#it feels like if I stop caring enough. and that's not hard. everything will just stop | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mariasont · 1 day ago

Note

mariaaa!! i have another idea!! > 3 <

ok, so…

sleepy, needy, & clingy bimbo!reader with hotch

either before they together or when they first get together <3

Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch. wc: 2.3k

You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.

You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.

Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.

And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?

You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.

But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.

So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.

Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.

Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.

Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)

The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.

You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.

But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.

You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.

You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.

Straight home to you.

The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.

"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.

Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."

Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.

"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"

You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.

"They're comfy."

He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.

"You're hot."

You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.

Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.

"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."

"You're boring."

You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"

"Okay."

Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.

"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."

"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"

"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.

You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.

"Wait, germs!"

Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."

You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.

But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.

And suddenly nothing is funny.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.

You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.

"I don't want you to get sick."

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."

Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.

You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.

"There. Now drink."

"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.

But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.

Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.

You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.

Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"

"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."

He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."

Alright, theatre kid.

You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.

You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.

You have history with those sweats.

"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."

Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.

"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."

You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.

Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.

"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"

"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."

Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.

Like you said—theatre kid.

"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."

You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.

Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.

For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.

And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."

You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.

"I really missed you today."

Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.

He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.

You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—

Too late.

His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.

You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."

A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.

Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.

"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.

He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.

"You're killing me here."

You sniffle. Again.

"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."

Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.

"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."

"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."

"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."

He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"

You grin against his shirt, weakly.

"A very hands on wellness check."

Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.

You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.

This moment, obviously.

The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.

The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.

The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.

You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner hurt/comfort

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theballadofharkness · 3 days ago

Text

Whisky and Wine: Part 3

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Claire Debella X fem!reader

Summary: The last thing you expected when you came home from your publishers to your older partner Claire’s home was an invitation to her friend’s, Billionaire Miles Bron, private luxury yacht for the weekend. The problem? Claire had been very careful to keep her fellow disrupters away from you, terrified they would ruin yet another aspect of her life. But nobody says no to Miles, so you find yourself surrounded by Claire’s ‘inner circle’.

Word Count: 6.6K

A/N: Enjoy my loves 💜🪻no smut warning for this chapter but next part will include smut so as always MDNI xo

You don’t want to cry here. Not in front of Whisky. Not in front of all of them.

It’s not just the conversation- it’s everything. The secrecy, the loneliness of being someone’s hidden lover, the constant reminder that no matter how much Claire loves you, there’s always a wall between you, a door she keeps closed just in case. You swallow hard and clear your throat, forcing a small smile.

"Hey, uh... I think I’m gonna head back," you say, keeping your voice light, as if the idea has just suddenly popped into your head. "Probably take a nap before this huge dinner thing."

Whisky watches you closely, eyes scanning your face like she can see right through you. She tilts her head slightly, then nods. "Yeah, okay," she says. "I’ll come with you."

You exhale, relieved to have her with you, and nod in thanks. Your fingers grasp your glass once more to drain the rest of your drink before setting it down, the condensation leaving a faint mark on your fingertips. The bar feels suddenly too loud, the laughter from the others too sharp, the clinking of glasses grating against your ears. You push yourself off the barstool, but your body feels heavy, as if the weight of everything you’ve been carrying has settled into your bones. You brush your hands over your dress as if smoothing out wrinkles, but really, you’re just trying to keep yourself busy- to steady yourself.

You make your way across the bar to where Claire is sitting with Lionel and Birdie, deep in conversation. She looks more relaxed than before, her shoulders less tense, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her wine glass. It’s rare to see her like this, just being, without the weight of the world pressing down on her. For a second, you hesitate. You don’t want to pull her away from this moment- don’t want to be the reason the tension creeps back into her body. But the ache in your chest is too much to ignore, and right now, you just need to go.

She sees you before you can speak, her sharp eyes locking onto you immediately. You watch the ease in her expression flicker, something shifting as she takes you in. Her fingers still against the glass, her full attention now on you.

"Hey," she says, voice softer than before. "You okay?"

You nod quickly, smiling just enough to reassure her, though you know it’s not convincing.

"Yeah. Just tired," you lie. "I think I’m gonna head back to the yacht, maybe take a nap before dinner."

Claire’s brows pull together slightly, and before you can say anything else, she’s already moving, already starting to stand.

"No," you say quickly, reaching out to touch her arm, stopping her before she can fully rise. "It’s okay. You stay. I’ll take our stuff back, and I’ll just be sleeping anyway. You stay, have fun."

She doesn’t sit back down immediately. Her gaze searches yours, scanning your face like she’s trying to read between the lines, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

"Baby…"

"I’m fine," you insist, voice just a little too firm, too quick. You know she doesn’t believe you. You know she’s holding herself back from arguing, from pushing.

Her fingers brush against your wrist, a brief, lingering touch, before she finally nods. "Okay," she murmurs, but her voice is careful, measured. "I’ll see you soon."

You squeeze her hand gently before stepping away, making your way toward the docks with Whisky at your side. You can feel Claire’s eyes on you the entire time, tracking every movement, like she’s trying to piece together exactly what just happened.

And as much as you want to believe that when you wake up from your nap, everything will feel lighter, you already know this isn’t something sleep can fix.

The yacht looms ahead, sleek and glistening under the afternoon sun, the gentle sway of the water making the walkway shift slightly beneath your feet. You’re exhausted (emotionally more than physically) and all you want is to crawl into bed, close your eyes, and escape the heavy feeling pressing against your ribs.

