#i was surprised when i found this one out

[iydiamartinx]

RED HANDED

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.2k synopsis: Damian sneaks you into the manor, only to get caught red handed.

Wayne Manor was supposed to be empty.

That’s what Damian had told you when he pulled you through the back gate, hand clasped tightly in yours, voice low and insistent as he muttered about stealth and nosy family members and “don’t touch that, it’s a pressure sensor.” He’d checked the security logs himself—Bruce was at a board meeting, Alfred out running errands, and the others all scattered across the city on patrol or “adult things,” as Damian called them with no small amount of disdain.

So he brought you home. Quietly. Secretly.

To his room.

The moment the door shut behind you, his shoulders dropped that ever-present tension. His fingers found your wrist, then your waist, tugging you gently toward the bed. No words, just that look he gave you—sharp eyes softening, mouth twitching at the corners in something dangerously close to a smile.

You were the only one who ever got that version of him.

Now the two of you were curled up beneath the covers, the storm outside tapping against the windows while his arm wrapped snug around your waist. Damian’s head rested near yours, nose brushing your temple every so often, breath slow and steady.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured, tracing lazy circles along his chest.

“You will,” he replied, voice quiet and certain. “Once I find a way to keep you here without the others ruining everything.”

You giggled, tipping your head up to meet the small, rare curve of his mouth—the almost-smile he only gave you.

And then the bedroom door slammed open.

“Dami, I need to borrow—OH MY GOD!”

Both of you shot upright like you’d been struck by lightning.

Dick Grayson stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as dinner plates, mouth agape in sheer, appalled disbelief. His finger jerked upward, trembling like it couldn’t decide whether to point at Damian, you, or the fact that you were clearly in his bed.

“What the hell, Grayson?!” Damian snapped, scrambling to hide your presence by throwing the blanket over you as you shrieked in surprise and ducked under it. But the damage had already been done.

“You have a GIRL in your BED?!” Dick shouted, scandalized.

Damian looked moments away from lunging across the room. “I swear to Ra, if you say one more word I will end your bloodline—”

But it was too late. The yelling had summoned the wolves.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jason’s voice barked from the hall, followed by a clatter of someone sprinting.

“Did someone die?” That was Tim, out of breath and still chewing toast as he skidded into view.

And then, like the final nail in the coffin, Bruce appeared.

He was dressed for work—pressed suit, tie knotted perfectly, not a single strand of hair out of place—but the look on his face was nothing short of bewildered. He stood in the hallway, staring into the room like he wasn’t quite sure what he’d walked in on, and very much wished he hadn’t.

There was a silence. A very loud, very awkward silence as everyone took in the scene.

“Damian has a girlfriend?” Tim whispered like he’d uncovered an ancient secret.

Jason blinked at you, then back at Damian. “Wait. She’s real?”

Another blink. Then a wild grin. “She’s real!” He turned and punched Dick in the arm. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

“I do not—!”

“You bet she was imaginary!”

“Because she was supposed to be imaginary! He’s fifteen!”

“Seventeen,” Damian growled, practically vibrating with fury under the blanket. “And if any of you take another step into this room, I swear on every god you hold dear, I will bring out my katana.”

But of course, the damage was done.

Slowly, cautiously, you peeked out from beneath the blanket. Your cheeks were burning, your hair a mess, and your heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ears.

Four sets of eyes landed on you.

Jason gave a slow, impressed nod. “Hey there. I’m the hot brother.”

“I swear to—”

Damian made a strangled sound of protest, but before he could lunge across the room, Tim raised a hand with a sheepish half-wave.

“I’m the smart one,” he offered helpfully. “Sorry about… all this.”

“And I,” Dick declared proudly, hands on his hips, “am the fun one. Also the reason you’re all about to get grounded. You’re welcome.”

“OUT!” Damian barked.

That’s when Bruce finally spoke up. “Enough,” he said, calm and quiet— almost immediately it made all three older brothers freeze.

Jason blinked. “We were just—”

“Out,” Bruce repeated, this time with the faintest arch of his brow. 

One by one, the boys started backing up like scolded dogs.

Jason grumbled something under his breath and turned.

Tim gave you a quick, apologetic smile and shuffled after him.

Dick lingered the longest, flashing you a grin and a salute. “Still think it’s adorable.”

“Out,” Bruce said again, firmer this time.

With that all three filed out with varying degrees of grumbling and smirking.

Bruce remained in the room for a moment longer. His eyes shifted from you—still half-curled beneath the blanket—to his son, who sat stiff-backed beside you, his jaw tight with embarrassment and defiance.

“I expect a proper introduction at dinner,” Bruce said coolly, turning on his heel. “Six sharp.”

Damian exhaled like it physically pained him. “Yes, Father.”

Bruce nodded once, then turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, the breath full of fire and exasperation. He muttered a string of curses in Arabic—low, venom-laced, and fast enough to blur into one hissed syllable—as he collapsed back into the pillows with a dramatic thud. One arm flung over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the humiliation still clinging to the air.

You lay beside him, the warmth of his body still lingering beneath the tangled sheets, a laugh bubbling in your throat despite your best efforts to suppress it.

“Well,” you murmured, voice edged with amusement, “at least they didn’t bring a camera.”

He made a sound—something between a groan and a growl. “You underestimate them. There will be photos. There will be memes. Grayson will narrate the whole scene on the family group chat by noon. I am already doomed.”

You leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the curve of your mouth brushing the flushed skin just beneath his eye. “Guess I better dress nice for dinner, then.”

Another groan, this one muffled by the pillow he dragged down over his face.

But then, without warning, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you in—close, possessive. Like he wasn’t ready to let you go, even if the rest of the world now knew you existed.

“Remind me to kill them later,” he muttered, voice gruff but reluctant.

You laughed and burrowed into the crook of his arm, cheek pressed to his collarbone. “I don’t know… I kind of liked seeing flustered Damian. Might be my favorite version yet.”

He peeked down at you then, dragging the pillow just far enough to reveal a glare that lacked its usual bite. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You tilted your head and gave him a grin, utterly unrepentant, before brushing another kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah,” you said, voice soft and smug. “I know.”

[superhoeva]

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid. 

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.” 

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.” 

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not  sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

���So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 12. Confrontation gone wrong!

PREV PART trigger warning: shouting, attempted gaslighting, medical + physical + emotional neglect, trackers, the yandereness is turning up slowly main m.list       series m.list

Nightwing’s behaviour was strange, odd even. But it wasn’t as weird as your family’s, ever since that one breakdown they’ve been acting like nothing happened. Like you’re apart of the family that they’ve shunned you from, yet they’re still keep cards close to their chess. And when you realised that Damian was showing up at your favourite hang out spots a bit too often, you got paranoid.

You always carry a messenger bag around, filled with little activities, extra medication and much more. But when you forgot it at home, or at your friends house you didn’t run into Damian. You didn’t run into your family at all.

And if your suspicions are correct? That bag is the reason why Damian keeps finding you.

You drop the contents of the bags on your bed, searching through it with such precision a surgeon would be jealous and then you found it. A trinket you don’t recognise, that looks like a magnet, but you’ve watched enough crime shows to know what it is. A tracker. “That little fucker,” you curse as you snap it without thinking. The strength that it took to do that was too much for you to use in one go, your body aching the second you broke it. “and now I’ve got high ass pain, thanks Damian. Fuck you too.”

But wait a minute, why would Nightwing follow little old you?

Why would any of the bats follow you?

You who never harmed anyone, you who is just a host at Cobblepot’s restaurant.

Either the bats are in Bruce’s pocket, or they are the bats.

The time-line of the younger vigilantes would make sense with your families time-line…. “Oh fuck no,” you curse as you quickly turn to your desk, rummaging through your drawer until you find a hard drive. You quickly plug it into your laptop and check if it works, and thank god it does. Even if you don’t know for sure that your family are the protectors of Gotham, you need to put the groundwork in for plan B. You need to send this all over to Maria, to Duke, to Francis, fuck, to everyone you can. To everyone you know and trust, you need to build rapport. Maybe… maybe even send this to your work…. No, that will be your plan C.

You make a group chat and you send a mass message; ‘Publish this if you don’t hear from me for a week and Maria doesn’t inform you where I am’. (attached; file (Name) and family incidents)

“(name),” Alfred says through the door, not even bothering with knocking. “Master Bruce expects you at dinner.”

You sigh, loud enough for Alfred to hear. “Yeah, I’ll be down soon!” you shout back as you shut off your laptop and hide your hard-drive once more. “Just need to freshen up real quick!”

When you hear him walk away you breath out in relief as you try to ignore the way your phone is blowing up.

As you ignore the way your heart fills with dread, and your body becomes tense and rigid with every step you take. You know Maria will have your back if your suspicions are correct, you know that Duke would have no issues with fucking everyone up if needed. But if your family is the ‘Bat’ family, he stands no chance. Unless… unless he’s Signal, which wouldn’t surprise you, he’s always ready to help others. But unlike the bats, he doesn’t seem afraid to get his hands dirty.

But there is no time to think about that right now, you have to face your fears.

You have to get this over with.

The moment you got to the dining hall your paranoia just got worse, especially with how Damian is staring at you, with how his arms are crossed. With how he looks like he’s been scolded through and through. Good, but you’ll still have to scold him for leaving a tracker in your bag, you will not tolerate such behaviour. And you never will, yet if you keep silent he might be bold enough to try again. To do so even smarter. “Well, you guys seem tense,” you comment without thinking as you sit down at your spot, which is next to Duke (thank god).

“Who wouldn’t be?” Damian asks, slamming his fist on the table. “When a family member has hidden their health to the extent you have!”

Your eyes snap towards Cassandra but she looks everywhere but at you. Duke clenches the arms of his chair, grounding himself before he does something he’ll regret. Luckily you have no problem with showing your anger, you have no problem with omitting the truth. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” you say as you tilt your head. “I’ve never hidden my health.”

Jason scoffs and you can see Dick roll his eyes, but most importantly you can see Bruce stare you down. A glare that you can only describe as identical to Batman’s. “Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his hands. “you’re grounded until you can tell us, me, the truth.”

You laugh, you can’t help it. “What truth?!” you shout, slamming your hands on the table. “I’ve tried telling you about my health when Jason attacked me, that I was scared about another flare up. But you dismissed it, I never lied, I just never told you.”

“You committed medical fraud,” Barbara points out.

“Can you blame them?” Duke asks, glaring at her. “When none of you took them to the hospital after they were in a coma?”

At least that gagged Barbara, too bad it didn’t shut Bruce up. “Your phone, (Name).” he stresses out, making a gimme hand motion (good thing you always have a back-up phone, huh), you throw it at them. And he catches it with ease. “Thank you.”

Jason groans, this wasn’t the confrontation he was expecting. He expected them to be harsher, not to offer you a way out by giving Bruce your phone. It pisses him the fuck off. “Oh my fucking god,” he curses, throwing his head back. “how the fuck did you get the hospital to give you surgeries, to give you researches without any adult present?!”

You stare at him, raising one of your eyebrows as you cross your arms. Looking as if you’re challenging him to explain why the fuck he thinks you would answer questions like that. And Jason is officially pissing of Duke, and from the look in his eyes Cassandra could assure Jason that he’s getting his ass beat during training. “Where’s your medication?” Stephanie asks, trying to diffuse the situation. “they’re heavy, wouldn’t it be handier if someone else handled them?”

You scoff; “iI someone is to handle my medication it’s Duke, and I don’t need help remembering how to take the pills I’ve been taking for fucking years thank you very much.”

Bruce runs his hand through his hair. “No, I am your father and we will have this conversation and you will give me your medication so that I can ensure you don’t take too much or too little!” he raises his vouce,

“Whatever,” you say as you roll your eyes, but your shoulders are tense and Duke rubs your back trying to keep him calm. “let’s just eat.”

“No,” Damian hisses out. “explain, now.”

You stare at him, wondering where he found the goddamn audacity and you reach in your pocket. Throwing the broken tracker at Damian. “When you explain this, you little shit.”

Duke curses, you never had heard such creative insults come out of his mouth. If you didn’t know better you would think these insults weren’t his own, truly he’s been spending too much time with Francis. But before Duke can stand up from his seat and threaten Damian in his face you shake your head. “Duke, glad that you at least seem to understand how grave this situation is,” you say with a smile. “but we should hear what this little shit has to say before either of us put our hands on him. He’s still a child you know, and I don’t condone child abuse.”

Unlike these fuckers, went unsaid but not unheard. It makes Duke smile. “I would love to hear his explanation,” Duke agrees. “but wouldn’t you also like to know how they got your medical history.”

You grin and pretend to have a dramatic eureka moment. “Oh, babs, did you just scold me for committing medical fraud, but how did you guys get my history?” you ask, pretending to be thinking. “ahah! You guys must have done something illegal as well? My oh my, did it also make you realise that neglect is illegal?”

It got silent, and it’s clear everyone’s waiting for Damian’s answer, but also Bruce’s comments. After all Alfred is just standing there in a corner as if he did nothing wrong. But when Bruce and Damian didn’t say anything, you grinned.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

NEXT PART GUESS WHAT, :) this story is just going to get darker from here on out.

taglist closed: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 7┃ The Calm That Isn’t

Male reader x Karina

Word count: 6.7k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, orgasm denial, breath play, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6

The morning was quiet.

Not the soft kind. The kind that makes your thoughts louder.

Karina wasn’t in bed when I woke up. No note. No sound. Just the dent in the mattress beside me, the scent of her still clinging to the pillow.

I sat up slowly. My body ached in places I hadn’t realized I’d used. My jaw felt tight from clenching. My wrists still held the memory of her grip. The kind of soreness you earn, not regret.

I told myself I was fine.

Then sat on the edge of the bed for five minutes pretending I believed it.

The house felt different today.

Not changed—just... rearranged.

Like someone had come in while we were sleeping and moved everything an inch to the left.

Winter was in the living room, legs folded under her, scrolling through something on her phone. She didn’t look up when I passed.

Ningning was in the kitchen with a spoon halfway to her mouth and a box of cereal cradled in one arm like a newborn. She glanced at me once—just enough to register I existed—then went back to her bowl.

“Morning,” she said around a mouthful.

“Hey.”

She swallowed. “Karina let you sleep in?”

I raised an eyebrow.

She smirked. “No reason. Just surprised you’re walking straight.”

I didn’t answer.

I found Karina in a small room with only a couch and a window. Not on her phone. Not reading. Just sitting—one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window like she was calculating something she wasn’t going to say out loud.

She didn’t look over when I entered.

“Morning,” I said.

A beat. Then: “Hey.”

No tension. No edge. Just... calm.

Like something had shifted between us, and for once, neither of us was trying to wrestle it back.

I sat beside her. Not close. Just within reach if either of us decided to bridge the gap.

She leaned her head back against the wall. Closed her eyes for a second.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

Another pause. No eye contact. Just the window and her own thoughts.

“How do you stop acting like you're fine all the time?”

I didn’t say anything.

She opened her eyes again, slow. Met mine, but only for a second.

“I mean—like—I’ve been holding it together so long, I don’t know how to not.”

I let it hang there.

She glanced away. “Forget it.”

“I won’t.”

That got the smallest breath of a laugh. Just air through her nose.

Then, quieter: “I’m tired, Mylo.”

The words sat between us for a second. No drama. No weight behind them. Just truth.

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

She looked at me again. Really looked. Like she was trying to figure out how much I meant that. If I said it because I understood, or because I wanted her to think I did.

“I don’t want to be in charge all the time,” she said quietly. “Not just here. With everything. My parents. My label. The girls. You.”

That last word came slower.

I didn’t flinch. “I never asked you to be in charge of me.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I should.”

We sat in that for a minute.

The room didn’t feel heavy.

It felt clean. Like something unspoken had been scraped out of the air.

Karina sighed. Shifted. Her shoulder brushed mine.

“I don’t even know what this is,” she said. “But when I told you not to make me chase you…”

I looked over.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just said, clear and quiet:

“I meant it. Don’t disappear.”

It was dark when I left. I didn’t run. I walked. Slow. Careful. Not looking back. The streetlights buzzed like they were about to die. Every time a car passed, I stopped breathing. It didn’t matter if the driver saw me. Didn’t matter if they didn’t. I didn’t have a bag. Just a hoodie and twenty-three dollars in ones. No plan. No destination. Just away. Away from the envelope. From the way he looked at me like he already owned the next few weeks of my life. From my mother’s silence when I told her I didn’t like him. From her not asking why. And from what I overheard the night before.

His voice on the phone, low and too casual: “Yeah, he’s quiet. Doesn’t fight. Should be easy.” I didn’t need to know who he was talking to. I knew what he meant. The couch where he used to sit still had the imprint of his keys in the cushion. I noticed that as I passed. I didn’t cry. Not because I was brave—just because I already knew what it would feel like.

I stared ahead for a long moment.

Then I said it.

“I won’t.”

She held my eyes for another second. Then nodded—barely—and turned. The door shut softly behind her. No dramatic exit, just quiet certainty.

It wasn’t the kind of silence you fight. It was the kind that invites you to sit in it, let it wrap around your ribs, and wait to see if you flinch.

Eventually, I moved. Pushed off the wall. Wandered the loop of the house once—bedroom to hallway to kitchen and back—just to keep from being still too long.

The others came back home before sundown.

It wasn’t loud. Just footsteps, murmurs, the thud of a bag dropped too hard. The kind of noise that means the outside world is back.

Ningning walked in first. Her phone lit her face in a pale wash, and her lips moved like she was mouthing lyrics only she could hear. She looked tired in a way she wouldn’t say out loud.

Winter trailed her. Hoodie zipped to the throat. One earbud still in, the other dangling like she forgot it. Her eyes passed over me and kept going.

Neither said anything.

They didn’t have to.

The air between them was stretched thin—tight with something I didn’t understand yet. Like a conversation had started in the car and ended too early.

I waited a beat. Then moved to the kitchen to give them space.

Ningning’s voice broke the quiet later, from the living room.

“You think she’s okay?”

She didn’t say who.

Winter didn’t answer right away.

“She’s fine,” she said eventually. “Just overthinks everything.”

Ningning didn’t push.

I didn’t ask.

Karina came out last.

She changed. Clean hoodie, leggings, towel-dried hair pulled up like she didn’t care how it dried. Her face was bare—no makeup.

She moved like someone who was used to motion. Someone who didn’t stop unless she meant to.

Her eyes met mine just once. That was all.

I nodded.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t look away either.

Giselle didn’t come out at all.

Her door stayed shut. No music. No voice. No presence.

Like she’d vanished into her corner of the house, and everyone had quietly agreed not to disturb the boundary she’d drawn.

I almost knocked once. Just to break that boundary.

But I didn’t.

Dinner happened in fragments.

Ningning reheated leftovers and ate them standing up. Winter poured a glass of juice and forgot about it. Karina opened the fridge, looked for something for a full thirty seconds, then left without taking anything.

I stood in the hallway and watched it all like I wasn’t really part of it.

Maybe I wasn’t.

Maybe they weren’t either.

They were all in the same house, breathing the same air, carrying different weights they wouldn’t name.

Later, I passed by the bathroom and heard Winter’s voice through the door.

Not talking. Singing.

Soft. Something slow. Not Korean. Not a song I knew.

It only lasted a minute. Then the water shut off.

And the silence returned.

I ended up in the kitchen again.

Leaning against the counter. Cup of water untouched beside me. Hands still. Mind not.

