked with him and talked to him. But there was something off about it all. He just couldn’t put his finger on why you were acting this way.

“Maybe she’s stressed for finals? I am,” Remus offered at one point.

James shook his head. Stress for finals would be understandable, but you’d talk about it with him. You always talked about your struggles with him. You were a team. 

He was about to lose it when you did everything in your power to avoid being alone with James. You figured that if he could never get you alone, he couldn’t break up with you. You knew that you were only delaying the inevitable, but putting it off was all you could think to do. You would study and pretend like everything was normal, okay, just fine until after finals. Maybe after graduation. Then James could leave you and Hogwarts in his past in one fell swoop. You believed you were doing him a favor. 

When the weekend before finals arrived, you hid yourself in the deepest corner of the library that you could find and built a wall of study materials around you. You had disappeared into the library without anyone seeing you leave and you were certain that no one saw you come back here. Most of all, you needed to really work on your Transfiguration wandwork and you wouldn’t be as productive in the middle of the library. Your secluded corner was what you needed to ensure the grades you seeked. 

“Love, there you are!” James’ cheery voice reached you from behind your pile of books and old assignments. 

“What do you want from me?” you asked, a bit snippy yet your voice was sad. 

In a moment, you had gone from studious bookworm to pitiful mess. Finals were just around the corner. You could not handle a breakup right now. 

James stared at you with wide eyes. He approached you slowly, coming around to your side of the table to crouch beside your chair. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You let out a dry laugh. “I overheard you talking to Sirius. I know what you’re going to do. I just… I can’t handle it before finals.”

Your words hit James like a stack of bricks. He immediately knew which conversation you were talking about, which left him confused and slightly hurt. He ran a hand through his hair before reaching for your hand. Every inch of you was screaming to pull your hand away but you let him hold it. 

“I… I wasn’t going to do it before finals,” he whispered with a frown. “You don’t want to?”

You felt tears beginning to gather in your eyes. How could he be so dense?

“James, I love you. You know I do. Why on earth would I want to break up?”

James suddenly lost his balance and fell onto the floor. You stared at him, gaping as he laid on the ground and didn’t make any move to get up. His head was spinning at what you said, what you thought you overheard. After a moment, he propped himself up with his elbows.

“Who said I was going to break up with you?”

“You did? Said you had to think of the future. You couldn’t leave Hogwarts with a girlfriend.” 

“No. Oh, my love,” James said, quickly standing up and getting close enough to cup your face with his hands. “Is that you’ve been a bit distant?”

You nodded, but your confusion was still evident.

“You must not have heard everything I said. It’s not my future I’m thinking about. It’s our future. I don’t want to leave Hogwarts with a girlfriend, because I want you to be my wife.” He watched your face apprehensively as his words sank in. “I want to ask you to marry me. I was waiting until after finals.” 

“Oh.” 

All of your anger and sadness melted away like it never existed. It was replaced with a lightness. Your entire being felt lighter than it had before. 

“So, I guess, to answer your question. What do I want from you? I want your future. I want your hand. To have and to hold, you know. All that jazz. I want to love you for the rest of my life.” 

You reached up and pulled James down by his shirt collar so that you could kiss him. You hoped that that would answer his technically unasked question because you couldn’t speak. You had too many emotions swirling within you, but the one that stood out the most was your full and complete love and devotion to him.