But as you and Whisky step onto the deck, you’re immediately met with the sight of Miles coming down to greet you.

"Well, well, well, look who’s back early," he says, arms spread wide in mock surprise, his signature grin firmly in place. His sunglasses are perched atop his nose, but you know even without seeing his eyes that he’s already assessing, calculating.

Whisky sighs but smirks, tilting her head as she places a hand on her hip. "And look who’s working so hard."

Miles chuckles, placing a hand over his chest like she’s just flattered him. "Hey, running an empire isn’t all it’s cracked up to be sometimes."

You blink, looking between them as the air between them shifts almost immediately. There’s an ease there, a practiced rhythm to their back-and-forth, and Whisky’s body language changes too- leaning in slightly, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Poor baby," she teases, voice lilting as she takes a step closer. "All alone on this big yacht, handling all the responsibilities."

"It’s a lot," Miles says, exhaling dramatically. "But you know me, I make it look easy."

You glance between them, pressing your lips together.

"Uh, okay, well..." You shift the shopping bags in your hands and force a small smile. "I’m gonna go take that nap. I’ll leave you guys to... this."

Miles barely acknowledges you, already too absorbed in Whisky, who lets out a soft, tinkling laugh at something he murmurs under his breath. You shake your head slightly, exhaling as you turn toward the entrance, already feeling the headache forming behind your eyes.

You don’t even care what they’re doing. Right now, you just need to get away, to let yourself be alone for a little while, before you have to put on a face again for tonight’s dinner.

You wake up slowly, feeling the weight of her before you fully process anything else, Claire’s body pressing against yours, warm and soft, her scent surrounding you, something expensive and distinctly her. A kiss pressed just below your ear, down the column of your throat, another against your collarbone, then one at the center of your chest and then up again, nuzzling against the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

"Mmm…" You stir, barely awake, shifting under her as you blink against the dim golden light of the cabin.

"Baby," Claire murmurs against your skin, her voice low, affectionate, and just the slightest bit loose from alcohol. "My pretty, sleepy baby."

She’s kissing you again, slow and indulgent, like she’s savoring you, like she has all the time in the world. Her hands tangle in your hair, nails scratching gently against your scalp as she coaxes you fully awake. Her knee is between your thighs, pressing just enough to make you shiver, and there’s something almost worshipful in the way she’s touching you, like she needs to feel you everywhere.

"Claire," you murmur, voice thick with sleep, blinking up at her.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her expression soft and fond, her eyes slightly hazy from whatever she drank at the bar. "You okay?" she whispers, brushing your hair back with careful fingers. "You left, mommy missed you."

You sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she kisses the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then your forehead.

"I was just tired," you say, but even you can hear how weak that excuse is.

Claire hums, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t push, not yet. Instead, she kisses you again, deep and slow, her fingers threading through your hair, grounding you as she sighs into your mouth. "Missed you," she breathes. "Missed my baby."

You blink against the dim golden light filtering in from the yacht’s cabin, trying to wake up properly, but she isn’t making it easy. She’s everywhere- her body against yours, her lips at your throat, her knee pressed between your thighs.

"Claire," you manage, your voice thick with sleep and need, your hands finding her waist like you need something to hold onto.

She hums again, nosing along your jaw before pressing a kiss just beneath it. “Hi, baby."

"You’re drunk," you say, blinking up at her, and she just smiles against your skin.

"A little," she admits, and her fingers comb through your hair again, gentle and affectionate. "But I’m here now. Missed you."

You sigh, and she takes the opportunity to kiss your lips, her tongue invading your mouth making you whimper into her. You can feel her warmth, the slight weight of her on top of you, the way she’s pressing into you like she can’t get close enough. She dips down and kisses you again, deep and slow, like she’s trying to make you feel her in the places you’re pulling away.

"You sure you’re ok?" she murmurs against your lips, and her knee shifts between your thighs just enough to make you inhale sharply, your fingers digging into her waist.

You nod, but you know she doesn’t believe you. Not entirely.

Claire stays like that for a moment, her forehead resting against yours, breathing you in, her fingers still threading through your hair. Her lips brush against yours once, twice, not quite a kiss but something close to it.

"I love you," she whispers.

You swallow hard, eyes fluttering closed for a second, and God, you want to be mad still, to hold onto it, but she’s touching you like this, looking at you like you hung the damn moon, and it’s so hard.

"You promise?," you could help but ask as you looked up at her, unable to dispel the pangs of doubt festering away in your chest.

Claire freezes.

You feel her whole body tense above you, shifting to pull you up into her lap, the warmth of her hands going still where they rest against your back. The haze of affection in her gaze flickers, replaced by something sharper- concern, confusion.

"Baby," she says, voice careful, “I do. You know I do."

But your throat is tight, your mind looping back to what Whisky had said, the way the words had struck something deep inside you, something raw.

"Then why won’t you let anyone know?" Your voice wavers, cracking just slightly, and you hate it, hate the way you sound small, vulnerable.

Claire's frown deepens, and now she’s shifting, her hands pressing against your hips as she adjusts her position, as if preparing for a conversation she doesn’t want to have. The mood between you shifts instantly, the heat that had been building between you dissolving into something colder, heavier.

"Baby," she says, firmer now, "we’ve talked about this."

You shake your head, pulling back slightly, arms crossing over your chest as a shield, trying to create space between you even as Claire keeps her grip steady, like she won’t let you run.

"That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt."

Her jaw tightens. "That doesn’t mean I don’t love you."

"Whisky said you’d never come out," you blurt, and you see the way Claire’s entire expression shutters, her spine going ramrod straight, her politician mask slipping into place before she catches herself.