Karina appeared again without warning. No footsteps. Just there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

She stood across from me, fingers curled loosely around the hem of her hoodie. Her eyes scanned the room—then settled on me like I was something she’d already decided to reach for.

“Come with me,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t soft either.

It was certain.

I followed her.

She didn’t lead me far—just to the back door. Slipped her shoes on without speaking, unlocked the latch with a twist, and stepped outside.

I paused at the doorframe, then pushed it open and joined her.

The air was cooler out here. Still, like the house was holding its breath behind us.

Karina walked a few paces ahead, then slowed by the fence. She didn’t sit. Just stood there, facing away, her shoulders rising with a breath she didn’t let out all at once.

She spoke without turning around.

“That thing I said earlier—about not wanting to carry everything…”

I said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder. “This is part of that.”

Then she turned to face me fully, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists.

“I’ve been watching the others,” she said. “Winter, Ningning… Giselle. They’re not saying it, but something’s off.”

I nodded slowly. “I heard them earlier.”

“Yeah.” Her jaw worked a little. “They were talking about Giselle.”

She finally sat down on the edge of the low bench near the back fence. I followed, sitting beside her with a few inches of space between us.

“She’s been pulling away,” Karina said. “Not just from you. From all of us.”

I didn’t respond.

“She seemed fine this morning. A little quiet, but that’s normal after a long day.” Karina ran a hand through her hair. “Then something happened while they were out. Winter wouldn’t talk about it, and Ningning… she said too much already.”

“What did Giselle do?”

Karina shook her head. “Nothing dramatic. No yelling. Just—she shut down. Didn’t say anything the whole way home. Got out of the car, went straight to her room.”

“Is that normal for her?”

“Kind of,” Karina said. “But usually, she doesn’t vanish unless she’s trying to avoid herself.”

She looked down at her hands. Twisted her fingers once. “I think she felt something today. And it scared her.”

A breeze moved across the yard, soft and dry. It carried the faintest sound from the street—a car door, maybe. Then silence again.

“She asked them something,” Karina said. “Ningning just said it was about being wanted.”

I didn’t move.

“She asked if she was being kept around for the fantasy of her.”

That sat in the air for a while.

Karina didn’t look at me when she said it.

“She didn’t mean aespa,” I said.

“No.”

That was all either of us needed to say.

Karina leaned back a little. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves again.

“She's the kind of person who’s always been wanted for the wrong reasons. Looks. Fame. Money.”

“And then she let someone get too close to the real thing,” I said.

Karina looked at me now.

“And when it got quiet,” I added, “she panicked.”

“She’s not the only one,” Karina said.

I raised an eyebrow.

Karina gave a thin smile. “You think I’m like this for fun?”

That got half a breath of a laugh out of me.

She turned her face toward the fence again. “The whole point of being strong all the time is pretending you don’t notice how tired you are.”

She didn’t say it for pity.

Just a fact.

“And now?” I asked.

She was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Now I notice.”

We sat like that for a while. Not touching. Not rushing.

Karina’s voice came softer the next time.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappear.”

“Yet.”

She smirked. “Don’t make me punch you.”

Then, with a glance that cut sharper than it should’ve:

“You’ve been holding it together a little too well,” she said “Sometimes that’s the loudest red flag there is."

I glanced at her. “You think everything’s a red flag.”

“Only when it is.”

I gave a small smile, just enough to pass for unbothered. “Maybe I’m just good at handling shit.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “That’s what people say right before they crash.”

I looked away. “I’m not crashing.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Just said you’re holding a lot.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Who isn’t?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

She sighed, but didn’t push harder. Just leaned back against the bench and stared at the fence like it might answer something.

“I don’t need the whole story,” she said after a while. “I just… want to know you’re not white-knuckling everything alone.”

“I’m fine.”

Karina didn’t argue with me. She didn’t nod either. She just sat there. Watching me with the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like pressure—it felt like understanding trying to be patient.

I looked down at my hands. They were steady. Still.

“I’m used to this,” I said. “Being the one who stays calm.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”

“Good at not making it anyone else’s problem.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then: “Sometimes that just means you stopped expecting anyone to care.”

That stung more than I wanted it to.

But I shrugged, like it hadn’t.

“Look,” I said. “I get it. You’re worried. You want to check in. And I appreciate it.”

“That’s not what this is.”

I looked over.

Karina met my eyes, firm but quiet. “I’m not checking in. I’m here. With you. That’s it.”

I didn’t respond.

But I didn’t look away either.

We sat in silence for a while.

Karina pulled her legs up onto the bench, hugging her knees. Her face looked softer in the dark. Less controlled. Less carved.

“I’m not trying to read you,” she said eventually.

“You are.”

She smiled. “Bad habit.”

I leaned back, elbows on the top of the bench. “You’re not wrong.”

“But you’re not gonna tell me anything.”

I looked at the sky. “Not tonight.”

“That’s fair.”

She let her head rest against the back of the bench, close enough that our shoulders brushed again.

“I used to think staying quiet was strength,” she said. “That being composed meant I was handling it.”

“And now?”

“I think sometimes it just means you’re scared of falling apart in front of the wrong person.”

I looked over. “You think I’m the wrong person?”

“No,” she said. “I think you don’t know if I’m the right one.”

That shut me up for a second.

Karina shifted, stretched her legs back out, one foot brushing mine as she moved.

She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just out across the yard, the way people do when they’ve said too much and don’t want to see the reaction.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t touch her.

But I stayed.

Not as an answer.

Just as proof I hadn’t disappeared.

The silence between us had changed.

It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t thick with something unsaid.

It was waiting.

Karina’s foot still rested lightly against mine. Her head tilted back, eyes on the stretch of sky above the fence line. I didn’t need to look at her to know she was still thinking—still holding the weight of the things she hadn’t said.

And then she shifted.

Turned.

Her voice low, but clear.

“You coming back with me?”

I looked over at her.

She wasn’t smirking.

She wasn’t teasing.

She just… meant it.

No game. No pose.

Just want.

I didn’t answer. Not with words. I stood up first, waited for her to do the same.

She did.

She didn’t lead this time. Just walked beside me. Our steps soft across the grass. Through the back door, past the low light of the hallway, down the quiet corridor toward her room.

No one saw us.

Or if they did, no one said anything.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Left it half open behind her.

I closed it.

The room was still. Dim.

She turned toward me and pulled her hoodie off in one slow motion. Her t-shirt clung underneath—thin, worn-in, more sleepwear than outfit. She tossed the hoodie onto a chair, then stepped forward, close enough that I could feel the heat off her skin.

But she didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

She just looked.

“I meant it,” she said.

I didn’t ask what.

But she told me anyway.

“When I said I didn’t want to be in control of everything.”

My chest tightened—but only a little.

Still manageable.

Still quiet.

“Okay,” I said.

Then, softer: “What do you want instead?”

She stepped in, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t loud.

It was steady. Certain.

Like she’d waited long enough to say it clearly.

I let her lift my shirt. Tossed it aside. She kissed me once—quick, focused—then again, slower this time. And this time, it deepened fast. Her hands were on my back, gripping hard like she didn’t want to fall.

But there was no rush.

She didn’t push.

She just pressed closer.

And when she pulled back, breath slightly uneven, she looked at me like she was daring herself to go quiet again—but didn’t.

“Don’t make me tell you what to do,” she said, voice almost a whisper.

I stepped forward.

“Get on the bed,” I murmured.

She exhaled.

Relieved.

Then she moved—no words, no hesitation. Just turned, stepped backward, and climbed onto the mattress. She didn’t pose. Didn’t sprawl. Just sat on her knees in the center, watching me like she needed to see how far I was going to take it.

Her breath hitched once when I stopped at the edge of the bed.

“Lie back.”

She did.

Flat. Head tilted slightly, hair spilling over the pillow.

I climbed over her, slow and deliberate, one knee between hers, the other caging her leg. My hands pressed down on either side of her ribs, just enough weight to let her feel I was everywhere now.

“You’re not in control,” I said quietly.

Karina nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’m not in control.”

My hand came up, fingers sliding gently along her jaw. Then I let my thumb rest just under her chin, tilting her face toward mine.

“And you don’t want to be,” I added.

“I don’t,” she whispered.

Her eyes searched mine. Not afraid. Just wide, focused. Like she wanted to feel what it was like to be looked at without armor.

“You’re going to take what I give you,” I said. “And nothing else.”

“Yes.”

“No begging.”

A slow breath. “Okay.”

“No hiding.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I kissed her—deep this time, all breath and heat and no space left between. Her legs wrapped around me instantly, hips shifting like her body already knew where it was going. But I didn’t move faster.

I slowed it.

My hand slid under her shirt, skimming her stomach, then up—slow enough to make her arch, barely enough to be cruel.

When I finally pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, she was already panting.

But she didn’t reach for me.

She waited.

Exactly how I wanted her.

I kissed her neck next. Bit lightly. Then dragged my mouth to her collarbone, pressing a hand flat to her chest just to feel her pulse jump under it.

Then I moved that hand higher.

To her throat.

Not choking. Not even tight.

Just resting there.

My thumb brushed the side of her neck, steady pressure.

Her mouth opened.

But she didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

Her eyes said it all—yes, please, don’t stop.

I applied a little more pressure—not enough to cut breath, just enough to remind her she’d given it up.

Then I kissed her again, holding her there, body under mine, voice caught somewhere in her chest.

She moaned into my mouth.

It was quiet, choked, honest.

When I pulled back, I kept my hand at her throat.

“Good girl,” I said.

Her whole body reacted.

Her nails dug into the sheets. Her knees squeezed around my hips.

I kissed her temple, then her jaw, then whispered against her ear:

“You’re going to come for me like this.”

She nodded—desperate, silent.

But I wasn’t done.

I shifted lower. Trailed kisses down her chest. Took one nipple into my mouth and sucked, slow and deep, while my other hand slid between her legs.

She gasped.

My fingers found her soaked.

I groaned softly, more for her than for me.

“You were waiting for this.”

She whimpered.

“Say it.”

“Yes—fuck—I was—”

I slid two fingers in, slow and deep.

Her back arched.

I tightened my grip around her throat—still gentle, still measured.

“Stay right there,” I said. “Don’t move.”

Her hips trembled.

But she stayed.

Exactly where I wanted her.

Every breath she took came in pieces—tight, shuddering. Her hips kept rising, chasing my hand like she couldn’t stop herself. I let my fingers stay inside her, slow, deep, curling just right to make her toes flex against the sheets.

My other hand rested at her throat again—gentle pressure, firm enough to remind her.

Her eyes were wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. Her breasts moved with every breath, soft and flushed and begging to be touched again.

I leaned down, brushed my mouth just over hers without kissing her.

“You want to lose it,” I murmured. “Don’t you?”

She gave a small nod.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I—yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I want—fuck—I want to—please—”

My fingers didn’t stop. They moved slower now. Crueler. Keeping her trapped in that ache that sits right before everything breaks.

She squirmed beneath me. Back arching. Nails clawing at the sheets like she needed something to hold on to.

“I’m right there—Mylo—please—”

“No,” I said.

Her moan cracked in the middle. Desperate. Wordless.

“I didn’t say you could.”

She tried to nod, to obey, but her thighs were trembling and her chest was flushed all the way up to her collarbones.

I leaned in again and kissed just beneath her jaw—slow and open-mouthed—then dragged my tongue along her throat where my hand rested.

“You’re doing so fucking well,” I whispered.

She whimpered like praise itself made her wetter.

“But you don’t get to finish until I say you can.”

I bit her collarbone—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” she choked. “I swear—I’ll wait—just—”

I cut her off with a kiss, then pulled my fingers from her slowly. She gasped—almost sobbed—at the loss, trying to grind against nothing.

But I wasn’t done.

I brought my hand to her mouth.

“Taste what I got from you.”

She wrapped her lips around my fingers without hesitation, moaning low as her tongue circled them.

“You're mine,” I said. “You get to come when I say you can. Not a second sooner.”

She nodded fast, eyes glassy with need, cheeks flushed and wet where her hair clung to them.

I pushed my hips forward, dragging the length of my cock against her folds—just enough friction, just enough slick—and then pulled back.

She cried out.

“You ready for me?”

“Please,” she breathed.

I pressed forward again—slow, grinding the head of my cock along her clit, teasing her with it, but not giving her more.

She writhed under me.

“Fuck—you’re cruel—”

“No,” I said. “Just patient.”

Then I grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head, and drove into her with one deep, solid thrust.

Her whole body arched.

A strangled sound came from her throat—half cry, half sob.

“Jesus—”

I didn’t give her a chance to recover. I pulled out, slow, then slammed back in. Again. Again. A pace she couldn’t match, only feel.

Her tits bounced with every thrust, full and soft and flushed. Her legs locked around me.

“You were made for this,” I muttered against her ear. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I was—”

Her voice cracked again.

I tightened my grip on her wrists. Pinned her harder.

“Let go,” I said.

“I—”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And that’s when she broke.

She came hard.

Not with grace. Not with control. She shattered like she’d been holding it in for days—hips jerking up, breath caught, thighs trembling around my waist.

And I didn’t stop.

I kept thrusting, deep and slow, letting her ride the edge of it while she gasped through the aftershocks. Her eyes fluttered closed, mouth slack, hands twitching where I still held her wrists.

“Too much,” she whispered.

I didn’t slow down.

I leaned in instead. Let my mouth brush her ear.

“That’s the point.”

She moaned—half pain, half bliss—and I kissed her temple, then her neck, while my hips kept the same pace, stretching her open again while her body pulsed around me.

She clawed at the sheets with one hand when I let go, then pulled me closer with the other like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to get away or be ruined again.

“Fuck—fuck—Mylo—”

Her voice cracked beautifully.

“I can’t—”

“You already did.”

She arched again. Full-body. Her breasts bounced with the movement, soft and flushed and still sensitive. I caught one in my hand, squeezed just right, then bent down to take it into my mouth.

She cried out.

Bit down on her own knuckle.

“Fuck—please—just slow down—”

“No.”

I kissed lower. Across her ribs. Down her stomach. Then pulled out with a wet sound that made her whimper from the emptiness.

And just when she started to breathe again, I flipped her.

Fast.

She let out a startled sound as her chest hit the bed, hands braced near the pillow, hair falling across her face. I pushed her knees apart, then leaned over her back, chest flush to her spine.

“I’m not done.”

“Fuck,” she whispered.

My cock dragged against her ass—wet, slick with her, still pulsing. I didn’t thrust in. Not yet. I just ground forward—slow and heavy— humping the curve of her body like I was building tension on purpose.

She buckled back.

I pushed her down.

“Stay.”

She went still.

My hips rolled against her again, lazy, deliberate. The fabric of the sheets rasped against her breasts. My cock pressed between her cheeks without entering, grinding slow over her soaked pussy until she was writhing again.

“You’re not in control,” I growled into her ear.

“I know.”

“You’re not calling the shots.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

I kept humping her like that. Slow. Cruel. Denying both of us what we needed.

“You want to beg again?”

“No,” she whispered. “I want to be used.”

I watched her hips twitch, legs still spread wide on the bed. Her breath came in sharp gasps, thighs glistening and trembling, her ass raised slightly like her body was trying to stay open even when I denied it.

Then I sat back and said, voice low, calm, brutal:

“Show me how badly you want it.”

She looked over her shoulder, hair in her eyes, completely wrecked.

“What—?”

“You want to come?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Then work for it.”

I leaned back on my heels, grabbed her hips, and pulled her on her back—not into me, just onto my thigh. She moaned, a high breathless sound, then realized what I was doing.

Her face flushed deep.

She was still trembling when I spoke again.

“Ride my leg.”

She hesitated.

And that pause—that pause—told me everything.

She was embarrassed.

Turned on enough to be shaking, but embarrassed.

And I loved that.

“I want to watch you hump like a needy little slut,” I said. “Since that’s what you are right now.”

She let out a broken sound.

Then slowly—shakily—began to move.

Her thighs flexed as she started grinding herself against me. Not graceful. Not practiced. Just raw. Desperate. The drag of her soaked pussy against my thigh slick and hot.

“That’s it,” I murmured. “Keep going.”

She moaned, biting her bottom lip, hands clutching at my knee for leverage. Her hips rolled hard, rubbing herself fast along my thigh. Each motion left her gasping.

“Faster.”

She obeyed.

Her tits bounced wildly, sweat glistening between them, her face burning with shame and pleasure as she humped me.

“Look at you,” I said, brushing her hair back roughly. “Humping like you’ll die if you don’t come.”

“I—f-fuck—please—”

“Please what?”

“I—ahhh—I want to—please—I’m gonna—”

“No you’re not.”

She whined—loud, desperate—and kept grinding harder.

“Even if I beg?” she panted.

“Especially if you beg.”

I grabbed her jaw, pulled her face up to mine.

“You’ll come when I make you come. Not a second before.”

She nodded, legs trembling beneath her.

“I want to see you ruin yourself trying.”

That pushed her over the edge—not into orgasm, but into need. Her whole body started shaking. She moaned uncontrollably, thighs clenching around mine, mouth open in a silent cry as her clit dragged across my thigh in desperate, slick circles.

She was a mess. Humiliated. Completely under my control.

And loving it.

Her hands reached out like she needed something to cling to.

I gave her nothing.

Just my leg.

Just my voice.

“Keep humping,” I said. “And don’t you fucking come.”

She kept going.

Not because she wanted to impress me.

Not because she had something to prove.

Because she was past the point of reason—driven by the need to come, to be allowed, to be owned in the only way that would break her clean.

Her body shook against mine, thighs slick and trembling, hips grinding frantically against my leg. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen, flushed skin glowing with sweat and need. She looked wrecked—and still she moved.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “Mylo—fuck—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” I said, gripping her ass to keep her pressed against me. “You will.”

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

She sobbed—high, trembling, desperate. It wasn’t just begging anymore. It was pleading from someplace deep. Her face crumpled as her hips twitched harder.

“I’m trying,” she cried.

“I know.”

“I want to be good for you—fuck—I’ll do anything—”

“You already are,” I whispered. “But you don’t come until I say so.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, breath breaking apart into short, choking gasps.

Her rhythm faltered.

She was right there. Teetering.

I let her grind again—once, twice, hard enough to make her whole body convulse—then I grabbed her hips and lifted her off me.

She screamed.

Wordless. Raw.

Her head dropped to my shoulder. Her whole body shook.

“Why—why—”

I kissed her jaw, her temple.

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

She was crying now—quiet tears, barely a sound—but her body didn’t pull away. It curled in tighter. Hands gripping my arms like she needed them to stay grounded.

“I can’t take much more,” she whispered.

I held her still.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “You can.”

I laid her back gently onto the bed, and climbed over her again. Her legs parted instantly, involuntarily.

“I’m gonna fuck you now.”

She nodded—shaky, wrecked.

“I want it.”

“I know.”

I lined myself up, rubbed the head of my cock along her slit, then looked her in the eye.

“You're gonna be my good girl?”

She nodded quickly, too fast, eyes wide.

“Yes. Yes, I swear—please—”

“Then take it.”

I thrust in—slow but deep. Every inch.

She screamed again, but this time it wasn’t pain or desperation.

It was relief.

Pure, overwhelming, body-shattering relief.

Her walls clamped around me like she’d been made to hold me there. Her arms wrapped around my back. Her breath caught and broke again and again as I started to move—slow and brutal.

“You’re mine,” I whispered. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Mylo, I’m yours—”

And then I gave her what she needed.

I drove into her like I owned her.

Because in that moment—I did.

Her legs wrapped around me, ankles hooked behind my back, locking me in. Her hands tangled in the sheets like she didn’t trust herself not to fall straight through the mattress. She met every thrust like her body was done pretending to have boundaries—just open, raw, and wanting.

“Harder,” she begged, voice cracked.

I gave it to her.

The bed creaked under us. Her tits bounced with every movement, slick and swollen, flushed all the way to the tops of her shoulders. She was moaning without rhythm now, lost in it—gripping me, pulling me, dragging me in deeper every time.

“You gonna come?” I asked.

She nodded frantically. “Please—please—I’m so close—”

“Then come.”

She did—loud, full-body, completely broken. Her thighs clenched around my hips, her mouth open in a cry that barely sounded like her anymore. Her eyes squeezed shut as her whole body seized, shaking with every pulse.

But I didn’t stop.

Not right away.

I slowed down—let her feel it all the way through, hips still moving, slow and deep, just enough to overstimulate her, just enough to make her whimper.

“Can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

She sobbed. “I—”

I grabbed her jaw, leaned in, kissed her hard.

“You’re done when I say you are,” I said against her lips. “Not when you think you are.”

She moaned into my mouth, body twitching under mine, completely surrendered.

I fucked her through it—until she went still beneath me, body limp, trembling, breath ragged.

Then I pulled out.

She whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness.

But I was already moving.

I knelt beside her, gripped her hair gently, then guided her down.

She didn’t need direction.

She took me in her mouth like she was starving for it—lips wet, mouth open, eyes still teary and glassy as she sucked me deep. Her tongue curled around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she worked me over with messy, eager devotion.

“Just like that,” I groaned. “Don’t stop.”

Her moan vibrated against my cock.

I gripped her hair tighter, started thrusting into her mouth—slow at first, then faster, deeper. She took it all, drool spilling down her chin, eyes rolling up with each thrust, hands gripping my thighs for balance.

“You look so fucking good like this,” I growled. “On your knees for me. Wrecked. Obedient.”

She whimpered around me.

I held her in place.

“Swallow it.”

Then I came.

Deep in her mouth.

Hot and thick and heavy.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just took it—eyes half-lidded, lips wrapped around me, swallowing every drop.

I held her there until I was done.

Until I could breathe again.

Then I let go.

She pulled back slowly, licking her lips, face flushed, hair a mess, chest still rising fast.

I leaned down.

Brushed a thumb across her mouth.

“You did good.”

She gave the smallest smile.

And then she collapsed back onto the bed.

Quiet. Spent. Glowing.

And this time—I lay down beside her.

No orders. No pressure.

Just calm.

The kind of calm that meant something had changed.

Not finished.

Just shifted.

For both of us.

Karina hadn’t moved much.

She was still on her back, hair splayed out, one arm draped over her stomach like she wasn’t sure what to do with her body yet. Her eyes were half-open. Her chest rose slowly with each breath.

I stayed close.

Not touching.

Just there.

The silence between us had changed again—no longer tense or waiting. Just quiet. Tired. Real.

She turned her head a little toward me.

“I know I keep saying this, but I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured.

I didn’t ask which part.

She kept going.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her voice was softer now. No command. No challenge. Just a truth spoken carefully, like it could crack if pushed the wrong way.

I looked at her.

She was still flushed. Still wrecked. But something in her face had cleared—like letting go hadn’t weakened her, just peeled something away.

“I’ve never been good at saying stuff like this,” she continued. “But... some people can be trusted.”

Her gaze met mine.

“And maybe you’re not used to that. Maybe it’s easier not to believe it. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

I swallowed, jaw tight.

She didn’t say anything else. Just looked at me. Let me sit with it.

The air was drier that day. I remember that. I was sitting on a porch. Not mine. Not anyone’s I knew. Just a porch in a neighborhood I didn’t belong in, watching the light change as evening crept in. My bag was at my feet. My arms were wrapped around my knees. I hadn’t slept in days.

Then the door creaked open. “Hey.” The voice was older. A woman. Warm. “You’ve been out here a while.” I didn’t answer. She didn’t press. Just opened the door wider. “You want to come inside?” I looked up. She didn’t flinch when our eyes met. Didn’t pity me, either. “We’ve got food,” she said. “And a couch.”

I don’t remember walking in. I remember the smell, though—something like cinnamon and laundry. There was a fan running. The TV was on, low volume. Someone else was in the kitchen, talking to a dog like it was a person. I stood near the wall like I didn’t trust any of it. “Name?” “Mylo.” She smiled. “I’m Cara. That’s Bill. You can stay a night if you need to.” “Why?” Her smile didn’t change. “Because it looks like you’ve run out of places to go.”

Back in the room, Karina was still watching me.

I must’ve drifted longer than I thought, because her expression had changed—slightly more alert now, brow just starting to knit.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. A beat too slow.

“Yeah.”

Karina didn’t press.

But she didn’t look away either.

“Some people really can be trusted,” she said again. Quiet. Like she was repeating it for both of us.

And I almost believed her.

Almost.

Karina drifted off with her hand still barely touching mine.

She didn’t say anything before she closed her eyes. Just shifted slightly, murmured something half-formed, and exhaled. One deep, steady breath—and she was gone.

I stayed there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart quiet but alert. Her skin was warm beside me. Her scent still clung to the sheets. It should’ve felt comforting.

It didn’t.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a good way either.

Just… muted.

Like it had happened to someone else.

After a few more minutes, I slipped out of bed.

Softly. No rush. Careful not to wake her.

I gathered my clothes. Moved like I’d done it before. Like I’d learned how not to leave a trace when I walked away.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The hallway was still.

Quiet, but not heavy. Just late.

I walked barefoot across the floor, down to the end of the hall, then into the bathroom. The fan was humming softly behind the mirror light. There was a towel hanging over the edge of the sink, still damp.

I turned on the tap. Let cold water run over my hands. Splashed my face. Let it drip.

The reflection stared back.

My eyes looked tired.

Not in the usual way.

Not the kind that sleep could fix.

I toweled off and caught the smallest mark on my collarbone—faint, red, already fading. Karina’s nails. Or maybe her mouth. Something that should’ve felt intimate.

I touched it.

Felt nothing.

No shame. No heat. No tenderness.

Just skin.

I looked at myself longer than I should’ve.

Trying to find the version of me that belonged here.

The one they thought they were getting.

The one who was stable. Useful. Capable of being wanted without breaking.

The mirror didn’t offer anything back.

Eventually, I turned off the light.

But right before I did, I caught my own expression.

I was smiling.

Not wide. Not warm.

Just practiced.

Like it was something I’d taught myself to wear.

I dried my hands. Left the bathroom.

Didn’t check if anyone was awake.

Didn’t check the time.

Just walked slowly back to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed. My bag was still at the foot of it, half-zipped. My phone on the nightstand. Still no new notifications.

I sat there a while.

Breathing.

Not thinking.

Not feeling.

Just... sitting.

And somewhere in the back of my head, I heard Karina’s voice again.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

I blinked.

And then I told myself—quietly, carefully:

If I keep this going, they won’t ask.

And I believed it.

Enough to keep breathing.

[vanilleandclove]

on hold; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

when push comes to shove, sometimes there’s cracks in your relationship that can only be mended with time and patience.

warnings: pregnancy & pregnancy loss, heated arguments, emotional numbness, postpartum depression, overexertion via work, drug mention, parental disownment, jack being a widow is finally mentioned! word count: 3.2k notes: this was a pretty heavy chapter to write. pennsylvania is a middle-third state, meaning reproductive rights for women are protected but with limitations- i’m from california and it’s a top-third state, so i tried my best to represent that- there’s a reason abbot lowballed the measurements. miscarriages are a hard experience for any woman to go through especially one that could have severely damaged a woman’s health which has happened to women in the states. i urge you to stand for women's rights as there is an infringement on them worldwide. feliz dia de las madres :)

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Jack knew before you did, he knew your body, knew the time of the month when you’d have your period without fail. It was second nature to him. 

It was the middle of February when you found out you were pregnant, Jack liked to brag that he knew a week before just from your off-putting cravings and the fact that you wanted to stay in for Valentine’s Day. He still acted surprised the day you told him, the bloodwork, the pregnancy test Heather gave you, the three ClearBlues, all indicative of you being pregnant. That night he told you he already knew, but figured it would be offensive to ask you to take a pregnancy test out of the blue. 

By March, you were aching to tell someone other than your confined circle. Dana knew, Heather knew therefore, Robby knew, and Bridget knew. You resisted telling your parents, they were on your case when it came to your late twenties, believing it was your “prime”, Jack did not know how to phrase it to his mom, so you both just settled on waiting. You weren’t showing, but the middle of the night heartburns had you waking up almost choking and freaking the fuck out of Jack. 

You peed more often, craved salt with sweetness, your body was retaining more water than usual and it made your skin feel more elastic. You opted for night shift only as the morning sickness was consistent, bought a better pair of sneakers for comfort. You were a Doctor yet pregnancy on you was uncharted territory. 

The one day you chose day shift, the middle of March, you retrospectively wish you hadn't. It was a hot day in Pittsburgh, 99 degrees and only rising every few hours. 

You had two patients come in with “eye splitting”, “brain exploding” headaches, both frat boys. They were high off laced weed, luckily nothing too dangerous, they just needed hydration and observation. 

By 3 pm you had a surgical case, a 20 year old female in hemorrhagic shock from a pelvic fracture during her diving class, in need of an angioembolization. You swore you could almost curse Gloria for not hiring more interventional radiologists, therefore you had to perform it. An hour and a half goes by and you’re sending her to post-op and yourself to the maternity ward. 

The pain in your back was if someone pulled your arms back and kicked your spine in, you were feverish and sweaty all over, your heart was thumping out of your chest. 

“I just need an ultrasound Jenna” you pressed on as she kept on telling you that you were okay, that the last check up two weeks ago was fine, your fetus was healthy and growing. She saw the look on your face, one she’s seen one too many times. She scurrying you into an imaging room. 

“The gel’s going to be cold” she murmured, putting her glasses on as you laid down on the bed. The room went mute as she examined, her expression being grave and nervous. “Y/n, we need to admit you, now” she said, putting the transducer away and removing her gloves immediately. 

“Why?” you used your elbows to anchor yourself up. You saw the millions of thoughts race through her head as she got new gloves and a spare I.V. drip, immediately whipping out her phone to text, “I miscarried?” your voice broke, realizing her urgency.

“You’re septic, your body is actively miscarrying, do you want me to call Ja-“.

Throughout your career you’ve had to call more family members than you can count about mandatory evacuation of the fetus, emergency hysterectomy, pelvic fractures, the works. You gave those calls only to be met with judgmental, distraught, sometimes awkward, other times incompetent, partners on the other line. Jack was none of those but the common denominator was, they would rather their partner tell them than the woman who just operated on their partner. Jack had to hear it from you. Had to know you were conscious and not under the scalpel you basically lived with. 

“No- No, can you bring Heather please?” you cleared your throat, trying to process everything.

Jenna brought a wheelchair out to wheel you into a room, grabbing a hold of your arm and using the blood pressure cuff to find a vein for your I.V. “We can do this one of two ways, D&C or antibiotics” she told you, “For your sake I’d do a D&C, ultimately it’s up to you, it is a bit painful afterward but with a guaranteed outcome- we’ll put you under. Antibiotics we’d have to keep you-“.

“D&C” you responded, “Please”.

“Okay, I’ll alert Collins, she’ll come afterwards, let’s get you prepped love” she told you. 

You don’t remember anything afterwards, you do remember waking up in post-op, groggy from the anesthesia. Heather and Dana at your bedside. It hurt all over, mentally speaking, your limbs felt too heavy and you felt trapped.

“We’re going to keep her for another hour then could either of you take her home?” you heard a voice speak, another muffled voice saying ‘yes’. 

“What time is it?” you croaked from lack of the intubation tube.

“It’s 4:30 hon, they’re going to keep you until 5 and then Heather is going to take you home” Dana spoke up, hands patting your head to soothe you. “None of the staff knows you’re here, I forbade Robby from letting Jack know until you’re ready”. 

You nodded, throat bobbing from the overwhelming sense of pain and frustration. Your teeth and jaw remained clenched, you were angry, hurt, confused, most importantly, you were grieving. A sob broke out of you, the croaks that left your throat haunted both Dana and Heather. 

It was a long hour, an even longer car ride to your home. You had no idea what to tell Jack or how you even got to that point. When Heather’s car pulled in instead of yours and she helped you out of the car, confusion was the only thing that crowded his mind. He took over for Heather, saying thank you before she gave your forehead a kiss and bid you both a goodbye. Leading you into the house, seeing the pained expression on your face, he didn’t know if he should pry or give you space. You took a seat on the barstools at your island, eyes devoid of emotion, Jack stood at the counter, looking at you, studying you. 

“They-“ you tried to speak up, Jack’s ears perking, “Jenna had to perform a D&C on me today” you broke the news, “I was miscarrying and about to go into septic shock when Jenna gave me the ultrasound after I had a woman needing an angioembolization” you whispered, biting your bottom lip so hard you could taste the blood. You didn’t cry, you just told him. There was not a sheer worse pain than the cramps that overtook your body, but you could see it on Jack’s face. His normal, playful, stoicism was gone and he looked just as numb as you.

It broke your heart. You told him like you always do when he asks how it was at work. 

He breathed deeply before speaking, walking towards you in order to place a kiss on your forehead, “They got everything?”.

You nodded, “I just- I need some time” your voice cracked the tiniest bit. You shrugged him off before making your painful way to the en-suite in your bedroom. 

It hurt to pee, to stand, you gripped onto the support bar for dear life, blood trailed down your legs and pain raked through your entire body. Jack could hear your sobs from the living room. It hurt to breathe. 

Jack laid out your clothes, your heating pad, and was already making you soup. You stared at the bed for minutes which felt like hours. Your back would spasm with pain every few minutes. You dressed, got into the bed and wrapped yourself in the blankets. 

Jack walked in with the soup in hand, blowing on it so it wouldn’t burn your tongue. You remained asleep, in pain but asleep. He took his spot next to you, wrapping his arms securely around yours, letting your nervous system regulate. He let you sob into his chest, told you to drink water and eat so you can heal. 

You couldn’t. He wasn’t going to force you. Whimpers left your body as it ran feverish, Jack immediately put a cold compress on the nape of your neck. He didn’t know the words to say to remedy you. But he sure made up for it action wise. 

The days following you let him take care of you, Gloria had called and gave you all the time you’d want off, it counted as bereavement pay, the amount of times you and Jack worked overtime, you had enough days for a near two months. Heather came over to hang out with you and on her day off, Robby came to have beers with Jack in the backyard.

You weren’t in so much pain after a few days, the insomnia that hit you worried both you and Jack. Most days you didn’t speak so the irritability that coursed through you whenever something remotely pissed you off never made its way off your tongue. You decided you should tell your mom, wanting drive down to Boston the next day. Jack wanted whatever you wanted, even if it meant not spending time with you or taking care of you. Interactions with you were sparing to begin with. It was a 9 hour drive, of course he was worried, it was what you needed, he had no mind to take that from you. 

You left at 3 am, you stopped by the Pitt to say bye to him, it was the first time in a week anyone saw you and they didn’t know why. Rumors spread, first it was relationship issues, someone in your family died, maybe cheating. 

It wasn’t that bad of a car ride, when you reached your mom’s house 2 hours earlier than expected, she was worried you were driving all night without Jack. Once you made it to your mom’s arms, you instantly just broke. But then you remembered, the only person that got you, understood and truly comforted you, was Jack- and Heather. 

“At least you weren’t pregnant for that long” your mom started as you both sat down on the living room couch, there was a silence between you both as you genuinely wondered if those words had left your mom’s mouth or you were going crazy, “Look at the brigh-“.

“There is no bright side to this mom” you groaned, irritability finally running its course, “I lost a baby for pete sake’s, when this happened to Y/s/n my god I can’t even put into words how you were”.

“Well let’s be realistic, Y/s/n wasn’t putting herself at risk because she waited for what? For a career?” she prodded, “Not to mention look who you’re with Y/n, both of you are way too old to be thinking of kids, move on from that stage- you’re not even married”. 

“I have to drive hours to see you yet you drop everything to be with Y/s/n and she lives across the country” you raked a hand through your hair, “And what the fuck do you mean?”.

“Do not raise your voice at me” your mom shouted at you, “You and I both know it is more common-“.

“I’m sorry who the fuck went to medical school out of the two of us?” you cut her off, “There’s a risk every single pregnancy, you think because I’m 33 I deserve to be handed this for ‘betraying my femininity’ for a career? You don’t seem to mind said career when you’re googling xyz and calling me in the middle of the fucking night”.

She remained stunned, “You’re hormonal, you’re not thinking rat-“.

“I am fine!” you broke, gritting your teeth, “You know I’ve always had dreams about you at my wedding but don’t even fucking bother anymore” you told her, putting the nail to the coffin, grabbing your car keys. By 1 pm you were as far away as humanly possible.

You made it to Pittsburgh at 11 pm, traffic took a hold on the interstate. You had stopped in Philly to get cheesesteaks for you and Jack. When you got home, his truck wasn’t in the driveway. You pulled out your phone to text him you were back, smiling at the lock screen. 

It was one of the first photos you took with Jack, you both were in a trauma room in Daryl Kennedy’s chest cavity and Jack had identified the bleeder before thinking of pressure. Blood coated all over his gown and face, when you guys exited out of the room, it looked like you both saw war. So Bridget took it upon herself to snap a photo. 

From babe; Back so soon? 

The same way you didn’t want Jenna to be the one to break the news to him, you didn’t want him finding out about your mom via text. 

You ended up crashing on the couch, the prolonged driving, the arguing. You were grateful for the fact that you and Jack often disagreed but never got into heated arguments that left you both with a sour taste in your mouth. You won the lottery when it came to understanding and communicative partners, you thanked therapy on both of your parts and the fact that you guys suffered in the beginning, basically making everything else easier.

You woke up from Jack coming home at 7 in the morning, unlocking the front door and accidentally dropping his keys on the doorstep. You got up to stretch, feeling like you reeked of the air conditioner from your car. You met him at the door, his smile making you feel better. 

“Thought you were going to spend the night over there?” he told you, hanging his keys on the rack, kissing you as he walked to the kitchen. 

Jack refused to treat you like fragile porcelain, he knew you hated it just as much as he did when he got his leg amputated. So, he’d talk to you normally, avoiding talking about the subject unless you brought it up. Only thing he did refuse was sex, you needed to heal internally. He did give you massages every other night, you’d beg him to massage your clit only for him to try and the contraction of your vagina to cause pain in your pelvis. 

“We got in an argument” you confessed, trailing behind him, “Didn’t really end so well”.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asked as he went into the fridge for his water jug. 

“She insinuated this happened because I focused on being a surgeon in my twenties- I passed my prime and knew the risks” you sighed. 

“What do you think?”.

“I think I was just careless, I was working long days, overtime and always on my feet- I was stressing myself out” you shrugged. 

“You weren’t careless Y/n” he said before taking a swig of water, “Hell do you not remember the amount of books we bought?” he chuckled, “We’ll- you’ll get through this”.

“We will” you clarified, “It takes two” you joked. It was the first time you had- if anything this is the most Jack’s gotten out of you in days. 

After a moment of comfortable silence, you gave him a hug, leading him to kiss the top of your head. “I’m sorry” you whispered.