"Whisky said that?" Her voice is sharp now, laced with irritation, but you barely register it through the fog of emotions closing in on you.

"Yes," you say quietly, still unable to look at her.

Claire shakes her head, scoffing. "That’s not her business to comment on."

"She wasn’t wrong, though," you murmur.

Claire exhales sharply, her frustration palpable. "Baby, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. She doesn't know us."

"She knows enough."

Claire’s fingers twitch against your skin. She’s trying to keep herself calm, but you know her too well. She’s pissed. Not at you but at Whisky, for putting doubt in your head, for saying something Claire clearly thinks she had no right to say.

"And what?" Claire huffs. "Whisky is suddenly the voice of wisdom now? She’s clearly fucking Miles behind Duke’s back, but she gets to lecture you about our relationship?"

"She just said what I’ve already been thinking," you whisper, voice unsteady. "She just confirmed what I already knew deep down."

Claire’s jaw clenches. "That’s not fair."

You finally lift your gaze to meet hers, your chest tightening at the look in her eyes. Desperation. Frustration. Worry.

"Isn’t it?" you whisper. "Tell me right now, Claire. Will you ever come out?"

She doesn’t answer right away.

And that hesitation is enough. Your heart cracks wide open, something inside you fracturing.

Claire sees it. Feels it.

"Baby-" she starts, but you shake your head, turning away, trying to pull out of her lap.

She doesn’t let you.

"No," she says, voice almost pleading, her arms tightening around you. "No, c’mon, don’t do that. Don’t pull away from me."

"Claire…”

"I love you," she cuts in, voice fierce. "You know that."

You let out a shaky breath, trying to swallow back your emotions. "But you’re ashamed of me."

Claire’s face crumbles, her whole body going still beneath you.

"No," she whispers. "God, baby, no-"

She moves before you can react, hands gripping your jaw as she surges forward, kissing you hard, desperate, like she’s trying to physically force the words out of your head, like if she kisses you deep enough, you’ll feel the truth she can’t bring herself to say out loud.

"C’mon, baby," she mutters against your lips, fingers tangling in your hair, trying to pull you closer. "Let me touch you, let me show you how much I love you-”

You shake your head, turning away, tears slipping down your cheeks.

Claire freezes, her breath coming in short, unsteady pants. She’s never been able to handle seeing you cry.

“Oh, baby," she whispers, voice breaking. "No, no, please-"

Her hands go soft, no longer gripping, no longer trying to convince- just holding you. She wraps you up in her arms, cradling you close against her chest, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair, her lips trembling against your skin.

"I’m sorry," she murmurs, over and over, rocking you slightly. "I love you. I swear I do. I will come out, I will- just… just not yet."

You close your eyes, curling into her warmth, because it’s the only comfort you can take right now. But deep down, you don’t believe her. Not really.

The soft hum of the yacht’s speakers crackled to life, and then Miles' ever-smug voice filled the room.

"Alright, my beautiful people, I hope you're all ready for a night of extravagance. Dinner will be served soon, so slip into your finest and meet me on deck for a night you'll never forget."

You sighed, still curled in Claire’s arms, your body draped over hers like you belonged there. In a way, you did. But after the conversation you'd just had, after the way she'd hesitated, something inside you still ached. Claire had tried to soothe you. She’d cradled you, rocked you a little, whispered soft apologies into your hair. But the words didn't quite reach where they needed to. Not yet.

You shifted, pushing up from the bed, and Claire’s hands instinctively followed you, her fingers stroking the bare skin of your back, almost like she was trying to tether you to her.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t feel up to it,” she murmured, voice still husky from the remnants of sleep and wine.

You shook your head. “No, I’ll go. It’s a big thing, and I don’t want to give your friends any reason to dislike me even more than they already do.”

Claire scoffed, rubbing a slow hand over her face. “Only Birdie dislikes you, but she dislikes anyone who’s younger and prettier than her.”

You huffed a small laugh, but it was quiet. You stood up fully, stretching, before you turned toward the wardrobe where your shopping bags sat neatly lined up from earlier. The sight of them made your stomach twist a little- earlier today had felt so nice, so easy.

Claire was watching you, you could feel it. Her gaze was heavy, like she was studying you too closely. You knew she was still thinking about your fight, still worried.

“I should start getting ready,” you said softly, pushing past the lingering tension.

She nodded, but she didn’t move. She just kept looking at you, thumb pressing thoughtfully into her bottom lip. You hesitated, and then turned back to her, tilting your head.

“…Would you like me to do your hair? And your makeup?”

Claire blinked, slightly taken aback, before she let out a small chuckle. “You want to do my makeup?”

You gave a soft shrug. “You always have someone do it for you when you need to wear it for events. I thought… if you wanted, I could do it instead.”

Her expression shifted, something softer replacing the surprise. She sat up slowly, resting her arms over her bent knees. “Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded, stepping closer. She was watching you so intently, her head tilted just slightly, those dark eyes of hers running over your face like she was searching for something.

Then, slowly, she reached out, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you into her lap. You let out a little noise of surprise as you settled against her, your bare legs straddling her thighs, hands resting on her shoulders as she held you close.

Claire exhaled like she was breathing you in, her lips grazing the dip of your collarbone. “Is my baby girl gonna make me pretty?”

You felt your heart squeeze at the nickname, at the warmth in her voice, the way she still needed you close even after everything.

You shook your head slightly, brushing your fingers through her hair, pushing back some of the loose strands. “You’re already pretty, Mommy. I love you.”