“For?”.

“I’ve nudged you out of this” you sighed, “I don't even know how you feel”.

He looked into your eyes, “I feel like we should wait, let time run its course” he got closer to you, “When the time comes, it’ll come”. Jack had a staring problem, made you swoon, made others intimidated, “But for now we need to focus on you”. Those were the same eyes you fell in love with, the eyes you wish your children would have, “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”.

“I feel like I’ve rushed and forced this whole thing” you sighed, tears slightly welling up in your eyes, “Would we have gotten engaged if we didn’t almost break up over that argument?” you were spilling every thought and word, you knew him, you knew he wouldn’t get defensive over something you felt, “Better yet kids? Would that have even been a thought a couple months ago?”.

He sighed before squatting down so you can look down at him rather than up this entire time, it hurt the hell out of his back and put more pressure than he’d be comfortable with on his prosthetic. “I’ve wanted both of those things, before and during you” he took your knees in his hands, “It was hard to come to terms with it especially after already-“ he’s grip on your knees went tense, “It was always a ‘when and where’ with you. Before, dating, marriage, hell even hookups, kids, all were off the tables- not even a thought. I have to admit I’ve had my doubts, I’ve had vices and moments where I felt like I couldn’t be enough for you, couldn’t be enough to be there for you” he confessed, your hands found their way to his, “But I’m not me without you”.

“I’m not me without you either” you spoke up, “You’ve been more than enough help to me Jack” you slowly appreciated, “I need time. So much time that I can’t put a limit on” you spared breath, swallowing the shudder, “I love you, I don’t want this to break us”.

“Y/n, you could never drag me out of this, unless it was something you really wanted” he told you, “You’re it for me- for as long as you’ll have me”.

You returned to work that Monday, working day shifts, your engagement ring shining again the fluorescents. It turned down the rumors of the nurses, the silence as they saw you working was enough. The warmth of Pittsburgh cascading through the air, spring in full swing. 

By the middle of April, you decided to take a test, two weeks of sporadic and careful passion with your fiance. As the lines indicated a pregnancy, you immediately dropped everything that night, driving to PTMC as quickly as you could. You stole Jack away from his job, he was worried for you, thinking you were hurt, only for you to ask for a blood test. All indicative of pregnancy.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[salem-s]

11 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, angst, fluff if you squint. 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 4.4k. i think this is my shortest one yet? ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. one more chapter left after this one EEEEK!! ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER japanese denim by daniel caesar

The long run doesn’t feel so nice. 

It’s finals week, and its implications do nothing to aide the dull ache that’s weighing in your gut. The grueling hours spent studying and hunched over desks only pile onto your list of problems, and that’s only the physicality of your issues. Besides the permanent kink in your shoulder from your poor posture, your body is depleting due to the emotional stress that strains your heart.

Even though he’s right next door, you don't see or hear Rafe since his cold departure.

You want to believe it’s a good thing, it’s what you wanted, it’s quite literally what you asked for. But you can’t help but long for him, knowing he’s just on the other side of the wall, wondering if he’s feeling just as awful as you.

But there’s nothing.

You only heard him once while you were studying, and the second you heard another girl’s voice with him, you bolted out of the dorm and beelined to the library. 

So you don't study in your room anymore. 

Not that it changes much, because you don’t even spot him on campus or lounging on the quad with friends. There are no late night texts, no loud music blasting through the thin walls, no presence at Elliot’s house. Nothing. For such a tall person, you’re shocked at his ability to lay low.

Because you’re certain that he purposefully avoids you.

You know he knows your schedule since he used to coincidentally be walking home from class at the same time, even though he never had classes in the same building as you. He used to just happen to open his door at the same time as you with a backpack slung over his shoulder, simply stating he’s going to the library but the company on his walk would be nice. Once he even loitered outside your academic building after you had had a tough exam, claiming the grassy patch adjacent to the building is the best place to lay.

Now Rafe does none of that. He’s a ghost. 

The only time you caught a glimpse of him was at a nearby coffee shop. Seeing him nearly kills you.

You'd been stopping in to refuel to cram study for a final later that day, nearly spilling your espresso infused drink on his nice white shirt on your way out. Bumping into him sent a shiver down your spine, the physical contact a pure shock to both of you as you stood motionless in the crowded cafe, eyes only trained on each other.

It was hard to even find words at the sight of his pretty eyes, ones that looked tired despite the surprise look on his face.

But the shock came and went as Rafe had been cordial, offering a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and side-stepping out of your way without his usual Rafe-like banter. He was walking away from you before you could really say anything to him, the only word in the entire exchange being a meek, “Sorry,” on your end that was said too late, as he was already out of earshot by the time you found the words.

You weren’t sure what you were sorry for this time.

Almost spilling your drink on him. Accidentally elbowing him in the ribs. Shutting him out. Putting him through an emotional wringer. Pushing him away at every opportunity you can.

Needless to say, you've been spiraling. 

Especially when Lorenza gives you a call a few hours before your coding exam, mainly to check in and make sure your cut is healing alright (it's practically gone, but the reminder still stays). You converse as normal, lamenting about all the projects and finals you have going on and that you're seeing your friends later.

Lorenza asks if that includes Rafe.

And hearing his name makes you go quiet. And she takes that as the hint to continue talking about him, asking if you've talked to him since the day you got back. When you tell her that, no, you haven't had time to talk to him about anything, she hums over the phone, almost scolding you wordlessly for letting it get this far.

"Probabilmente anche sta soffrendo," Lorenza tells you, stating it like a fact.

You respond that, no, he's not hurting. That he's probably fine, and that you're fine too. You're both just busy with schoolwork and personal lives and everything on top of that.

"Hai parlato con lui?"

No, you tell her, you haven't talked to him.

"Allora come lo sapresti?"

You offer no response. Because you don't know how he is. You wouldn't know if he's hurt or not because you haven't talk to him, nor can you find the gall to do so.

Her incessant pestering makes your face flush and your heart slump to your gut, settling some uneasy feeling there for the remainder of the day. Because she's right: you know you need to talk to him, even if it's just to check in and see how he is, because he deserves, at the least, an apology for how you've treated him.

It's all you can think about during your exam.

Yet finally, after day and night of burying your head in textbooks and nearly crawling through your computer screen to figure out your codes, it's your last final, and it comes and goes regardless of how much you think about Rafe during it.

It's the last Thursday before everyone’s forced to leave for winter break, one of the last few days you'll get to see your friends before the New Year, so despite your aching shoulders and pounding headache, you accept the invitation to drink and party at Elliot’s off campus house. 

Lorenza's words echo in your head all afternoon. He's probably hurting, too. You hope that isn't true, you hope he's just been burying himself in schoolwork and being distracted in a good way to keep himself busy. You hope he doesn't have any sleepless nights. You hope he's seeing other people to get back to a sense of normalcy.

You think about the possibility of seeing him at Elliot's, since they're best friends and all. You think about all the things you could say to him, how many I'm sorrys you can utter before he'll believe it. But you know yourself, and you'd probably never get the words out at the sight of him. Part of you really doesn't want to do it tonight.

But the other part of you also hopes Rafe's there. Maybe force him into a room so you can apologize to him (that is, if you can find the words).

When you arrive, your friends embrace you endearingly. First come the congratulations for finishing all of your finals, then the drinks are immediately second.

Marianne doesn’t waste time pushing a cocktail in your hand and throwing an arm over your shoulder, guiding you deeper into the party where your closest friends (amongst a lot of others you don't care for) mingle and laugh and sing. 

Although your mind drifts for the better part of it. You can’t help but continuously scan the crowd in search of him, feeling that stupid nagging pull in your chest the longer the party goes by without him. The nagging eventually morphs into guilt.

Did he know you were coming and that’s why he’s not here? Are you driving a wedge between your friend group because of your blatant insecurities?

"Hey," Marianne whispers to you after an hour. “You’re goat-staring.”

“Hm?” You snaps out of your trance, unaware you've been staring at that same speck on the wall for ages. “Oh.”

Your friend doesn’t let the act go unnoticed, darting her gaze around you cautiously before leaning in close. “Are you sure you’re alright? I mean you’ve barely spoken about the–”

“I’m fine,” you reassure, giving it your all to fake a smile. “Honest. I don’t want to think about it tonight.”

I can't not think about it, you want to say. Especially because he's not here.

Marianne simply raises her eyebrows, wordlessly prompting you for more. 

But you don't give into her instigation. “I’ll tell you about it soon, I promise. Just…not tonight.”

That’s all it takes for now. 

Because no shit the whole Rafe situation has been a damper to your conscience ever since your last morning together, no debates there, but the thought of rehashing it from the start makes your head spin. You try and blink away flashes of him: his pained expression on the dance floor, the image of him and Yara in the closet, his pretty face inches from yours coaxed in sunlight. He’s a plague in your mind, infesting your every waking thought. It’s draining. It’s emotionally exhausting. You forget how to not let your mind drift back to him, him, him.

To make your head spin further, you attempt to rise from your zombie-like state and join the party. You take a shot, open another drink, dance with Marianne and catch up with your friends.

For the most part, it serves as a nice distraction, even if you can't really get drunk.

But there’s a big gaping hole in your heart: the guilt that he, Rafe, is nowhere to be seen.

It’s odd without him, the room feeling incomplete without his presence, his laughter, his jabby one liners. It’s rare for him to miss a party, let alone one this big and festive, and there’s a harsh pull in your chest, because you feel responsible for his absence. Maybe you being here made him uncomfortable, so he opted to stay back. 

“Hey, Bear.”

Elliot is suddenly at your side, beaming and using your inside-joke nickname (you debate the semantics of why Paddington's marmalade sandwiches don't seem to mold once), after finding yourself staring at another indent on the wall. Your eyes glance at your watch, frowning at the time passed.

Have you really been sitting and sulking and thinking about Rafe for that long?

“How’d your coding sesh go?”

You shake the sulking demeanor away and take a large sip of your drink. “I’m just happy it’s over.”

“Couldn’t have been that bad?”

You wince. It could’ve, and it was. Throughout the entirety of it, your thoughts kept lingering back to a certain someone. 

“Ah,” Elliot says, waving it off nonchalantly after you don't respond. “T’s all bullshit, anyway. Besides, it couldn’t have been worse than my statistics final. I think I left three questions blank.”

You quirk a brow. “Didn’t you say it was open note?”

Elliot simply shrugs, and you laugh, rolling your eyes at your friend. 

“I stand corrected, then.”

The two of you fall into easy conversation, Elliot being the friend you clicked with the best out of all of Rafe’s friends. He’s like the mayor, knowing everyone and being friends with everyone, making sure to chat with every single person who comes to his house even if he doesn’t know them. He’s a great guy to have in your corner, because despite being beloved by everyone, he’s especially protective and appreciative of his favorites. 

He makes time for you and Marianne despite the line of people out the door waiting to say hello to him. Elliot has his priorities set. For now. 

“So, what gives?”

The two of you sit on the stairs twenty minutes later, tucked away from the crowds but still immersed in the pounding bass and echoed laughter. Your backs rest on opposite walls, you sitting one step above him.

Partially, you came here in the first place to stand guard so randoms don’t walk upstairs (as that has happened once, where a guy in a frat down the street mistook this for his house and slept in Elliot's bed without anyone noticing him walk in). But the estrangement from the chaos is nice, and you rarely get to be with Elliot one on one without someone needing him for something, so you stay. 

Yet your conversation was going so well, lighthearted about something your other friend Sydney said to him the other day. But not anymore, as now he's looking to you expectantly for answers, answers you're not ready to give.

You frown. “What?”

Elliot gives you a pointed look. “Bear,” he deadpans as if it’s obvious, scoffing at your deflection.

All you can do is shrug, prompting him to say more.

“You go to Italy with my best friend for a week and neither of you are saying anything about it?” He throws his hand up. “What the hell happened?”

How much time does he have? Because there is a lot of ground to cover on the simplicity of what happened. What happened was you underestimated his best friend to the point where your real feelings clashed with your fake feelings and the concept of instigating something more made you experience symptoms of a heart attack.

Right. As if it’s easy.

So you settle for the safe response.

“Nothing…happened.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Try and convince me next time.”

You rolls your eyes and dismiss his comment by taking a sip of your drink. The tequila feels stronger than before, now that you have the partial liquid courage to spill the truth. 

To your knowledge, your friends don’t know about your arrangement, or at least you don't think they know. Sometimes you and Rafe wouldn’t be subtle with your lingering touches and glances at parties, sometimes disappearing together for about ten minutes and coming back as if nothing happened, sometimes your bickering banter would turn flirty with toothy grins and prolonged eye contact. 

It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they figured it out. But it’s not like it’s happening anymore. 

“Clearly something happened,” he sing-songs, taking a sip of his drink, almost instigating you. "You're sulking."

You're not falling for it. "Well, it already seems like you know."

He narrows his eyes. "I may know...some things." Then he adds quickly, "Why? What do you know?"

"Elliot."

"Bear. We can play this game all night."

You let out a sigh so gutturally deep that it elongates the silence between you.

Based on the faux quizzical brow and the slightly knowing gleam in his eye, Rafe must've told Elliot the bare minimum of the story, probably eager to hear your side of the coin and play his favorite role: therapist. This wouldn't be the first time you've lamented to him about your problems, and vice versa.

But this is different. This is his best friend. Rafe and Elliot. Elliot and Rafe. Conjoined at the hip since freshmen year when they were randomly assigned roommates. Under any circumstance, it feels wrong to essentially shit-talk that person's best friend, regardless if you need to get it off your chest or not.

You can't. Not right now.

So instead, you opt for a simple shake of your head, wordlessly pleading for him to drop it.

For a moment, Elliot secedes begrudgingly, but also with understanding. The two of you sit in your manual silence, quietly sipping your drinks and letting the attempt to story-tell sit idly in the air. Frankly, you'd love to get his input, but you already know what he'll say to you, what he'll suggest you do.

And right now, you're not sure you can stomach the thought of running back into Rafe's arms, not when you're absolutely sure he wants nothing to do with you anymore.

After a moment of silence, he bites. “He told me about you two.”

Your heart skips.

Well, that confirms your earlier suspicions.

He continues quietly, more direct. “Before you went on the trip. How you’d see each other sometimes.”

Sometimes doesn’t even cut it. There’d be times you'd see each other everyday, other times you'd go a week or two with nothing. It felt like everything and nothing all at once. 

You look down at your friend, unable to find words. 

But Elliot’s always been chatty, always knows how to fill a silence. “I don’t want to know…everything,” he grimaces at the insinuation. “But I just want you two to be alright. You’re both stubborn as fuck and your miscommunication tendencies drive me insane, but you guys will figure it out. Whatever it is.”

Your mouth reacts before your mind. “Doesn’t matter what it was. I fucked it up.”

“I doubt that.”

“I do,” you say softly, dejected. “All I do is push people away.”

Elliot shrugs. “Well, that might be true. But some people need a shove.”

You snort unattractively. “What? Like you and Sydney?”

The blush that rises to his face makes him nudge you with his knee, turning away as a sheepish grin rises on his lips.

“Stop trying to change the subject. I’m charging by the hour, so get it all out now.”

You find it in yourself to chuckle, “Shut up.”

But it quickly simmers into silence, a raw ache settling in your throat at the verity of it all. There's nothing to fix, nothing to heal, minimal things to mend. Well, if anyone's good at a pep talk, it would be Elliot, and frankly the tequila feels hot in your chest, hot enough for you to talk about it only for a little bit.

Playing with the loose hem on your shirt, you avoid his awaiting eyes, heart heavy with the burden of the last few weeks. It feels like it hasn't been light in forever, hasn't been full or bright. Whenever it gets soft enough, flashes of events that happened under the Sicilian sun come to your mind at the simplest reminders: the color lilac, any mentions of red wine, whiffs of cologne that smell like his.

Sometimes when you see the same shade of blue as his eyes, it makes your heart skip.

You blink away the image of Rafe in your mind.

“It wouldn’t have worked between us anyway. He’s already seeing new people and I can’t–”

“Woah,” Elliot sits up and looks up at you in disbelief. “Where’d you hear that?”

You frown at his sudden seriousness. “Uh, I heard him Monday night with a girl in his room. Not to mention he was letting this girl at the wedding cop a feel–”

“You mean Yara?”

The name makes your heart sink. 

Last week’s mishap flashes in your mind, and the thought of Elliot knowing makes your skin crawl.

Rafe really told Elliot about her? About it all? The image of them together in the closet burns fresh in your memory, and you hate the way your skin feels like it's on fire at the reminder.

Not trusting your words, you nod, both confused and hurt. 

But instead of confirming your worst fears and indulging the horrors of your conscience, Elliot simply scoffs with a chuckle and slaps a hand to his forehead, almost in disbelief and frustration at the same time, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling. 

“My god, Bear,” he all but laughs in your face. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Your face runs hot. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me."

Normally, you'd tell someone off if they blatantly called you an idiot, especially right to your face. But this is Elliot— who rarely ever bullshits anything and always speaks from the truth of his heart, no matter how brutal it may be. You know that he knows something you don't.

When you don't respond, he snorts again. "You’re an idiot. You really think he’s bumming around with other girls?”

The question makes your jaw slack. 

“Uh, yeah?”

Elliot’s mocking laugh only pisses you off further. 

You slap his leg. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

It takes him a moment to come down, for his voice to return back to normal, and he even has the audacity to wipe a tear away from the corner of his eye, taking a long, calculated sip from his beer to prolong your impatience. 

A hand raises to slap him again and he quickly stops messing around. “Elliot.”

Elliot shakes his head again in disbelief and lets out a long breath. “Alright, alright, easy.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re awfully bossy for someone who was literally sulking two minutes ago.”

You raise a hand to slap his leg again, and Elliot wheezes a laugh.

“I yield,” he jests. “I can confirm the Monday girl was Adriana, she’s a good friend of mine. She’s in his photography class and was dropping off his prints he left in lecture by accident. I know because we talked about it literally yesterday. Apparently, she’s in the same dorm as you guys.”

You reel. Photography class? Prints? 

“A lesbian, by the way,” Elliot adds pointedly. 

You hate how considerably lighter your shoulders feel, but mask the relief with a scowl. “Whatever. He still was shacking up with Yara.”

Elliot rolls his eyes so hard you can see the whites of his eyes as his lashes flutter from the intensity of it. “He was looking for you.”

You freeze, but shake it off. 

Her hand on his tie, eyes peering up to him. His hand ghosting over her bicep as if about to touch her. The mere centimeters between their bodies.

Swallowing the image, you frown with a flicker of irritation. “They were in a closet together, so he wasn’t doing a very good job.”

“No, he wasn’t,” he admits gently. “But in his defense, she told him she knew where you were. Apparently he was desperate to follow.”

Your heart skips at the thought of Rafe running around trying to find you after rejecting his proposition. Perhaps if things went differently - as in, you didn't go into that bathroom and instead went somewhere where he could find you - you can't help but wonder what he would've said to you. If he would've apologized for alarming you, or telling you it was a prank, or whatever else he might've done.

But that's a fairytale. It isn't what happened.

"You didn't see them," you say quietly before you can take it back, hating how jealous it makes you seem. "They were-

“He pulled away the moment he could think straight. Said it felt wrong.”

That makes your chest pull. 

“What felt wrong?” You whisper brokenly. 

Elliot shrugs, as if he’s not saying the most heartwrenching antidote. “She wasn’t you.”

I want you.