Her breath hitched just a little at that, like she wasn’t expecting you to say it so easily after earlier. But she tightened her arms around you, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

For a moment, you just stayed there, resting against each other, her lips tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin, her hands smoothing up and down your spine like she was trying to remind you, over and over, that she was here. That she loved you. That she didn’t want you to slip away from her.

Eventually, you sighed, shifting back just enough to cup her face in your hands. “Gotta grab my makeup bag..”

Claire smirked, squeezing your waist before finally letting you go to grab . “Alright, baby. I’m all yours.”

Claire positioned herself at the edge of the bed, her legs spread slightly, her hands resting warm and firm on your hips as you straddled her.

The last time you had been in this position, it had been so different.

She had been gripping your waist, guiding you, murmuring praises in your ear as you rode her strap, voice wrecked and needy, your body trembling from the pleasure she was coaxing out of you.

That night, she had kissed your tear-streaked face, whispering about what a good girl you were for her, how beautiful you looked when you fell apart for her, how she had you- how she’d always have you.

Now, though, you weren’t crying from pleasure. Now, there was something fragile about you.

Something in the way you were touching her face, in the way your fingers skimmed over her cheekbones with a kind of reverence that made her throat tighten. Claire stayed still, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you moved with gentle precision, your fingertips smoothing foundation over her skin, brushing pigment onto her lips.

It was so quiet. So intimate.

You weren’t speaking, but you didn’t need to. Your fingers moved with care, almost like you were memorizing her, and Claire felt the weight of it settle in her chest. Your expression was soft. Loving. But there was something else there, too. Something that made Claire’s grip on your hips tighten. She could see it- the way your lips pressed together when you thought she wasn’t looking, the slight crease in your brow as you focused too hard on a simple brushstroke.

You were still thinking about what Whisky had said. Still hurting. Claire exhaled shakily, closing her eyes as your fingers traced over her eyelids, pressing shadow into the creases.

The way you were touching her felt like worship. Like devotion. Something inside her cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

You gasped softly. “Claire?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and your face was immediately full of concern, your hands cupping her cheeks, thumbs swiping at the wetness there.

“Claire what’s wrong?”

Claire let out a small, shaky breath. God, she loved you. And she was so, so afraid.

Her fingers flexed against your waist. “Shit, baby…” Her voice wavered, raw and thick with emotion. “I can’t lose you. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Your lips parted, eyes softening as you shifted closer, pressing your forehead against hers. “I’m not going anywhere, Claire.”

She closed her eyes, breathing you in, hands gripping your waist tighter. “But you were so upset earlier,” she whispered. “I could feel you pulling away from me, and I- I can’t let you do that.”

You exhaled against her lips, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, lingering there.

Claire felt herself unraveling.

“I love you,” you murmured, fingers threading into her hair.

She shuddered.

Then, after a long moment, she whispered, “What about after I get Senate?”

Your brows furrowed. You leaned back slightly, searching her face. “What?”

Claire swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold your gaze.

“When I get Senate,” she said firmly, because she refused to believe she wouldn’t. “After the campaigning is over, after I win… what if I come out then?”

Your entire body tensed. Your breath caught, fingers going slack against her skin. For a moment, you just stared at her, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

Then, in a small, breathless voice, you said, “Oh my god. Really?”

Claire exhaled shakily, nodding once. “Yeah, baby. I swear.”

A stunned, breathless laugh left you. “You- You’d really do that?”

Claire cupped your face, her thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, her own eyes wet and searching. “Yes. For you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time they weren’t from sadness. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, wrapping your arms around her tightly, burying your face in her neck.

Claire exhaled, relief hitting her in waves as she held you just as fiercely.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel like an impossible dream.

It felt like a promise.

You were giggling like a school girl as Claire’s hands wandered over you, hands roughly grabbing the flesh of your breasts before her fingers skimmed along your waist, smoothing over your hips as she guided you down the hall toward the dining area.

“Claire,” you whispered, trying to suppress a grin. “People are gonna see.”

She hummed, entirely unbothered, her fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as she leaned in close. “Let them.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered at her attention. She hadn’t been able to keep her hands off you since you finished getting ready. Every time she looked at you in that deep red dress, it was like she was seeing you for the first time. And you didn’t mind at all. Her presence was grounding. Especially after everything earlier. And now, as you stepped into the open space where the rest of the group had gathered, you were grateful for her warmth.

Because suddenly, you had the undivided attention of more people than just your girlfriend. Birdie, standing near the bar in a dramatic, over-the-top gown, was staring at you with something close to jealousy. Miles, standing nearby, had his eyes locked onto you, expression unreadable, but the appreciation was clear.

Claire noticed immediately.

Her grip on you tightened, fingers spreading possessively across your lower back, pulling you even closer. You felt a small rush of satisfaction at that.

Then, Birdie gasped dramatically and turned to Claire, eyes wide. “Claire!!!” she practically shrieked. “You look amazing!!”

Lionel, who had been sipping his drink nearby, turned toward Claire as well, his expression warm. “You clean up well governor,” he said with an approving nod.

Claire, clearly not used to getting this kind of attention from her friends, cleared her throat, shifting slightly. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” she said, feigning nonchalance, but you could see the slight pink on her cheeks.

You grinned, pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to her cheek. She turned her head slightly toward you, her lips brushing your temple. Birdie made a noise like she was about to say something, but before she could, Miles clapped his hands together to Center the attention back to himself.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, beaming as he spread his arms wide. “Before we dive into the festivities, I just wanna say something.”