The words echo in your head, the same words that have been playing on repeat on the back burner of your mind, words that have plagued you because you thought them to be deceitful. They only make your chest ache at the reminder of what happened right after, hearing the words while seeing the image of the two of them together in that closet. The two separate images contradicted each other so heavily, only made the sting of it all worse. 

Only you.

But now it’s different, hearing the side of his story from his closest friend makes all of the pain fade away.

Why would Rafe lie to his best friend?

“For Rafe, it’s different with you,” Elliot says, quieter but firm. “Before he told me you were fucking, he found ways to talk about you, like, all the time. Obviously it didn’t take long for me to put two and two together, but I figured I’d wait for him to tell me.” Then he grins up at you. “Believe me when I say all the time. It was actually infuriating. He even found a way to bring you up during Fortnite, once.”

You manage a ragged laugh. 

Because the anecdote nearly kills you.

You think back to all that time spent silently pining over him, waiting to express your blatant admiration for him until you were both under cotton sheets and able to indulge in vulnerability without any alarm bells ringing. You remember all of the parties you went to and spent a considerable amount of time stealing glances of him across the room, hoping your selfish looks weren’t too obvious. You think about all that time you spent thinking he’d never feel the same about you, about anyone, ever.

“But,” Elliot adds cautiously, more seriously, “we both know how he feels about you. So all that’s left is how you feel.”

Oh, how you want to punch him.

Leave it to Elliot to worm his way into the conversation to gradually get to the real juicy details. He does this: loosens you up, gets you laughing, then hits the million dollar question that, really, is unavoidable. He’s good. 

“I can’t,” is all you say. 

Obviously, Elliot doesn’t allow that. “You can’t what?”

There’s a million answers to that question. “I can’t be who he wants.”

“And what does he want?”

I want you.

You groan. 

Only you. 

There’s no way you can put that into words. “I’m not the kind of person people date, Elliot. I don’t turn heads or make jaws drop. I’m the person you fuck when you’re a little drunk and bored, that’s all. I can’t do more than that. That's all I know.”

“Well, I would argue not,” Elliot responds. “Dating doesn’t exist on this cookie-cutter template, which is what you’re making it out to seem like. Sure, chemistry in bed obviously helps, which you have, yuck–”

You roll your eyes.

“—but it coexists in everything else.” He takes a sip of his drink, calculating his next words. “Rafe told me you guys went on a date.”

Your cheeks flush at the memory, how nice it was, how easy the conversation felt despite dipping into personal territory, how handsome he looked in the moon and candle light, how perfect he was later in bed. It makes you flush.

You cover it with a cough.

“It was for show. It was my birthday and he wanted to impress my nonna.”

“Was your nonna there too?”

Words die in your throat. 

“Well, no–”

“So?” Elliot looks like he’s seconds away from crashing out. “What gives? You’ve been on dates, you hang out all the time–”

“—With other people—”

“Sure, but you’re still in the same room. You bicker like an old married couple and always have to play together in pong. You guys are friends... who like to fuck. Dating is all of that.” Elliot then smacks his lips. “Well, plus the exclusiveness. But everyone basically knows, anyway.”

You hate how easy he makes it sound, as if the days and weeks of doubt meant nothing.

Although as much as you want to keep arguing, keep defending your case, you're getting tired. Your heart fucking aches.

All you can think about when you go to bed nowadays is how much you miss being in his arms, miss his sweet praises and how his hands roam all over your body, practically owning it at this point. The singularity, the possessiveness, it makes you both ache and quiver, the feelings pushing and pulling like a phantom ache in your heart. 

“No one has ever wanted me like this.” Your voice wavers. “It scares the shit out of me.”

Elliot frowns. “If you felt nothing for him, it wouldn’t scare you.”

You straighten your posture. 

The urge to detach yourself from the situation is strong, but the compulsion to run to him is stronger now that you know the truth, the real truth, and can only hope that his offer still stands, can only hope that a meek apology will be enough for him to come out of his radio silent hole. 

Elliot senses your brain clicking its gears into place, a suppressed smile failing to be subtle. "You getting it now?"

You look to him, brows furrowed and eyes glossed with worry. "How can he even forgive me? I-I- He was nothing but nice to me and I..."

Trailing off, your heart pounds as your mind races. The whole trip, Rafe was more than accommodating to fit the role you needed him to fill, even going above and beyond to make sure you had what you needed in times where you were rendered speechless. He bought you a plethora of beautiful things that he absolutely didn't need to do. He checked in on you when you shut down and tried to shield you from the horror that is your family.

I want you.

And you pushed him away. You told him that you didn't feel the same, that you could never feel the same, hoping that would be enough to deter him. But, no, he came back time and time again, and helped you when you needed it the most. He didn't need to. He didn't have to. But he did.

Only you.

"I'm sure if you just talk to him," he says slowly, as if he's on the verge of crashing out, "everything will make sense."

“Is he coming tonight?” You try really hard not to sound desperate, heart pounding.

But Elliot sees right through you, grinning and shaking his head. “He’s in his room. I think he’s the only one on campus with an exam tomorrow morning.”

It doesn’t matter. He could be in another state and frankly you think you'd still find a way to see him. 

“Go.” 

Panic rises like bile in your throat. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He does,” Elliot reassures gently. Then, he nods towards the door. “Go.”

That green light is more than convincing, rising to your feet on wobbly legs as you clumsily step over his body, barely hearing Elliot’s whoops behind you over the sound of your bass-thumping heart beat.

You have no plan. No onset motion of what you’re going to say to him besides an apology. No guarantee that he still feels the same way or would even want you anymore. No idea how the interaction will go.

But, for once, the excitement outweighs the fear. And for you, that’s more than enough reason to listen to your gut, to go get him.

Without hesitation, a glance to your friends, or your jacket, you race out of his house and into the cold.

Ready to make it right.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes next chapter is the last one LMFAO sorry for the blue balls.

[likeabxrdinflight]

#fork found in kitchen#confession has ALWAYS been this fucked up#it's the secular law that has changed#and made it necessary for the church to remind people of this canon law#priests have and will continue to go to jail (or even die) to protect the seal of confession#and priests have and will continue to be excommunicated and defrocked for breaking the seal in favor of the law#also. there's a lot of people surprised that priests are not already mandated reporters#thats not true. in most places (in the US) priests ARE mandated reporters and always have been.#but most of those places have an exception for confessor-penitant privilege

Prev's tags felt important to include. It also feels important to note that in any other context, a priest is a mandated reporter. Catholic school teachers are mandated reporters, and all clergy, staff, and teachers affiliated with a catholic church will undergo a child abuse protection training called "protecting god's children" which will include information about mandated reporting. Confession, however, has also been the one exception. It shouldn't be, but this is the way it has always worked.

I will say this though, as someone who is a mandated reporter and has had to make calls to child protective services- in theory, the law makes sense. In theory it is in place to protect children and keep them safe. In theory we should all want that, right? We should want abuse to be stopped and children to be kept safe. But in practice? That just doesn't happen. I agree that priests should be bound by the same laws and limits to confidentiality as any helping profession- if I have to break the therapeutic relationship to report suspected child abuse or neglect, so should a priest. Churches shouldn't be above the law in this way. Especially the catholic church, which has a pretty notorious history of abusing children itself.

But it is worth acknowledging the nuance that in reality, child protective services are almost always dead fucking useless. I hate when I have to call them, nothing fills me with more dread as a clinician, because I know what's almost inevitably going to happen- families get upset with me, everyone's freaked out and anxious, if I'm treating a child they're going to be scared about being taken away from their parents, if I'm treating an adult they're either going to be pissed off with me or anxious or both. Often the opportunity to actually help the family is compromised. And then CPS will either hear my report and say "we can't do anything sorry" or they'll visit the family one time and then close the case. It is rare, in my experience, that they actually intervene in a way that anyone finds helpful. It is rare that they provide the kinds of supports and services that actually do prevent child abuse. And it is rare that a child is actually removed from an abusive situation. And in the circumstances where they are, it's usually traumatizing for the entire family system. Anyone who's worked adjacent to the foster care system will know how badly this can go.

It is also worth noting that this system can be exploited, and it certainly can be racist. Black and brown parents are significantly more likely to be reported for child abuse, and black and brown children are significantly more likely to be removed from their homes on the rare case that CPS actually does decide to intervene. The system is often punitive, not supportive, and it frequently upholds white supremacy. And I think, very often, the thing CPS is supposed to do- protect children from abuse- doesn't actually happen. Maybe every once in a while a child's life is saved. But many more children are only further traumatized. Many many more are not protected, and abuse continues to happen behind closed doors. Many who are removed from their abusive families end up in equally if not more abusive foster homes. Around and around it goes.

So I am not saying that priests deserve some special exception to the law just because they're priests and just because they work in a religious setting. A mandated reporter is a mandated reporter, there should be no exceptions. But it is worth having a conversation about whether or not mandated reporting itself actually helps anyone. It is worth having a conversation about whether or not CPS actually does any good, and it is worth having a conversation about how this system more often than not fails to protect children and families and is instead used as an extension of the police force. Is this really the best way to help prevent or stop child abuse? I certainly don't think it is.

in case anyone was forgetting what the church was all about

[zyafics]

hi! i love your work. Can you do a insecure reader being comforted by Rafe? I need that in my life (⸝⸝⸝>﹏<⸝⸝⸝)

i am so sorry it took me so long!! i was contemplating deleting this because i thought it was so bad, but thankfully, i didn't. i hope you enjoy it! shoutout to @itneverendshere for saying she would smack the girl bsf, i hope to never become friends w ur mans

LINE WITHOUT A HOOK | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing — Rafe x Insecure!Female Reader

Content — Lots of insecurity thoughts, Rafe comforting his girl best friend and you get jealous, past mentions of Rafe being the popular jock and you're the social outcast, and music is a clutch for you, but lots of fluff!

Word Count — 1.7K

Song — Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery

You were always a sensitive person.

It should come as no surprise that you became a sensitive girlfriend, too.

You don’t know how Rafe and you came to be. He was the stereotypical jock in high school; the one who had the entire student population in the palm of his hands, riding on waves of social admiration, and the unofficial mascot of pep rallies. You were the ostracized, quiet girl on campus; the one who could be found in the library, paging through heavy tomes, with music blaring through your earbuds at maximum volume.

Total, complete opposites.

But it happened.

Three years into your relationship should squash that unfortunate personality trait, but it hasn’t. Watching a movie in your shared apartment with Rafe, all his friends are present. Friends you don’t have a rapport with, friends you wanted there in the first place.

Yet, you’re uncomfortable. Sitting on the edge of the couch, hands tucked between your thighs, you’re trying to soothe your own deliberating nerves while everyone around is boisterous, noisy, and loud. You look to Rafe on several occasions, and he calms you down, but even then, the harbored bile in your throat doesn’t fade.

After dark, everyone leaves. They bid their farewells, pay their respects for your gracious hospitality, and when Rafe’s friends trickle out of the door, only three people remain: you, Rafe, and his best girl friend.

You never had a problem with his best friends. In fact, you pride yourself as a cool girlfriend who can tolerate her boyfriend having female friendships. You believe in that; you have to.

But Rafe’s best girl friend is going through something. Recently, she had broken up with her own boyfriend, and she was mellowing out the repercussions of losing a loved one. She needs comfort; she wanted her best friend.

To say the least, it’s awkward. They sit together on the couch, his arm slung around her shoulders, while you awkwardly gawk at them on the side. Like you’re intruding on something, an intimate moment that isn't privy to you.

And maybe it isn’t. Maybe Rafe has a right to comfort his friends, and his friends have a right to that privacy, but you can’t seem to starve that aching sense of betrayal that crawls up your stomach.

He doesn’t do anything inappropriate, his hands never travel too far from platonic territory, but you are sensitive. She’s crying into his chest, heaving through choked breaths, and you have the strongest urge to shove her off. Unfortunately, you are non-confrontational.

All you can do is watch, pathetically. Your heart feels like it’s being grated from the inside out. The more you saw him, comforting her, offering her safe words, the more you crumbled. You don’t want to say anything—he knew her longer—but you’d rather rip your heart out of your chest than deal with this.

Your foot brushes against Rafe’s, signaling. But he doesn’t take it. You do it again, and again, eyes pleading, but Rafe holds his concentration on his best friend. You don’t know if you imagined it, but you swear he pulls away.

Everything in the air drops. Oxygen stolen from your lungs, you can’t handle it anymore.

Standing from your seat, you head straight for the bedroom. You go straight to your bed, limp onto your side, and draw your knees to your chest.

You’re crying—but why? Rafe didn’t do anything; he didn’t cheat on you, he didn’t hurt you, but everything inside aches. You were being ignored in the comforts of your own home by the very person you shared a single thread of safety with. He knew you didn’t take new crowds well, like an easily-scared fawn that runs at the first sound of noises. Yes, you wanted this, but you didn’t want this.

Chest heaving with tightness, your breaths come out in shudders. You reach for the headphones on your nightstand and switch it on, flipping through your playlists for the loudest track.

Music has always been your clutch. You find solace in the rhythm and lyrics, drowning out your own damning thoughts. It’s easier to deal with the fury of another tempo than to deal with the destruction of your own heart.

This was also how you and Rafe came to be.

You were in the library, alone as always, listening to some song on wired headphones. Flipping through pages, minding your own business, you suddenly felt a breath against your shoulders, and a cool, smooth voice asked, “What are you listening to?”

It had startled you. You jumped back in your own chair and turned to see the most popular guy in school. His eyes were a warm, clear blue, and his smile was friendly, but you felt rattled.

You hadn’t spoken. You lost all abilities to.

“What are you listening to?” He had asked again, still posturing with the same level of friendliness. Somehow, you were convinced to take off one side of your headphones and allowed him a peek. He plugged in, nodding to the rhythm, and a covert smile fell upon his lips as he glanced back at you. “Nice taste.”

Now, you’re doing the exact same thing without him. Without his comfort. Without his warm presence. The volume of your song was loud and destructive, and your fingers clutched around the case of your phone for much-needed anchoring.

It’s pathetic. You shouldn’t feel this way.

But it had hurt.

The door creaks, and you don’t need to lift your gaze to see Rafe entering the bedroom. At the threshold, he fills the entire doorway, his presence so domineering, your heart skips a few beats.

But you refuse to react. Tucking yourself inwards, knees drawn to chest, arms wrapped around your calves, hoping to be swallowed by the very earth and disappear.

Or, at the very least, be as invisible as possible.

Rafe steps up to your bedside, but you don’t see him. Your back facing him, your eyes drawn to the blinds of your windows. You pretend to paint patterns, to notice everything—anything—outside of the demanding, silent presence of your boyfriend.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Rafe asks softly, his large hand lands on the side of your thighs, the callouses of his palm scraping against your skin in intimate strokes. But you can’t stop thinking about those same hands comforting another woman.

You don’t answer, scooting further into the bed, reeling away from Rafe’s touch.

He sighs, and you think: this is it. This is how he has had enough of you. A simple incident is enough to demonstrate the preview of a lifetime, and Rafe decides he isn’t meant for this type of commitment. Your heart sinks at the revelation, but you’re immobile, paralyzed by the inevitability.

Floorboard creaking, you expect Rafe to leave. Go outside. Back to his friend. That’s who he can picture his life with.

Instead, the mattress beneath you sinks, springs coiling under feathers. Strong arms wrap around your stomach, his touch causing a thousand embers to burst into flames, and he draws you into his naked chest.

All the muscles in your shoulders coil and tighten at first contact, but they slowly melt into his embrace, as if he’s the fire to a freezing day. You sink into his skin, bleed into his bones, and your chest shudders with an overflowing flood of emotions.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle, the rhythm of the music pounding against your eardrums causing you to feel everything at once. Rafe’s arms around your waist tightens. “I’m sorry,” you sob.

“Why are you apologizing?” He murmurs into the nape of your neck, cradling you closer. Almost as if he needs this as much as you do. “You did nothing wrong.”

”I—“ You choke on your own air, “I felt abandoned.”

“You aren’t,” he reassures in a soft, caring voice, the same tone he used when he first met you. When he knew how to not scare you off. “You’re never a second choice for me.”

“But with your friend—”

“She was going through something,” Rafe clarifies, and while you know that, it doesn’t hurt any less. “But when I saw you suddenly leave, I knew something was wrong. I sent her home and came here.”

He chose you, is what you should be hearing, but instead, all that pulses is the echoes of your guilt. He sent away his grieving friend because of your jealousy.

Another sob rips from your raspy throat.

“Baby, baby,” he soothes in your ear, pushing away your hair to get a closer touch. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

“I was jealous,” you admit with much putrid, “I’m so sorry.”

Rafe says nothing, find the phone gripped in your hand, and lowers the volume until it becomes mute. You can feel everything, hear everything, much clearer. His touch turns light, and his large palm grazes her your exposed stomach briefly, stirring butterflies.

His mouth finds the nape of your neck, and Rafe murmurs lyrically, “I want you.” He declares with utmost honesty. “There’s no one in this world I want but you.”

That should comfort you. Strip away the last barrier of insecurities, but instead, you say, “I’m not easy.”

“I don’t want easy.”

“I’m so sensitive.”

“I can handle it.”

“I get so jealous,”

He lets out a laugh, the rumbles filling his chest meets your spine. “So do I,” he confesses, “I’m the most jealous person in the world. When you said you wanted to meet my friends—I got jealous.”

Your heart stops.

“Why?” You whisper.

“Because I want you all to myself,” he says with a sigh, “I didn’t want them to see you in this new light; how beautiful you are, how kind, how perfect. You’re my safety, my light, and I didn’t want to share that with anyone else.”

Somehow, it works. You feel calmer, like you find comfort in a kindred spirit. Moments pass for you to digest this newfound information, but the weight on your chest slowly lifts. Finally, you take off your headphones and tilt your head back to face Rafe.

His smile is gentle, like he was waiting for this precise moment. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” you speak, and his grin widens.

“We’re okay?” He asks, squeezing your waist.

You nod, “We’re okay.”

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[yungistiny]

spoiled rotten

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which your boyfriend has become spoiled rotten and it’s all your fault

warnings: soft dom yunho, established relationship, oral fixation, praise kink, head pushing, possessive softness, semi public sex, shower sex

genre: smut

pairing: yunho x afab reader

word count: 1.1k

note: this was an anonymous request and i enjoyed writing it a little too much🤭

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho was starting to realize he had a problem.

A very, very specific problem.

And it started the first time you got on your knees for him without being asked.

It had been a surprise, something spontaneous, playful, but he never quite recovered. After that, he needed it. Craved it. Like some part of him had unlocked and now he couldn’t close the door.

He was never mean about it. He wasn’t rough. If anything, it was worse, he was sweet, doting, grateful in a way that made your stomach twist. And every time your lips touched him, he whispered your name like a secret and held your head like he was praying.

It wasn’t just sex for him. It was worship.

And he wanted it everywhere.

It started that night in the studio. Just the two of you, past midnight, a track looping through the monitors while Yunho adjusted the mic. He had told Hongjoong he had a song he wanted to do himself for the next comeback. His hoodie sleeves were shoved to his elbows, neck flushed from hours of singing. You slipped in quietly, leaned on the wall, and watched him.

“Five minutes,” he muttered. “I just need one more take.” He was easily starting to see why Hongjoong and Mingi got so frustrated in the studio.

You crossed the room and dropped to your knees between his long legs without a word.

He blinked. “Baby…”

You looked up at him, innocent. “Don’t stop. I’ll be quiet.”