Claire exhaled softly beside you, already bracing herself.

“You know,” Miles continued, placing a hand on his chest, “at my core, I’m just an old hippie. I believe in energy, in connection, in the kind of bonds that transcend the material world. And looking around at all of you- my closest friends, my inner circle- I feel it. This,” he gestured vaguely around the room, “is healing for the soul.”

Lionel took a sip of his drink, clearly biting his tongue. Birdie, already a few drinks in, clapped enthusiastically. Whisky gave a dazzling smile, nodding like she agreed with whatever he was saying. Duke, arms crossed, grunted approvingly.

Miles grinned. “So, before we feast, let’s drink, let’s dance, let’s celebrate being here together.”

He gestured toward the waitstaff, and suddenly, glasses of expensive champagne were being passed around.

Soft music began to play, and the mood shifted instantly- lighter, freer Birdie wasted no time grabbing Lionel hands and dragging him toward the center of the space, already swaying to the music. Duke took a drink and immediately pulled Whisky closer, his hands on her waist as they moved toward the impromptu dance floor.

Peg, shaking her head with a small smile, took another sip of her drink.

And Claire? Claire stayed close, her hand never leaving your waist.

You turned to her, tilting your head. “You wanna dance?”

She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. “Not yet.”

You smiled. “Wanna drink, then?”

She leaned in, her lips brushing just below your ear. “I’d rather just watch you for a minute.”

Warmth flooded your chest. You knew she meant it. Claire wasn’t here to impress anyone. She wasn’t here for the pretense, or the social game, or the spectacle of it all. She was here for you. And no matter what else the night held, that was enough.

The opening notes of a soft, dreamy melody rolled through the air like warm honey. You turned to Claire, her champagne glass still in her hand, her sharp eyes scanning the room in quiet observation. But when you reached for her, fingers gently sliding over hers to take the glass from her grasp, her attention snapped to you.

“Dance with me,” you murmured, setting her drink aside.

Claire exhaled a soft laugh. “Baby…”

“Please?” you pressed, tilting your head, voice sweet and persuasive.

Claire sighed, shaking her head like she was already caving, already hopeless to resist you. “Alright.”

You grinned and pulled her toward the dance floor, the slow, hypnotic beat filling the space between you. Claire had expected something easy, something playful. But as soon as your bodies connected, she realized you had something else in mind. You pressed close, rolling your hips against hers in slow, teasing movements, your arms sliding up around her neck. The way you moved- it wasn’t just dancing. It was deliberate. It was a seduction.

Claire swallowed hard, hands instinctively finding your waist as you swayed together. You could feel her breathing shift, hear the subtle hitch in her breath as you twisted against her, the warmth of her hands tightening around you.

She was in awe of you.

Of the way you moved, the way you looked at her like she was the only person in the room, the way your body molded so effortlessly to hers. She’d always known you were beautiful. But watching you like this, lost in the music, your body moving in a way that made her mouth go dry, her heart slam against her ribs- fuck. You turned in her arms, your back pressing against her front, rolling against her as your head tilted back onto her shoulder.

Claire groaned under her breath, gripping your waist tighter. “You’re gonna kill me,” she muttered, voice rough.

You smiled, turning back to face her, your hands sliding down her arms as you leaned in, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Then, just as the song swelled, you kissed her. Slow, deep, sensual.

She melted into you instantly, her hands tightening around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as her lips moved against yours, tasting the remnants of champagne and something sweeter, something you. The room, the music, the people- they all faded into nothing. It was just you and her, lost in the moment, wrapped up in each other.

As soon as Claire pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed from your kiss, Lionel approached with a thinly veiled urgency. His eyes flickered between you and Claire before settling on her.

"Claire," he said, voice tight, "can I talk to you for a second? Privately."

You sighed. Of course.

Claire tensed, immediately picking up on the energy. She hesitated, squeezing your waist before pulling back. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

You watched as Lionel whisked her away, his hand hovering just slightly behind her back, guiding her toward the edge of the deck out of Miles Bron’s eye line.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head, and reached for another drink from a passing server.

"Okay, damn I see you," Whisky's voice came from beside you as she sidled up, drink in hand.

You glanced at her. "Hm?"

She nodded toward where Claire had disappeared. "She was all over you out there. Didn’t think Claire had it in her."

You smirked slightly, taking a sip. "You should see her behind closed doors."

Whisky rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, I bet." She took a sip of her drink, then looked at you a little more closely. "You feeling better?"

You hesitated, swirling the liquid in your glass before answering. "Alcohol helps," you admitted.

She hummed in understanding. Then, maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was the fact that you’d just been forced back into loneliness while Claire ran off with Lionel, or maybe it was just that the question had been burning in your brain ever since earlier…

But before you could stop yourself, you turned to Whisky and asked, "Are you fucking Miles?"

Whisky nearly choked on her drink. "Jesus, what?"

You arched a brow, staring her down, emboldened by alcohol. "Well? Are you?"

Whisky gaped at you for a second before she laughed, shaking her head. "Wow, you really don’t hold back, huh?"

You just waited, eyes locked onto her expectantly.

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip before sighing dramatically. "Look, it’s not what you think."

"So that’s a yes."

"It’s a complicated yes."

You blinked at her, trying to wrap your head around what she was saying. "Complicated? What does that even mean?"

Whisky sighed, looking away for a moment as she swirled the liquid in her glass. "It just is, okay?"