“Shit,” he whispered, eyeing the door to the studio. It was late, most were already home.

His hips lifted automatically, letting you pull his sweats down, his dick already half hard from the sight of you kneeling there like you belonged.

You licked slow, tracing the underside of his length and he had to hit pause on the recording mid breath.

“I’m never gonna finish this track,” he groaned, hand sliding into your hair. “Go on, baby. Take me.”

You did, slow, deep, tongue teasing, lips soft. He gripped the armrest with one hand and you with the other, guiding your rhythm like it hurt him not to thrust.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” he whispered. “No one…. no one can take me like you do.”

You moaned around him and his hips jerked, thighs tightening under your palms. His breath hitched, ragged, and then he came with a deep, needy groan, fingers fisted in your hair as he pulsed hot down your throat.

You swallowed everything.

He stared at you, chest heaving. “I’m never finishing that song.”

You just smiled.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Then it was the dance practice room.

You knew the rest of the guys had already called it a night when Yeosang dragged into the apartment.

“Where’s Yunho?” You furrowed your brows not seeing your boyfriend.

Yeosang tossed his hoodie onto the couch and started walking to the bathroom for a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles. “You know him. If he doesn’t perfect the choreography, he won’t stop until he does.”

So you went to the studio, the KQ building empty other than a few staff and security. You found him, shirtless, sweaty, sweatpants hanging low on his waist. He gripped a wet towel, wiping at his flushed face.

He noticed you in the mirrors, walking up behind him. And there was something about those mirrors….

“Fuck…” you had ended up on your knees of course, this time moaning and gagging as you let him just fuck out his frustrations with your mouth. He watched the reflection of you taking him through the mirrors and he swore it was the best thing he ever saw.

“So good to me…” his voice was breathless, deep, almost growling at the sight. “You should see how good you look….. mouth so fucking perfect…”

He came with a whimpering growl of your name and you swallowed every drop.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Next came the gaming chair.

He was in the middle of a co op game, headset on, talking shit with San when you slid under the desk and tugged his shorts down. His dick was already hard, half from the adrenaline, half from how well he knew you.

“What the fuck…. hold on,” he choked. “I gotta mute….”

San was still talking, but Yunho’s hand was already in your hair, grip tightening, holding your head in place.

“You love doing this to me,” he said, voice low as you licked along the tip. “You wait until I can’t say no.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. He tasted too good, and he looked even better, one hand white knuckled on the keyboard, the other flexing in your hair as he tried to pretend he wasn’t getting the best head of his life mid match.

“You’re insane,” he groaned. He took slight control, his hand that was free, still holding your head, making you gag on him just a little bit, you gasping for breath when he let you go.

He bit his lip, trying not to moan, and failed. You heard the headset disconnect with a frustrated noise before Yunho said, “Fuck it. They can lose without me.”

His hips bucked, and then he was pushing deeper, both hands now holding your head, gentle but insistent, a head pusher in the softest sense. “God….. yes, just like that…”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next morning, he returned the favor.

You were already in the shower, eyes closed under the spray, when he stepped in behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“You spoil me,” he whispered into your neck. “Let me spoil you.”

You barely got the words out before you were pushed gently against the tile, and Yunho was on his knees for you. His hands slid up your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was licking into you like it was his last meal.

“Fucking heaven,” he moaned, voice vibrating against you. Your fingers tangled in his wet hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning when you gasped his name.

“Stay still,” he murmured, locking his arms around your thighs. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His tongue was merciless. Slow. Deep. He pushed two fingers inside and curled them just right, and when you started to tremble, he grinned.

“Give it to me, baby. Let me taste how good you feel…” his fingers were thrusting fast, curving, hitting that spot that if it weren’t for the shower mixing, the clear arousal squelching and sloshing with every thrust of his fingers would of been very noticeable.

You came against his mouth, loud and aching, and he kept going until you were a shivering mess under the shower, holding his head like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

He made sure to kiss his way all the way up your body, the shower still spraying above you, and then his mouth crashed against your own, messy, wet, tasting you on his tongue.

You moaned into it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Later that day, he was on the couch, man spreading like a damn throne belonged to him, head tilted, hand down his shorts, lazily teasing himself. You had gone out with some friends and he was starting to get needy.

As soon as you made it back, stepping through the front door of the apartment, you didn’t even get a chance to say anything. He just looked at you with that damn puppy look and boba eyes, pleading.

You walked to him, dropping to your knees, pressing kisses to the insides of his thighs exposed from the basketball shorts he had on, before pulling him out. He was already leaking, twitching against your lips.

“Missed this mouth,” he said, eyes fluttering shut as you started to suck. “I live for this mouth…”

His fingers threaded into your hair again, soft but firm, guiding you as your lips stretched around him, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowed.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered. “Take it…. just like that, baby, you’re so good to me…” He groaned, loud and open mouthed, and then the front door once again opened.

Yeosang’s voice froze everything. “I got some kimchi from my…. OH MY GOD!”

You both looked up. Yunho didn’t flinch. You, mortified, froze mid motion over getting caught.

Yeosang was already halfway down the hall, one hand over his eyes. “THIS IS OUR LIVING ROOM…”

“Knock next time,” Yunho called casually, still stroking your jaw. “We’re busy.”

You heard Yeosang swear all the way to his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him and a few minutes later loud muffled music could be heard.

Yunho just looked down at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You didn’t stop.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He smiled, soft and warm and utterly in love.

“That’s my girl.”

Maybe you had been spoiling him a little too much….

Completely spoiled rotten.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies

[iheartcake123]

sylus x f!reader

when you accidentally hurt yourself

a/n: i’ve recently joined the lads fandom and just had to write a fic for sylus 🤭

Masterlist

it had had been a long day and you just wanted to make yourself a cup of hot chocolate. not just any hot chocolate, you’d seen online a trend for a homemade black forest hot chocolate and wanted to try it out.

what could go wrong, right?

you reached for the top shelf, you wanted the large mug with the face of a cartoon panda on the front. it was your favourite. fingers brushing the edge of the mug, so close - until it tipped.

the crash came a second later, as shards scattered across the tile floor. in an (admittedly silly) attempt to catch it, you had managed to cut yourself but didn’t notice until it caused your arm to bloom a bright red colour.

“well, that sounded dramatic,” sylus’s voice called from the other room, light and teasing.

you looked the cut, wincing slightly at the stinging pain that now occurred and called back “just gravity being gravity.”

sylus appeared just a moment later, his eyes flicked from the ceramic mess on the floor to the blood on your arm. he didn’t speak right away.

“are we collecting injuries now?” he slowly arched an eyebrow.

“its barely a scratch,” you muttered trying not to make a big deal out of it.

“then let me fix your ‘scratch’ before it becomes a souvenir.” sylus now stepped closer and his voice a lot quieter now.

“really, it’s nothing. i should probably just clean up this mess” you pressed on but sylus was already on the move.

his figure disappeared into the bathroom and he soon returned with the medical kit.

“we can clean it up later. now sit” he tilted his head and gestured to the chair he wanted you to sit in.

he kneeled on the floor in front of you and took your arm into his hands. he began to clean the wound, as he did you couldn’t help but notice how his touch was precise, deliberate, but never cold. there was a gentleness to it.

“you know,” he said after a pause “most people would ask for help before bleeding all over the kitchen.”

you playfully scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“well, i didn’t realize i was living with a part-time medic.” your lips tugged into a smile.

sylus gave a quiet laugh “part-time? darling, i’m full-time. especially, since i’m living with you”

you couldn’t help but chuckle in response.

you both stayed in a comfortable silence as he continued to clean your cut. for a moment he pressed the piece of gauze a little too firmly and you unexpectedly flinched at the sensation.

his eyes flicked up immediately, and the teasing faded “sorry.”

“it’s okay” you murmured, watching him intently as he now began to wrap the bandage carefully around the cut.

once he was done, he didn’t move back right away. his thumb gently brushed just under the edge of the bandage, as if he was double-checking it.

“you don’t have to tough everything out” he said finally, voice low and oddly serious.

you blinked, surprised by the sudden softness his words. “it was barely a scratch, really...and i was only supposed to be making a hot chocolate. to be honest, i’m not used to someone looking out for me.”

“then get used to it.” sylus leaned into your ear “now come”

sylus reached for your hand and led you to the couch. he fluffed the pillows up and hie eyes remained focused on you and even after you were sat on the sofa. you never left his gaze.

“you’re staring” you whispered and decided to lean back onto the cushions.

“i’m supervising,” he corrected “you’re a known flight risk.”

“you cut your arm one time and suddenly you’re labelled as a flight risk” you sarcastically commented and let out a soft laugh.

you waited for sylus to respond with something just as sarcastic or witty but instead that didn’t happen.

his face now serious, he sat before you close—closer than he usually would. he reached toward you and his fingers found his way to your shoulders where they began to trace gentle shapes.

your eyes narrowed in confusion for a second and then it clicked.

“you’re really worried, huh? sylus i promise you im okay” you turned your head slightly and examined his facial expression.

you noticed how his eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenching slightly for a second before returning to normal. a small sigh escaped his lips. almost as if he wanted to answer straight away but he didn’t, so the room fell into a quiet lull, city lights peeking through the curtains painting faint gold and silver lines across the floor.

you didn’t push any further and let sylus take his time. it had been a good few minutes before he finally spoke.

“i know that it’s only a small thing and that you’re okay…but it’s just that i’ve seen small things spiral into so much more before” his voice was low and careful as his eyes glanced down at the bandage on your arm.

“It’s okay to care, sylus. it’s what i love about you, you care about everything you do and it’s admirable” you laced your fingers with his.

“carings not the hard part however, letting someone see that i care, it’s still newer to me” his gaze flicked from the bandage up to you and you noticed how his eyes held something vulnerable.

it was very different compared to the usual calm in his eyes.

“then let me be the one who always sees it and appreciates it” you didn’t break the eye contact you had with him.

sylus’ lips tugged into a smile - albeit a small one, it was genuine and real. he then began to shift closer with his hand still laced with yours, he reached his free hand up and cupped your face. his thumb rubbing small circled on your cheek.

“no more reaching for mugs without me, okay? and if im ever not here then i will send someone to come do it for you” he spoke, voice firm but calm.

you relaxed into him, now leaning up against his shoulder. your heart felt warm as you cherished the current moment.

“you’ve got a deal. but only if you promise to keep playing nurse for me” you held back your smirk.

sylus chuckled, low and amused at the comment “i’ll make it my permanent role, kitten”

any left over tension slipped from the room and sylus pulled you in closer. your head rested on his chest and when you closed your eyes you could hear the faint beating of his heart. it brought you a comfort and you wanted to stay like this forever.

with him.

nothing mattered, not even the black forest hot chocolate you were originally so determined to make.

[vibrantdream]

Is it worth it?

That was the question I found myself wrestling with. After all, I had things pretty good as they were. I had a stable income working in my parents' armory shop. I was also not particularly short on offers. Nobility, I am not, but I was still a decent prospect for marriage. My life was both stable and comfortable which made the fact that I was even considering chasing after this lead absolute madness.

Common sense said to settle. Find a suitable partner in town, have children, teach them armorsmithing when they were old enough. Magic could be finnicky anyway, and I'm no mage. I barely have the ability to cast the cheapest and simplest of spells, like a dating spell. I could have cast it wrong. Or perhaps the spell itself was flawed. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time a dating spell proved unfruitful.

A near-certain suicide mission wasn't worth a maybe.

And yet my mind burned. Not only with that name, that honey-sweet name that rolled off my tongue like water over rocks, but with a bright curiosity. I had cast the dating spell almost four months prior. Doubtless, my match had been adventuring then, far too busy to worry about love. So why now? Why cast the spell while trapped in the deepest, deadliest dungeon in history? Who would embark on such a hopeless rescue mission, if that had, in fact, been my match's intent? What good could knowing my name and location possibly do in such bleak circumstances?

I wanted to know. I wanted to know that answer more than almost anything.

I found myself pulling my personal armor out of storage: I had only worn it twice and it was slightly misshapen, having been the first full set I ever made, but that was nothing I couldn't fix now. I fired up the forge, hammering away until it matched the quality of my current work. I spent the next few days inscribing protective spells and sigils on the bracers, and inside the breastplate, referencing our books on magical armor. My father shook his head fondly whenever he found me toiling over it, offering advice here and there, but never berating me. I hadn't told him, but he suspected something.

Neither of my parents were surprised when I told them I was leaving, sword at my waist, armor shining and polished. My mother hugged me and kissed my cheek, handing me a bag full of supplies and provisions.

"Come home safe." She said. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I might not come home at all.

"I will let you go," My father said, "on one condition. You leave that sword here."

"Father, I'm going to need a weapon. I'm going somewhere dangerous," I said.

"I rather suspected you would," He said, "Which is why I think this will serve you better." He turned to a chest and brought out a long bundle wrapped in cloth, which he offered to me.

My heart stuttered. "My great-grandmother's sword?"

My father nodded. "It saw her through entire wars. I think it shall meet your needs nicely."

I slowly reached out and grabbed the hilt as my father unwrapped the cloth. The blade shone brighter than my armor due to the diligent care my father put into maintaining it. My hands weren't shaking, but only because I was terrified of dropping it.

My father removed my sword belt and strapped on a new belt with my great-grandmother's scabbard before he stood back and looked at me. "That's more like it. You be careful out there, now. And you should know you're gonna need a little help along the way: you're not used to adventuring. There's a list in the bag of people and organizations who might be of help. People will recognize that sword and scabbard before you speak a word so take very good care of them."

"I will." I said hastily. "I promise I will. Just like you taught me."

My father nodded and gave me one last hug before I sheathed my new sword and set off to find--and potentially save--my one true love.

It was madness, but I'd do it or die trying.

A new dating spell is trending in the magic world—cast it, and if your perfect match also does, you’ll instantly know who and where they are. Simple. Yours just activated. Their name burns in your mind… and their location? Deep beneath the earth, at the bottom of a dungeon no one returns from.

[l1v-jzn]

hide me with your lips — geum seong je

chased through the morning streets, she’s pulled into an alley by seong je, who silences her and hides her with a kiss that blurs the line between protection and passion.

You were running.

Only this time, it wasn’t under the cover of darkness, it was morning. Harsh, blinding, golden morning. The kind that made everything too real. Too exposed.

Your boots echoed against the pavement of narrow backstreets, dodging early risers, the scent of bakeries opening up, buses grumbling awake. But they were still behind you those men. Following. Watching. Smirking.

Your pulse spiked.

You turned the corner too fast, nearly tripping and that’s when it happened.

A hand pulled you in the other side of the alley. Your back slammed against a warm chest.

A whisper of smoke and cologne curled into your senses just before your eyes locked with his. Geum Seong-je.

Hair messy. Shirt untucked. That glasses. Cigarette between his lips like a casual threat.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just amused. Lethal. Like the morning sun had nothing on the fire in his gaze.

You were still trying to breathe when he flicked the cigarette into a puddle with one gloved hand and grabbed you with the other.

Then without warning he kissed you.

Not gently. Not even remotely.

His hand slipped behind your neck, holding you still like you were something fragile and feral all at once. His lips found yours with a hunger that didn’t belong to 7 a.m. His mouth tasted like mint and smoke and every argument you’d ever had.

You didn’t kiss back because you were supposed to.

You kissed back because your body betrayed you.

Because something in you had been aching for this, whether you admitted it or not.

You didn’t even think about it. You just felt.

Felt the heat of him, the safety, the danger, the—you’re mine and I’m mad about it—flavor of the moment.

Your fingers tangled in his hoodie. He pressed you against the brick wall of some sleepy café, morning sun dripping like honey through the narrow gap between buildings.

Somewhere, a delivery truck honked. A pigeon fluttered off a windowsill.

Still he kissed you like the world was ending. Or beginning.

He finally pulled back, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

You were both breathless, hearts thudding in sync like a war drum under your skin. Seong-je had leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes narrowed like he was figuring you out all over again.

“You looked like you needed saving,” he muttered. “So I figured I’d kill two birds with one kiss.”

You blinked, dazed. “That… that was not how I thought my morning would go.”

He smirked, brushing a thumb across your lips. “Stick with me, princess. Mornings only get weirder.”

Then you heard it. Loud footsteps. Male voices. Too close.

You stiffened. “Shit,” you breathed, eyes darting toward the mouth of the alley. “It’s them–”

Before you could move, his hand was already back on your neck.

“Don’t look,” he muttered, and then he kissed you again.

But this time it wasn’t fire and fury. It was a strategy.

He pressed you deeper into the wall, body shielding yours completely. One hand braced against the brick behind your head, the other cradling your jaw so gently it made your breath hitch.

His lips found yours again, slower now. More intimate. Like a secret being whispered across skin.

From the street, all anyone would see was a couple tangled up in each other, locked in a stolen moment too intense to interrupt. No one would look twice. Not at your face. Not at your fear. Not at you.

and god help you, you kissed him back.

Your hands curled into the front of his hoodie, not just for effect but for stability. His kiss deepened, the pressure of his body anchoring you as voices passed by just feet away.

“She went this way, I swear..”

“C’mon, let’s check the main road.”

The footsteps faded. The threat evaporated. But still, he didn’t move. Not until the silence returned.

Then slowly, painfully, he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting over your lips like the memory of thunder.

“Looks like I saved you again,” he murmured. His voice was teasing, but the tremble in it betrayed him.

You looked up at him, dazed. “Was that… necessary?”

He smirked—lazy, crooked thing that made your stomach twist. “You tell me. You didn’t exactly fight me off.”

You wanted to say something sharp. Something clever. Instead, you just whispered, “You’re good at that.”

His gaze flickered. “At kissing?”

“At hiding me.”

His smirk faded just a little. “That’s not what I want to be good at.”

————————————————————————

got a little freaky with my freaky ahh playlist playing while writing this down and thinking abt geum seongje🤌🏻🤓

© l1v-jzn

[holyschnitzel]

Hi holyschnitzel!

A friend showed me the game's demo and I absolutely loved it, I got really obsessed with the character Damon. The game's background is really interesting, so I started following you to keep up with the lore and updates.

However, when I started looking into things, I was surprised that MC basically end up in a three-way relationship with DG and Damon, which isn't apparent in the game.

I don't really like this idea and wanted to ask if this will stay this way or if there will be individual routes where they haven't slept together before (like I see in posts about him taking her virginity) and have just been friends… I saw them as a family and it feels like incest.

I've found out that quite a lot of people think the same.

Thanks a lot for your time

Blastic is having trouble explaining this properly, so I'll take over :)

First of all, thank you for your interest in Broken Colors and for sharing your thoughts. I appreciate your enthusiasm for the game and especially for Damon's character <3 You seem to have some misunderstandings about the relationships in the game, so I'd like to clear that up for you!

Let me clarify that DG and Damon are absolutely not family or related in any way. They are explicitly established as friends (with benefits) who met as adults. There is no familial connection whatsoever between them, so your concern about "incest" doesn't apply to them. Just because you consider them family doesn't make it incestuous, this is not how it works, you naughty little thing you! ;P

Next, regarding Damon's personality and behavior: While Damon does have attachment issues and can be intensely possessive, his relationship with DG is unique and established before the events of the game. Their dynamic is special precisely because DG is the only person Damon trusts enough to consider sharing someone with. This is actually consistent with his character - he's not casually sleeping with multiple people; he has one deeply trusted connection (DG) that allows for this specific arrangement aka poly-relationship.

About the possible routes in the game:

There will be a route where MC ends up with DG.

A route where MC ends up with Damon.

And a poly-route option with both of them.

You're free to choose whichever route appeals to you most. If you prefer a one-on-one relationship with Damon, that route will be available to you. The poly route is simply an additional option for players who might be interested in that dynamic :)

Of course, we understand some players may have different preferences or interpretations, but Blastic wants to stay true to her characters and world she has created. Everything you have read are intentional aspects of the narrative and character development!

Well! I hope this clarifies things. Thanks again for your support and for engaging with the game so thoughtfully, eleipsis! ^o^

[wynnerwynner]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐋

bob reynolds x fem!avenger!reader

request: yes, yes

warnings: brief mention of drowning, oblivious idiots, spoiler free :)

wc: 1.9k

a/n: i listened to pushing it down and praying while editing hehe

Y/N’s narrowed eyes searched the common area of the Watchtower. In a corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows, Bob was curled in a chair with a book in his lap. It was one of the ones they’d recommended to her.

“Hey,” she smiled, giving his shoulder a nudge as she approached.

Bob did a double-take, then grinned softly. “Hi. What’s up?”

The ends of his hair curled, getting in his eyes a little, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I found a cool bookstore online and I was thinking of going,” she explained. “Wanna join?”

Bob was one of the first people to truly make Y/N feel welcome. He hadn’t been the first one to introduce himself but he’d stood out. From the get-go, he was kind and careful, the complete opposite of men she’d met in the past. He seemed so normal. It made her heart ache sometimes.

“Uh…” he peered at his book, then as if thinking better of himself, he shook his head and closed it. “Yes—yeah, that’d be… that’d be cool.”

Valentina rarely gave the Avengers a break. It finally took Yelena putting her foot down for them to get a vacation. They had two weeks to themselves and Y/N would finally take the opportunity to visit some places she hadn’t gotten the chance to yet. It was also a good excuse to get Bob out of the Tower.

“When was the last time you left the Tower?” Y/N teased, shoulders rigid and fists deep in her pockets as she fought to block out the bitter wind.

“A long time, I guess,” his lips wobbled into an abashed smile. “Hey, I thought you didn’t get cold.”

“You’d think that,” she muttered indignantly. “I drown in a frozen lake and emerge with cold manipulation but my body doesn’t acclimate.”

“Here,” Bob shrugged off his jacket.

Despite the cold wind, Y/N face burned. “Oh, no, no,” she chuckled sheepishly.

“It’s all right,” he reassured. “I run hot, anyway.”

The brunette held out his jacket, allowing her to slip her arms in. Warmth enveloped her instantly. The smell of laundry detergent and trees filled her nose, bringing a sort of comfort to her.

“How’s that?” half his mouth quirked.

Y/N nodded, ignoring the deep ache in her stomach, “Better. Thank you.”

The walk to the bookstore was anything but quiet. Y/N was one of the few people to know that once you got close with Bob, he was a talker. He could be as excited as a little kid if you brought up the right topic. Books seemed to be one of those things.

A bell dinged as they entered the bookstore. Y/N nearly sighed aloud as the smell of books with glue older than her and yellowing pages filled her nose. To one wall were shelves of instrumental tools with guitars displayed above them. In other sections of long shelves there were action figures, electronics, vinyls and CDs, relatively new books, and old books. Y/N felt herself gravitating to the far right of the store where RARE READS was printed in large, red lettering on the wall.

A smile came over her lips as she noticed different prints of Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, and Little Women lining the shelves. Y/N’s gaze caught on Bob as he pulled a thin book from the shelf. It was bound in an orangey brown paper with intricate beige designs. The title and author stood out in lanky, black letters on the front.

“Have you read The Yellow Wallpaper?”

Y/N’s tone was so soft that it almost surprised her. She hadn’t wanted to sound so delicate of a question, cringing to herself as he did a double-take and seemingly hid his gaze from her.

“Uh… yeah,” he chuckled. “It was a mandatory read in high school. I dropped out before finishing it but I picked it up again recently and it’s probably one of my top favourites.”

Y/N almost couldn’t believe it. Her stomach twisted and she was overcome with a sense of relief. Oddly, it brought her a new sense of security around him.

Her brain struggled to form words so she opted for a soft, approving smile. Bob shot her a glance before gazing back to the book in his hands and continuing down the aisle. Y/N plucked book after book of the shelves, relishing in the crackling sound the pages made as she opened and closed them.

“Hey, Y/N,” Bob called.

At the end of the aisle, he held up a small box. As she stepped closer, she recognized it as a Winter Soldier action figure. Everything seemed to be accurate, except for his nose. Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, taking the plastic from his hand to study it.

“There’s one of you, too,” he said.

“Oh, God,” Y/N groaned, already imagining the worst.

When she looked at it, her face screwed up in embarrassment. Her eyes were a little too tilted and her lips a little too pursed.

“I look drunk,” she covered her mouth with her free hand.

Her action-figure-self was doing her signature move when she attempted to shoot icicles from her hands. They’d painted her fingertips and a dot on her palm blue for effect.

“It’s pretty accurate, actually,” he said.

At Y/N’s gaping mouth, Bob spluttered in apology, “I am so sorry, I—”

Y/N suddenly laughed, whether it was at his embarrassment or her own, she didn’t know. Bob’s face burned red, his chin tucking into his chest as she hid behind his hair.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” he spoke quickly. “I meant, like, you always look like that because you look beautiful.”

Bob’s mouth slowly shut as Y/N went quiet, her laughter dying off into a soft stare. She didn’t know what to say. It was so random coming from him. Did he mean it how she thought he meant it? No, that was stupid. He didn’t like her! He’s her teammate, that’d be unprofessional! It was definitely platonic. Bob was just being nice. He was always nice.

“Thank you,” she replied, a little more sheepish than she’d have liked.

Bob nodded, his tongue darting out to his bottom lip. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

They stayed in the shop another thirty minutes just looking at everything. She found out Bob had a love for classics and thrillers. While she had only read more of the popular classics, her heart warmed in appreciation.

When the Watchtower elevator dinged and the doors dragged open, they were greeted by their entire team in the common area.

“Well, look who’s back,” John’s voice echoed from a velvet chair across the room.

All eyes went to Bob and Y/N, making them stop in their tracks. The plastic bag in Bob’s hand crinkled throughout the quiet room as he gripped it.

“You owe me twenty bucks,” Ava pointed at Alexei.

Y/N eyed her teammates, “Why does it feel like there’s an intervention happening.”

“Not ‘intervention’,” said Yelena from the kitchen island. “More like… a celebration.”

“Is it someone’s birthday?” Bob quirked a bewildered smile.

“We’re celebrating your first date,” Bucky said flatly as he poured a glass of whiskey.

Y/N’s eyes nearly bugged out of her skull, her neck pushing forward at the force of her surprise. “Our what?”

“Ha!” Alexei shouted, pointing back at Ava. “You owe me twenty bucks!”

“I’m extremely confused,” Bob chuckled uncomfortably.

“Ava and I make bet on whether you two like each other,” Alexei shrugged. “I win.”

Y/N glanced to Bob, who seemed just as confused as her, if not more.

“She’s wearing his jacket!” Ava exclaimed.

“Friends give each other clothes of their backs!” Alexei argued. “It is perfectly okay!”

“There is literally nothing normal about that, at all,” John agreed.

“Thank you—Wait, no,” Ava stopped herself, eyes closing. “No, I don’t want to thank you. You don’t deserve it.”

“Excuse me—”

“Guys, I hate to break it to you, but Bob and I are just friends,” Y/N chuckled, her face burning. “There’s nothing going on between us. I don’t even like Bob like that!”

“Yeah, I don’t even like her like that,” Bob scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the floor.

“Then why are you blushing,” said John.

Y/N shot daggers at John, who only smiled mischievously.

“Come on,” Yelena groaned. “Whenever we come back from a mission, you and Bob are the first ones you talk to; Bob reads your favourite books; you help him with the dishes; you sit beside each other on the couch every time—”

“Don’t forget about that time they fell asleep together,” Bucky pointed out from beside her.

Yelena smacked the super soldier’s chest with the back of her hand in agreement. “You fell asleep on each other during a movie and we just left you there!” she echoed.

The room was quiet as Y/N and Bob found themselves at a loss for words.

After an awkward departure to her room, Y/N lay awake on her bed. Car horns and the singing of brakes filtered through her cracked window. The only light in her dark room came from the moon.

There was a part of her that admitted some things about her and Bob’s friendship were bordering on romantic. The only time she’d shared a jacket with someone else was when her they had a crush on her and offered. Bob had called her beautiful in the store and no guy had ever called her beautiful without it being romantic. When a mission ended, all she could think about was getting home to Bob and telling him everything that had happened. He brought her a level of comfort she hadn’t known in a long time. He made her day infinitely better by simply smiling. She couldn’t get enough of his company.

A knock resounded through her door, startling her from her thoughts.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Bob,” he replied. “I—I can come back another time if it’s—”

Y/N scrambled to her door and ripped it open faster than intended. He stood on the other side, arms loose at his sides, hands hidden in his sleeves.

“Hi,” he sighed.

“Hey.”

In the fluorescent hallway lights, she realized that his eyes were a dark blue. As dark as the deepest part of the sea. She felt herself getting lost in them before he quirked a smile.

“Can I come in?”

“Uh,” Y/N scrambled to catch her bearings, “yeah.”

Bob squeezed past her and took a seat at the end of her bed. He’d sat there many times before as she finished getting ready for a mission or for a special event Valentina was ordered them to. She remembered the way he looked at her when she would come out in the fancy outfits. He’d seem to be at a loss for words, but she’d laugh it off as him being socially awkward and being too afraid to say the wrong thing. He was always so respectful.

“I had a lot of fun today,” he broke the silence again.

Y/N nodded, taking a seat beside him. “Me too. I’m glad you came with me.”

“I’m glad I did, too.” He smiled at her, but it faltered as he studied her face.

“What?”

Bob’s brows furrowed. “I’ve been thinking, um, about what everyone said.”

Y/N gazed at the cream carpeted floor, “Me too.”

“Really? Um… actually, I wanted to know if you’d go on a real date. With me. Sometime. You know, only if you’re up to it. It’s okay if you—”

Y/N’s face broke out into a smile and she laid a hand on top of his, effectively silencing his rambling. “I’d love to.”

Bob stared at their fingers, then spluttered a laugh and nodded. “All right. It’s a date.”

[aloeverawrites]

No worries and thanks I’ll go check it out!

I finished reading Other minds, the octopus and the evolution of intelligent minds by Pater Godfrey-Smith, and I’ve been looking for another good science book. :D

And that’s a good point, yeah I think that in the animal rights movement we also have to focus on human rights. A solution isn’t viable if it doesn’t ensure the wellbeing of humans too.

Resource distribution is a huge problem since we pretty much have enough resources for everyone. Our priorities are out of whack id say, our current systems more about the convenience of people in wealthy countries then the safety and wellbeing of everyone else.

This can be seen too with fishing, large fishing companies out compete local fishermen to catch fish to sell to wealthier countries, causing food insecurity in local communities. Illegal cattle farming in rainforests threaten the people who live there and impact their access to food.

I think if we boycott these industries, hopefully it will not only help climate change but it can stop them from harming local businesses and the communities that rely on them around the world.

“More than half the U.S. grain and nearly 40 percent of world grain is being fed to livestock rather than being consumed directly by humans”

“The 7 billion livestock animals in the United States consume five times as much grain as is consumed directly by the entire American population.”

“If all the grain currently fed to livestock in the United States were consumed directly by people, the number of people who could be fed would be nearly 800 million,”

I’m not sure of this ecologist factored in that some of this food isn’t edible for humans but I’d be very surprised if they didn’t.

“Global hunger numbers rose to as many as 828 million in 2021”

Anyway this is the thinking behind organisations like a well fed world, that advocates for plant based solutions for world hunger.

“To put this in greater perspective, the United Nations estimates we could feed an additional 3.5 billion more people simply by growing crops for human consumption on the land that is currently used to grow feed crops for farmed animals.”

“A plant-based food system, on the other hand, could feed billions more people while reducing global farmland use by up to 75%, and emissions from the food system by up to 70%”

And I think you made a really good point about The Gambia being more impacted by climate change, I found an article discussing how the countries and people who pollute the least will be the most impacted by climate change.

“The People Least Responsible For Global Warming Will Suffer The Most From Its Consequences”

“It is no secret that not everyone has the same responsibility for global warming. Indeed, when we look at the causes of the global climate crisis, most of them can be attributed to the richest countries.”

“On the contrary, the poorest countries, those who have contributed the least to global warming, are those who will suffer the most.”

So yeah I think r have to change about current system works and those of us in richer countries that pollute more should do what we can to ensure other people aren’t being impacted.

real tired of hearing the vegan vs. omnivore arguments when the real superior diet in terms of both cruelty and ecosystem is locally sourced

beef and pork from a farm 10 minutes away from you is more ethical and less detrimental to the environment than quinoa grown in ecuador. the future is food forests. the green revolution is food forests. if we manage to survive this apocalyptic hellscape all of your food, plant and animal, is going to come from within half an hour of where you live. plant a vegetable garden in the meantime

[fanaticsnail]

"I am a Swordsman: Disciplined, Stoic, Hardened."

Pollen Masterlist here

Word count: 5,400+

Synopsis: After trying a new compost and soil layer for his prized Marastina grapes, Dracule Mihawk found himself perplexed about a yellow coating over the shell of his harvested vintage. After taking a few moments to calculate its origins, a rapid wildfire of lust begins to consume his very being. Arriving at Kuraigana at the request of your boss to pass on a letter, you are surprised by what exactly you find within the cool wine cellar.

Themes: Mihawk x afab!reader, pollen, mdni, 18+, NSFW, smut, fluff, friends to lovers, multiple rounds, creampie, squirting, dubcon, prior friendship, first time together, cross guild mentioned

Notes: Massive shoutout to @mermaniaa, @loganwritesprobably, and @claryeverlarkf for pushing me on to complete this fic. Love you guys! Thank you for beta-ing for me, Logan!!

Beads of sweat dripped down his temple and pooled in the whiskered chin of the World’s Greatest Swordsman. His restraint and level-headed demeanor had started to shift the longer his endurance was tested. While completely accustomed to testing his strength of character, resolve, and resistance, that was usually regarding war and warfare, not… this.

While his knees were bowed to the sides, heels wedged beneath his knees on each opposing side, his glistening body was illuminated by the soft warmth of sparse candlelight on the floor surrounding him. With every inhale and exhale, Dracule Mihawk was grounding every molecule of his strength to fight giving in to the fury burning beneath his pants. 

Despite his better judgement, the marine hunter, turned warlord, turned recluse living out his days and carrying his title in Kuraigana had decided to change exports for mulch and fertilizer for his prized marastina grapes, into one proclaimed by many to aid grape production and growth. While the marastina grape made for a sweeter wine of less alcohol when pressed into wine, he wanted to spoil his little vine by giving it a more nutrient rich base. 

There was no change to his persons while handling the gravel, soil, and hessian bags of fertiliser. He was always careful when gardening, never quite knowing which elements of the earth were able to hurt his skin and cause illness or infection. Gloves, spades, shovels, picks, mattocks, and forks were always used with the utmost caution when rearranging the elements and caring for his small farm. Every instrument was thoroughly cleaned, boiled, and disinfected thereafter for the sake of his health and that of his garden. 

After squeezing, pressing, barrelling, and leaving the grapes on lees, for just a little longer than anticipated, Mihawk had done every preparation to the highest quality to brew his prized marastina into wine worth cellaring beneath his cobblestone castle. He had noticed the film along the exterior of the skins were more golden than that white wild yeast he was accustomed to. He had also partially noticed the small spores and gentle flower growth beneath the vines, ones that he had never recognised from any growth prior, but he marked it down in his mind as simply being the appropriate conditions for such a flower. 

That oversight was one he had come to regret.

The ache in his legs, back, and spine had long since been eclipsed by the throb in his pants growing steely, urgent, and angry at every hour he continued to ignore it. The need was overwhelming. Every tick of time that passed through the waves of lust consuming him grated against his every nerves. He refused to move the buckles and ties over his belt to relieve himself, electing to treat this as an exercise of restraint rather than to give into his own needs. 

“The toxins need to get out,” he muttered beneath his breath, “I just need to wait it out.” His honeyed eyes scrunched tightly and his shaken breath was imbued with a foreign desperation. With a few shaking and hastened breaths, Mihawk clenched his eyes tightly shut and deepened his furrowed brow as he concentrated. “I am a swordsman. Disciplined. Stoic. H-Hardened.” He grimaced at his stutter, chastising himself for the weakness found within his desperate tone. 

“I am a swordsman.”

The twitch of interest beneath his leather pants grew urgent, screaming for his attention with every second lost. He felt more of his sweat glistening and spinning from his tossled, glossy curls down his face and trailing the contours of his abdomen. 

“Disciplined.”

Mihawk’s heart jumped as the heat of his scorching swear began to trace his skin like an accusatory finger dancing past his nipples and down towards his navel. The furrow in his brow continued to contort in a severe strain of his concentration. The puffing and heaving of his chest became more manic at every moment. He clenched his fists so hard, the moon-shaped crevices forged by his blunt, manicured fingernails bore into the skin that his palms began to bleed. 

“Stoic.”

Mihawk growled as he spoke, feeling the warmth of his body he attempted to expell with water, cleansing agents, balms, and ointments continue to grow before he gave up and attempted to wait out the paralysis of his toxins. He understood his path now was risky, but he discerned that his training as a gardener and swordsman could push out that foreign chaos with his steely will alone. 

“Hard-…”

His lips curled around that word. ‘Hardened,’ he tried to speak the full syllables of its entirety, but halted as his cock now bellowed at full volume as it leaked and begged for a partner in his pants. The hunger could no longer be ignored; satiating the desire had now become paramount. Like a craving that only a specific flavor could compensate for, his cock continued to betray his resolve as precum trickled from his slit and pools at his balls. 

“Fuck.”

~

The journey to Kuraigana was taxing on your body, but you assumed the news you carried would encourage the lord of the land to house you with relative ease. With the disbarment of the warlords by the world government, your formerly disgraced boss had a plan he hatched inside Impel Down with the boisterous clown. 

Sir Crocodile had made you, his prized assistant, privy to the knowledge of the newly forged idea to form a list and finance bounties to those desiring to hunt deserving marines alongside pirates. It was your job to sell the idea to a former warlord you had come to know and respect from your days serving your boss in his shadow within the council chambers. 

‘A daring conversationalist,’ was how your boss described you, ‘One to speak their mind with ease and steer a heavy hand in a more correct attunement.’ Sir Crocodile had such flowery references and eloquent language surrounding the way you were able to ground him and the warlords when asked to state your opinion. Although not a warlord yourself, you had garnered the respect of many within the formation by being able to sway the weight in your boss's favor by your simple wording alone. Vice Admiral Tsuru had began to anticipate your arrival with a warm smile spared at your expense, a luxury many of the others had rarely been afforded. 

Which is precisely how you had been chosen to serve this purpose. 

Given the sensitivity of the information to relay onto his former associate, Sir Crocodile refused the regular channels of den den mushi, binary codex, and the soaring wings of the news coos. You were the only viable option, and you had attempted to contain your excitement to meet with lord Dracule Mihawk once more. 