You stared out at the ocean “poor Duke” you muttered, mainly to yourself.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, clearly debating whether to tell you more. Eventually, she gave in, shaking her head. "Look- not ‘poor Duke.’"

That made you frown. "Not poor Duke? Whisky, you’re cheating on him."

She huffed a humorless laugh and gave you a knowing look. "It was Duke’s idea."

Your eyes widened. "Wait… what?"

She sighed, taking a long sip of her drink before setting it down with a clink. "Twitch banned him for life."

You nodded. "Yeah, I heard about that."

"And Miles wouldn’t help."

"Okay…"

"So Duke suggested that maybe Miles would be more inclined to help if it came from me." She gave you a pointed look, letting the words settle. "And if he got something in return."

You reeled back slightly, gripping your glass a little tighter. "Are you serious?"

"It’s not so bad," she said with a small shrug. "Miles is using his money to buy shares in YouTube, to promote Duke’s streams. Revenue is going up. Duke’s putting me on his channel more. I’m building my brand."

You stared at her, heart sinking. "So… Duke pushed you to do this?"

She frowned. "I chose to do this," she corrected. "Because unlike Duke, I actually think long-term. I’m making a name for myself. Getting more sponsorships, more followers. Miles can be a creep sometimes, sure, but he’s useful."

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. "Jesus, Whisky."

She tilted her head, studying you. "What? It’s no different than what Claire’s doing to you."

Your breath hitched. "Excuse me?"

Whisky just raised an eyebrow. "I mean, let’s be real- Claire’s keeping you a secret because it benefits her. And you’re going along with it because you love her. Tell me how that’s different."

You turned to Whisky sharply, your head spinning- not just from the alcohol but from the weight of what she was saying. "It’s different," you shot back, your voice tight. "Claire’s going to come out when she gets Senate. She promised."

Whisky snorted, shaking her head. "You believe that?" she asked, amusement flickering across her face. "Please. After Senate, it’ll be the next political goal, then the next. She’s never going to stop."

Your stomach twisted. "No, it won’t," you said firmly, gripping your glass a little too tight. "You don’t know her. You don’t know us.”

Whisky gave you a pitying look, like she was watching a car crash in slow motion. "Please." She rolled her eyes. "I know plenty."

Your breath hitched, emotion rising thick in your throat. "Fuck you," you snapped, blinking rapidly as tears burned behind your eyes. "She might be complicated, but she doesn’t…" Your voice caught, your chest tightening. "She doesn’t fuck her way to get what she wants."

Whisky smirked at that, shaking her head in something almost like disappointment. “Doesn’t she?" she challenged. "The whole reason she’s where she is is because of her loyalty to Miles."

Your heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"

Whisky tilted her head. "She cut Andi out of her life," she said simply. "Became team Miles to keep him bankrolling her campaigns. If she’d stood by Andi, she’d have nothing. No career, no money, no power."

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

"We’re all selling ourselves for him," Whisky continued, her voice quieter now. "We all have a price and he’s a billionaire. At least I’m honest about it."

You stormed away from Whisky, your pulse hammering in your ears. Your breath came fast and sharp, the alcohol amplifying every emotion. You needed to find Claire, needed her arms around you, needed her to make sense of all of this because right now, it felt like the world was tilting sideways.

But before you could get far, a hand caught your arm, fingers pressing lightly into your skin. You turned abruptly, only to see Miles grinning down at you, his touch lingering just a second too long. His other hand slid casually to your lower back- not inappropriate, not *quite*, but enough to send a small, instinctive shiver of discomfort down your spine.

"Hey you," he said smoothly, searching your face. "You good? You look kinda upset."

You swallowed, shaking your head quickly. "Yeah, I’m fine," you lied, forcing a tight smile. "Just need to find Claire."

Miles didn’t let go. Instead, his expression shifted, something shrewd flickering behind those perpetually relaxed eyes. "Hey, you’re a writer, right?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "*Uh… yeah, I am.*"

His smile widened. "How’s that going for you? Your publicists doing a good job with your sales?"

You frowned slightly, feeling a little off balance. "I mean… I guess? They’re fine?"

Miles nodded like he was considering something, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. "I actually bought your latest book on my iPad last night," he said, tapping his temple like he was in on some private joke. "And let me tell you-" He grinned. "-it should have a lot more attention than it’s getting."

Your lips parted slightly. "Wait… you read my book?"

"I consume culture, babe," Miles said grandly, taking a slow, deliberate sip from his drink. "And you? You’ve got something special. But you’re not getting the push you deserve."

You felt a strange mix of flattery and unease creep up your spine. "I mean… publishing’s tough," you said cautiously. "I’m doing okay-"

"Okay isn’t enough for talent like yours," he cut in smoothly. "Look, if you want, I’d love to pay for you to have the best of the best. Top-tier marketing, real PR muscle. We’re talking global reach, bestsellers lists, late-night interviews- you’d be a household name. A younger, hotter Stephen King."

You blinked at him, a strange weight settling in your stomach. Miles smiled easily, like he’d just handed you the world on a silver platter. But the way his fingers brushed idly against your back made you feel like there was a price tag attached- one you weren’t sure you wanted to see. Your eyes narrowed as you studied Miles, every alarm bell in your head going off at once.

"What’s the catch?" you asked, your voice a little steadier now, cutting through the haze of alcohol and lingering frustration.

Miles just smiled, lazy and knowing, like he had expected the question. "Hey, no catch," he said, spreading his hands in a show of innocence. "A friend of Claire’s is a friend of mine."

Your stomach twisted, something bitter rising in your throat. You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "She’s not my friend," you said coldly, tilting your head. "I don’t let my friends fuck me.”

The words hung in the air between you, deliberate, pointed- a clear jab at him and Whisky. And for the first time, you saw the briefest flicker of something in his expression, a tiny crack in that unshakable, self-satisfied grin. But just as quickly, it was gone, smoothed over into that same easy, confident smirk.

"Still," he said, voice warm and dripping with charm. "I’d like to help you. Just say the word, and I’ll make it happen. No pressure."

His gaze was steady, waiting, like he already knew what your answer would be. Like he was certain you’d come around. And maybe, in another life, in another moment, you might have. But right now, all you wanted was to get away from him and find Claire.

Your jaw tightened, and you forced a small, polite smile. "I’ll think about it," you said, though you already knew your answer.

Miles just grinned wider. "That’s all I ask, babe."

Taglist: @harknessshi @agathascoven1 @notorious-vick @jessica-mcd @sapphicfleur @lisqueen @starryjeongyeon @brekker157 @maximilfism @meghina18 @onlybynightandonlybysea @buttercandy16 @milflovers4 @rigglemethat @mistyshane30 @certified-sleep-deprived @agathaallalongg @yun4-st4rx @psychickryptonitebouquet

#claire debella x reader #claire debella #agatha harkness x fem!reader #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness x reader #kathryn hahn x reader

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1hot-mess-express1 · 3 days ago

Text

Washed Away

Sylus X Reader (Caleb X reader kinda but he's icky in this)

Summary: Shaken by the events that unfolded in Skyhaven you find comfort in Sylus (WK 6.5k) A?N: I kind of gave up on this part way and I feel like the style changes drastically but I needed to finish it (it's also been way too long since I've written smut so forgive me)

Warnings: Manipulation, manipulative sex (Caleb is kind of OOC and kind of awful) hate sex, biting, blood, bike crash, injury, penetration, unprotected sex, cumming inside, nipple biting, cunnilingus (I think that's it???)

banner made by: @arlerts-angel

As soon as you touched down in Linkon, you ran for your bike, parked just outside your apartment. You didn’t even glance at the door. There was no time. No room for hesitation. You needed to move. Now.

The engine roared beneath you, vibrating through your bones, grounding you just enough to keep your mind from shattering under the weight of everything you’d seen in Skyhaven. You were ready to take off toward the N109 zone when a bitter thought cut through the noise—Sylus would lose his mind if you showed up without a helmet.

A groan tore from your throat. Not from frustration, but from exhaustion. You didn’t have it in you to deal with his anger too. With a jolt you whipped your back in the direction of your apartment before ascending the stairs, with heavy steps, you ran inside, snatching the ridiculous helmet off the end table. Your jacket, too.

The helmet was a joke. A full-visor model with corny cat ears—a gift from the man of the hour, meant to tease you. And yet, as you shoved it over your head, you didn’t laugh. You didn’t even feel the usual flicker of fondness. Just a hollow ache.

You tore down the stairs and onto the bike, praying the ride would clear your head.

You were wrong.

The road stretched endlessly ahead, but your mind was still trapped in Skyhaven.

Caleb wasn’t dead. Worse—he was alive, but he wasn’t yours anymore. Cold. Distant. A liar. One moment whispering childhood memories, the next, drugging you. He had expected you to welcome him back like nothing had happened, like the years of grief had never existed. Like you had never existed without him.

And Ever.

You knew he was working with them. You knew. Yet when confronted, he couldn’t even give you a straight answer.

Your grip on the handlebars tightened. The rain slicked the desolate N109 zone, but you didn’t slow down. Anger, frustration, and something rawer twisted inside you. You’d had so many chances—to fight back, to force answers out of him, to end this before it could unravel further. You could’ve tied him down, threatened him, even killed him if you had to.

But when those steely eyes softened into the familiar violet that once adored you, you hesitated.

He had looked so genuine. Like maybe—just maybe—every horrible thing he had done had been to protect you in some sick way.

Tears burned hot down your face.

The hidden road came up too fast.

Your tires skidded. Gravel bit into your skin as you crashed down, pain ripping through your body as the bike pinned you beneath its weight. Your head hit the ground—hard—and for a moment, the world was nothing but blackness.

Dizzy. Nauseous.

A sound wrenched from your throat—half sob, half scream—as you shoved the bike off your leg. Adrenaline drowned the pain, or maybe fury did. You didn’t care. You got back on, forcing the bike forward. You refused to look at your leg. You refused to stop.

By the time you reached Sylus’s mansion, your whole body felt like fire. You barely killed the engine before shoving the bike down, letting it crash onto the gravel like an afterthought. You stumbled up the stairs, biting back cries of pain.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the blood soaking through your torn jeans.

“Boss man isn’t here, Miss Hunter,” the twins chimed from the couch.

Kieran peeked over, his sharp inhale betraying him. He and Luke exchanged a glance.

You forced yourself to breathe. “That’s okay. Just gonna lie down. Wait for him.”

Their stares burned into your back as you dragged yourself upstairs. Every step sent fresh spikes of pain through you. Gravel was embedded in your thighs, each movement forcing sharp little daggers deeper into your skin.

Inside Sylus’s bedroom, you ripped the helmet off and let it fall to the floor with a hollow thud. Scuffs and dents lined the side. Good call grabbing it.

You stumbled to the closet, pulling out a plain white dress shirt before peeling off your soaked clothes. The jacket was salvageable. Your jeans? Not so much. Bloodstained, shredded, and riddled with embedded pebbles.