The stoic swordsman was friendly enough with you. Although he tended to leave the marine council chambers with a quickened haste, you would always catch him at the docs as he waited to set sail with the tide. It was in those small moments, waiting side by side, where you found an unlikely friendship. Although nothing had ever occurred in these small moments with one another, there was this easiness in your rapport that had you thinking, in another life, with a small push, that you and this swordsman could have found some happiness with one another. 

Quickly swallowing down your small bloom of memories threatening to resurface, the gravelly sand crunched beneath your feet as you walked up towards the highkeep of Kuraigana containing the World’s Greatest Swordsman. With your note from the other former warlord folded carefully within your satchel, you focussed on the small shimmer of dull light protruding from the doorway closer to the cellar.

“Oh,” you exhale as your brows furrow at the flicker. For a moment, you take into consideration your surroundings. The vineyard harboring Mihawk’s coastal grapes appeared absent of fruit, the scent of sweet juice lingered on the sea air as you noticed a trickle of amber and crimson slowly weep out of the room the light is expanding within. “Harvest season,” you spoke to nobody in particular as you changed your direction towards the room, “I’m far better off going to his cellar than standing on that terrace until he returns to open his home to me.” 

After not too long, you were standing by the partially cracked door leading towards his cellar. The light within was far dimmer than the outside sunlight, leaving little to deduce what was occurring within aside from a shift of material and rough panting and an animalistic grunt that had your heart jump up to your throat. Choking briefly, you placed your satchel down and stooped to a low crouch to assess the danger. 

Slowly approaching from around the corner, what your eyes fell on was one that caused your eyes to broaden and lips fall agape. Falling off your guard and onto your knees, your mind could barely process what was immediately within your vision. 

Lord Dracule Mihawk, master of the sword and former warlord of the seas, was naked and hunched over and fisting his leaking cock as if it had personally offended him. You could barely make out the conversation he was holding beneath his breath while he continued to assault his cock in a variety of unique ways. From standing up, bracing his body with his left hand while fucking into his fist, to sitting in a chair and pumping along his length with his hands flying to his raven locks and pulling on its strands. 

The stoic swordsman appeared to have sweat, tears, and saliva pooling down his features and forging a feral sheen over his sightly features the longer his hard and heavy touch lingered. Gruff huffs and a lingering whisper flew over his palate and thrust into the air in synchrony to his cock disappearing into his fist. 

“W-Why can’t I finish?” He pleaded with himself, words catching in his throat as he uttered them, “I have done… I have done everything. Why won’t you j-just-?! hhah!” He sunk onto his knees in front of the chair and continued to roll his velvety skin over his shaft to reveal his blood-flushed tip weeping with desire, yet without any conclusion to his ministrations. “I… I need… I need…!”

“L-Lord Dracule Mihawk?” your trembling lips called out to your former associate. Unsure as to whether you should approach him as he was like this, you held your internal argument for longer than you deemed necessary to weigh up your options. As his tawny eyes snapped over towards your form down on your own knees, Mihawk’s lips curled around the edges of your name and cried out to you.

“What are you doing here? D-Do not see me like this-!” Mihawk protested, attempting to shy himself away from you while maintaining contact against his cock, “I-It is uncivilised. I-I am exposed and… I need… I need-...” He gazed to the grapes, honing in on the yellow sheen of fine powder eclipsing the grape skins. He deduced what he was experiencing was an allergic reaction to the filmy substance, causing him to maintain this desire without an end to his torment. 

“...Lord Mihawk,” you attempted again, holding your hands defensively in front of your face and shielding your eyes from view, “You appear to be suffering, from what I do not know what. By your evident commentary, I would assume you had already attempted stopping the touch to stop the desire-?”

“-I cannot stop,” Mihawk cut you off harshly, both he and you flinching at how his words bounced off the cobblestone walls of his wine cellar, “Forgive me. It… It hurts to stop. More than I can bear. I know the longer I attempt this touch, the more finite my experience will be.” He huffed out a small groan, gazing down at his skin as his tip weeped with more predominant precum without the proper release he needed for satisfaction, “I had handled a new soil, and this… this festering b-breeding ground attached itself to my nasal cavity, and swelled my veins the longer I worked at the grapes.” 

Nodding along, you continued to grant the warlord privacy as he tended to himself, finding yourself distracted by the sounds of him attempting to continue to rut into his hand. The slaps of him fisting his steely skin, the groans, huffs, and whimpers fleeing from his lips, the restraint you could tangibly feel rolling off of his body: you would be lying if you said it didn’t affect you. 

“I… I could never… I could never ask-... f-fuck-... But I… It…” Mihawk attempted to get the words out of him as they formed within his mind, “The reason, I-... I assume I am unable to… release… Is due to the fact the spores need to spread with the body of another. While… While I am able to hold a conversation regarding the hypothesis surrounding plant-life and the cycle of pollinated spores at a later date, I…” Mihawk’s voice trembled as his mask began to slip, “…Please know that it is taking every far reach of my restraint to not fuck you into the ground like some wild animal.”

The confession Mihawk produced sent a cruel throb through your body, your cunt beneath your undergarments clenching at his voice catching and rolling over his tongue like mercury on stone. Your lips flew momentarily agape and gulping at air as you removed your hands from their defensive position. Slowly moving your eyes to the floor in front of you, you kept your breathing steady while you hardened your resolve. 

“You and I have known one another for many years, Mihawk,” you dropped all formalities and removed your travelling coat from your shoulders and discarded it to the side, “And I had volunteered to attend this mission and travel alone to visit you because I consider the two of us to be friends, am I correct in that assumption?” 

“You are.”

“Then we can both agree that I care enough for my friend to not want to see him suffering like this,” you suggest, removing your shirt and peeling off your bottoms, rising to your feet in the process to step out of the material. Revealing your flesh to the warlord, you took a few steps towards his cowering form and slowly extended your hand out to obtain his unused hand. You refused to look down at the motion pistoning within his lap. “Two friends, one helping out another as I would should you had been bitten by a venomous creature and needing an extraction.”

“What… What are you suggesting?” Mihawk whispered, his honeyed gaze darting between your eyes and towards your hand, “That you would offer yourself to me if I would ask it of you?”

“What I am suggesting is,” you reached forward and collected his whiskered chin within the cup of your palm and thumbed over his bottom lip, “From one friend to another, you need not ask for something I’m willing to give you freely and without motive.” Your hand coaxed him forward as you stooped, your lips smiling gracefully at him as you recalled his earlier words, “So, Dracule Mihawk, show me what it looks like when you no longer restrain yourself and fuck me into the ground like some wild animal.”

You were unsure what occurred first in a flurry of heavy motion. In one moment, you were standing before the swordsman as he gazed up at you with all of the hope of a man starving and offered bread and water, the next, you were hoisted unceremoniously into the air and slammed against the workbench with the wood digging into your hips and chest pressed against the grainy surface. Before you had an opportunity to protest, you felt the swordsman’s leaking and weeping cock begin to puncture your entrance and slide within you as if you were made for one another. Mihawk groaned as he felt your walls shudder around his girth to accommodate him, all while your lips whimpered out at the hard intrusion.

“I… am usually a-... f-f-fuck-...” Mihawk growled as he removed his hips from pressing against your ass, only to circle forward once more, “...far more intimate lover than this. Careful. Plenty of-... of-... fuck!” He could barely string together a cohesive sentence as he finally gave into his desires and fucked you against the counter. His nose began to snort out exhales as a beast would sprint towards a victory in a timed race, all the while his cruel and eager thrusting never let up.

The stretch of your pussy molding to his shape never gave you discomfort, especially with how much his motions earlier made you drip with anticipation with his cock in his hand. You felt it was almost wrong how much your body craved him, but judging by how truly hard he was railing you against his workbench, you deduced the feeling was mutual. 

Regardless as to whether he had pollen in his system or not, Mihawk couldn’t shake the thought of how your ass rippled with his every in-thrust. He had watched over you, watched after you, and simply kept an eye on you at the World Government Headquarters. Friends, he called it, two friends enjoying one another’s company. He had wanted to take you on several outings, but knew your duties were truly to the Crocodile, and he would have to jump through several hoops and unravel an entanglement of red tape for the simple opportunity for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. 

Yet here you were, soaking while your walls continued to crush his steely desire with every motion of his hips meeting with yours. The squelching and clapping of your bodies meeting imprinted into the cellar walls, alongside the symphony of your smaller squeaks and his heavy groans. Mihawk found his hands moving down towards your lower back, and one circling around your front. Mihawk’s index finger quickly found your pert bud dancing at the top of your pussy, immediately beginning to assault your clit with a variety of manic motions. 

“Mihawk!” you cried as your body constricted and convulsed against the slate of wood, “Y-You’re gonna make me-!”

“-Fuck!” Mihawk cried out as his body began to flood yours with his viscous ecstasy. His hips staggered, but continued to hold that heavy rhythm while coils of his infinite release splashed against your cervix and outside of your pussy to dribble onto the floor. Your own body felt as if it was shot with lightning, your hair follicles rising as your legs shook in pure, unbridled bliss while he continued to ride out his high within your body. 

Mihawk flopped forward against your back, burying his face in the crook of your neck and catching his breath. Your lips flew agape while you attempted to find a foothold on your own breathing. You took a moment to recall if any lover prior had managed to make you scream that quickly and intensely in all your time sailing and working the Blues, and drawing up a blank. 

Before you had the chance to smile up at Mihawk by turning around to face him, you felt his cock again begin to twitch inside you, remaining as hard as it first was. Your eyes flew wide as he began to slowly roll his hips against your own. 

“It… Took the edge off, darling,” Mihawk confessed, thrusting his cock shallowly within your cunt and using your mixture of juices to reach a deeper place inside you, “But I believe we are… far from out of the thick of it, yet.” Your eyes continued to hold their position on the wall before you, uttering out a small squeak as you felt your body raised effortlessly into the air. With the swordsman’s forearms hooking beneath your thighs, your back was pressed against his bare chest and his breath was hot in your ears. 

“If you would be so kind as to continue to allow me permission to use you,” Mihawk purred smoothly, “As one friend would another in this extreme set of circumstances,” he raised you above his cock, before thrusting his hips and tugging you down into him in one heavy motion, “I promise it will be as fulfilling to you as it is satisfactory to me.” You felt yourself drop as nimble as a ragdoll in the hands of a rough player, your body rising and falling in several heavy and hard thrusts downwards while Mihawk rut his cock up into you.

“M-Mihawk!” you cried out, your mind going blank while pleasure coasted through your sensitive body. Your nipples peaked in the cool cellar air while Mihawk’s warm chest heated up your body and fuelled your desire. 

“Should you ask me to stop, I will stop,” Mihawk whispered, trying his best to hold off on another wave of his own euphoria to spill itself within you, “All you need to do is tell me.” 

“D-Don’t you dare stop!” you struggled to spurt out. Feeling your limp body used as a channel of his lust, you had your own edge begin to rise up in the pit of your belly. Mihawk was successfully fucking you directly from the tail end of one release into the next with the skill of the worlds greatest master of bodily arts. You felt the pit of your stomach begin to contract and expand with the flutter of a butterfly’s wing while your toes curled in euphoria. 

Mihawk huffed out with every grip of your pussy dragging over his shaft, his own release not far off. The pollen within his every nerve ending continued to swell his need. But only now, with your body joined with his, did he ever find a relief in his release. He marvelled at how beautiful you were, how willing you were to take him like this, and how beautiful you were when you cried out for him. Even without the pollen, he would want to make you cry out the way your whimpers and moans joined his own while growing higher in intensity. 

“Mihawk, I’m gonna cum again! Please don’t stop!” you desperately called out for him, immediately causing his eyes to widen and own oblivion beginning to shatter. Your body began milking him while desperately releasing a splash of your own release onto the floorboards beneath you. Your juices flooded from your core as Mihawk fucked his own inside you with every heavy thrust forward. 

He ground your cunt against his cock, spearing you with it as he fucked you through another heavy rapture this side of the heavens. Your pussy contracted and convulsed around him, and he anchored you through those wiggles as he unravelled thick and heavy ropes of his own release inside you. He called your name as if it was the most beautiful song to ever grace the seas, all while his lips found the nape of your neck and pressed a hard and heavy kiss into your sweat-glistening skin. 

The swell of the pollen within his system had finally begun to teeter off. No longer feeling bound by the feral urge to home his body within your own with the added emphasis of an aphrodisiac, he felt his senses return to him and his compassion for you, as his friend, take over his next actions. 

Mihawk lowered you onto the floor, carefully placing you onto your back within the expanding sheet of his discarded greatcloak. You panted to catch your breath, almost crying out with how much bliss he had stolen and hidden into your body. The swordsman lowered himself down between your legs and braced himself above your smaller form. Slowly caressing your cheek, he found his mind ticking as to what brought you to his shores in the first place, only to rescind that thought at the sight of your blissed-out expression.

“Looks like you had a question on those lips, swordsman,” you uttered softly and carefully while collecting yourself. Your entire body felt as if it was spent and used to its capacity, hoping the systemic aphrodisiac - or something of the like according to the man above you - had run it’s course. “Do I need to read your mind, or are you going to ask me what you- ah!” 

Mihawk slipped his cock back inside you, stealing your words from your lips as you continued to gaze up at him through half-hooded lashes. The swordsman gave you a narrowed look, only before softening his motions and slowly rolling his hips forward against yours. Of the two other times Mihawk had released inside you, he felt the swell of the pollen truly being at the forefront of his desires. This time, this time, he elected to chase his untethered desire, his adoration for you, of his own volition. 

“Well, darling?” Mihawk asked you with a warmth to his tone, teasing out its edges, “Are you going to tell me the answer to the question you’re claiming to see within my mind’s eye?” His cock slowly raked against your walls, shallowly thrusting inside you while you melted against the fabric of his jacket. 

“S-Sir Crocodile sent me here, as I said before, Mihawk,” you chuckled, fluttering your eyes shut and leaning into his touch, “Baring a ledger drafted by himself and another acquaintance you had made yourself known to. He is forming an alliance, and he-... we…” you added, fluttering open your eyes and peering up at him, “...Were hoping you would be so kind as to join us in our endeavors.” 

“And what would it entail, friend?” Mihawk blinked his thick, heavy eyelashes down at you, taking you in and checking over your words for any mistruth found within your candor. Finding none, he granted you a soft and intimate smile reserved for only those he truly enjoyed the company of. You had seen this smile once directed towards you at the sandy shores and harbour of the World Government headquarters, but only noticed now just how truly beautiful Dracule Mihawk was at this proximity.

“Doing what you once did so very well, marine hunter,” you match his smile, drawing your hands over his chest and beneath his arms, coaxing him closer to you within your warm embrace. He hovered his lips over yours, waiting for you to conclude your sentence before he ever dreamed about placing his kiss upon your lips. 

“Hunting Marines.”

“Hunting Marines,” he repeated your words back at you, continuing to draw out his and your delayed euphoria while holding you a breath away, “For what purpose, darling? Simple sport?” He held the casual conversation while his cock continued to disappear inside you at an easy rhythm. Softer than he had been earlier, almost apologetic in his actions while clawing out your bliss as simple as pulling weeds from a prized garden. 

“Refuting the rise in bounties for pirates,” your voice shook as pleasure crawled from your toes, up your legs and towards the pit of your belly, “Restore-... fuck-... Restoring balance to the world, one marine head at a time.” To find a proper perch against the swordsman, your feet interlocked behind his back and dug your heels against his ass. Your hands moved from his back to collect his neck within your hooped grasp. His lips were so close to yours, you could almost taste his kiss against your skin. 

“And your boss is to be that benefactor, I presume?” he whispered against your lips, moving his hands to circle your waist and draw a heftier pace against your body beneath his, “Considering he is inviting me to-... to-... shit.” Mihawk found himself lost in the feeling of your body, finally giving into this feeling and throwing aside the mask of professionalism. His eyes fluttered shut while you gripped onto his body in every sense of the word: arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and pussy around his cock while glistening in the prior rounds you both expelled. 

“Sir Crocodile will be funding the…” You found equal difficulty in locating your words the longer he hit that one spot inside you. Although this pace was not as fast as the ones prior, Mihawk continued to slowly draw out that final snap of a softer, more intimate wave of ecstasy within your soul. “Seas, Mihawk. Right there, please!” You grasped him more firmly, encouraging him to continue to hold that motion within your core while rolling his hips against your body, “Please, please, please.” 

“I can feel you, darling. You just hold on and let me do as I promised,” Mihawk reassured you, nuzzling his nose against yours and harboring his breath to rise and fall with your own, “Fucking you into the ground, sans the wild animal this time. You deserve better than a beast for what you h-have endured.” With a few curt groans cutting off before they reached their full symphony, Mihawk finally collected your lips with his just as he felt you clench down hard on his cock. 

A strangled cry fled your lips while you felt the bristles of Mihawk’s chin softly scrape against your skin. Your body rushed with the flood of softness, this climax lesser in intensity, yet more emotional and intimate as the others. The rush of his own release sowed itself within your walls and reaped out your euphoric harvest as he would plant and uproot his prized vintage. Every wave of his cum spurting out against your walls and splashing back outside of your pussy was matched with an even conjunction of scorching and rich kisses. 

Mihawk’s lips felt like home after a lifetime of travels, akin to the first apple produced by an ancient orchard maintained by a family of farmers. He tasted like a memory repressed and forgotten, only to resurface to bring comfort at the bite of winter’s chill. Mihawk’s kiss was both hot and as cold as iron falling in snow, yet the warmth is what remained behind. 

The both of you rode through this lesser wave, stilling in hips only, as your lips continued to bind together in an intensity almost as if you had not gorged yourself on the lust of your bodies moments prior. Mihawk groaned against your lips, slowly expelling his length from your entrance, followed by a sticky residue of his release stuck to your core and his tip. He hummed, sucking in a gasp that fled from your lips while rolling you both onto your sides, all while never breaking the sultry waves of his kiss lingering with your own. 

As you both finally pulled away from the kiss, your first glance was to peer at Mihawk’s bruised lips as he panted heavily out with his eyes fluttering closed. You drew your hand to his cheek, feeling the flush skin with your palm and smiling as softly as you could manage at him. 

“Do you feel as if it has finally come to pass?” you asked him with an uncertainty in your tone, “Or are you simply taking a rest before a fresh wave of whatever you contracted rises again?” With a soft smile, Mihawk tilted his head into your palm and pressed a kiss into your flesh. Each motion was soft, slow, but not as subtle as the stoic swordsman you had come to know. His expressions were intimate, and this felt breaching far more than the edge of simple friendship between you. 

“That last time was all me, darling,” Mihawk confessed into your palm before nudging it away with his whiskered chin, “And any time to come thereafter will also be simply that. All me.” He successfully nudged your hand down to place against his shoulder and maneuvered himself closer to you, “But, while we have a few moments to recover before I feel we are ready enough to brave another round, and the several to follow thereafter,” he brushed his nose against your own, a motion that was sweet enough to cause your heart to jump up into your throat and hold your body hostage to his words, “What are you, the reptilian benefactor, and this other unnamed associate calling yourselves, should I care to join you?” 

Mihawk pressed a softer, sweeter, and more delicate kiss against your lips, reassuring you that he had every intention of joining you with his actions rather than utilizing his words. You smiled against his lips before pulling away from the kiss and gracing him with your answer. 

“We are open to suggestions,” you admitted coyly before scrunching up your nose and smirking up at him, “But we have been using ‘The Cross Guild’.” 

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