And then, finally, you looked.

The pain, dulled by adrenaline, came crashing back in full force. Your body throbbed, fresh tears welling in your eyes.

Boots off. Shirt and bra discarded.

Now, the jeans.

You hesitated.

Your hands trembled as you braced yourself, then yanked them down in one go. The fabric clung where the blood had dried, tearing skin as it peeled away. Loose pebbles clattered to the floor like discarded buttons.

You hissed, vision blurring.

Barely standing, you stumbled into the bathroom, pressing gauze against the worst of the wounds. A half-hearted attempt at first aid. You wiped yourself down as best you could, then gritted your teeth as you straightened.

Pain coiled up your spine, white-hot and unrelenting.

God, you hated Sylus and his damn oversized bedroom.

With sheer effort, you made it to the bed, pulling the dress shirt around yourself before sinking into the mattress. Maybe… maybe his taste wasn’t so bad.

You stared at the ceiling, letting yourself slip back into the memory you had tried so hard to outrun.

You’d been so confident. So sure of yourself. You hadn’t told a single person what had happened. Not even Sylus. You just left, your only explanation being a vague mention of extended leave from the association.

How could you have crumbled under the weight of a stare?

You thought of the way Caleb had looked at you during the interrogation. Cold. Foreign. The warmth was gone, stripped away like you were nothing more than a stranger to him. His voice was sharp, jagged—nothing like the one that had whispered you to sleep as a child.

But then, afterward. When the doors had shut, and he had pulled you into that second room.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you had wanted to believe in him. Wanted to believe that he was still your Caleb, that he had some elaborate explanation, that he would pull you into his arms and whisper comfort into your hairline. That he wasn’t a stranger in his own skin.

But the second he smiled—really smiled—you knew.

The warmth never reached his eyes.

The leather of his gloves felt foreign on your skin as he traced slow, lazy circles into your back. His voice, honeyed and coaxing, whispered into your neck.

"It’s okay, it’s really me." A kiss against your racing pulse. "Don’t be scared, please."

There was something off in his voice. Too smooth. Too deliberate. It made your stomach churn.

And you had cried. Not because you believed him, but because you didn’t.

Slowly at first, tears slipping down your cheek as he kissed along your throat, his touch sending ice down your spine. When he reached for the fleet jacket draped over your shoulders, his fingers curled around the fabric like it offended him. Then, with more force than necessary, he shoved it off of you.

Your breath hitched. A warning sign.

Wrong. This is wrong.

But you hadn’t stopped him. Not yet.

A growl tore from your throat as you yanked him down onto the exam table, straddling his hips. For the first time that night, shock crossed his face.

"Wha—what are you doin’, Pipsqueak?"

Despite his surprise, his hands found your hips. A subconscious reaction. Pulling you into him.

That’s when you kissed him—hard. A kiss that wasn’t meant to comfort or forgive. A kiss meant to hurt. I hate you. How dare you let me think you were dead. How dare you expect me to fall in line the second you call. How dare you expect me to love you after this.

You bit down, tasting iron as you licked lightly at the bruised flesh.

He groaned, hands tightening on your hips, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. Wrong response.

"Fuck—Pips, that hurt," he exhaled, but his eyes gleamed. Not with pain. Not even with anger. He liked it. He was baiting you.

It was a challenge, not an apology. No hint of regret, no flicker of sincerity.

It was like he wanted you to fight back—just so he could tear you down all over again.

His gloved hand cupped your face too softly, as if mocking tenderness, while his other gripped your waist with growing fervor.

"Missed you," he murmured against your skin. A kiss. "So much." A lick. "So, so much." And then—teeth, sharp, sinking into your shoulder.

Pain flashed white-hot through you.

Your body jerked in response. Hand fisting in his hair, you yanked him back—hard—forcing his gaze to yours.

And there it was. That look.

No regret. No shame.

Just triumph.

A slow, creeping smile spread across his face.

"That’s my girl."

Something inside you snapped.

Your hand found his throat before you could think, fingers pressing against the rapid thrum of his pulse. Your heart clenched at the sensation—warm and alive.

Caleb was alive.

And he was right here.

The realization flooded through you, sharp and overwhelming, knocking the air from your lungs. You didn’t know whether to scream, to sob, to push him away or pull him closer. The only thing grounding you was the way his breath hitched ever so slightly beneath your grip.

Then you kissed him again. Desperate. Reckless.

His response was immediate—his hands roamed your back, deft fingers slipping beneath your shirt before he flicked the clasp of your bra open. Cold leather traced your spine as he yanked the fabric away, his grip rougher now, more demanding.

And then he flipped you over.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as your back hit the table. Before you could react, Caleb hovered over you, his eyes searching yours.

And for the first time tonight, you saw it.

That look.

The one he always gave you when you cried.

Your breath caught.

"Pips," his voice was low, a breath of hesitation laced with something unsteady. He reached out, his gloved fingers tracing the wet streaks on your cheek. "You don’t have to do this."

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, then—so softly it almost hurt—he kissed your forehead.

You felt him start to pull away.

And you panicked.

Your ankles locked behind his back, pulling him closer before he could escape. Your fingers fisted in his jacket, grip unsteady, voice even shakier.

"Don’t you dare run away from me again."

Something dark flickered across his face.

And then his restraint snapped.

Caleb’s lips crashed against yours, his movements rough, frantic. His hands ran down your sides before his mouth latched onto your breast. A gasp ripped from you, arching into his touch as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin.

He chuckled, the vibrations sending a jolt down your spine.

"Fuck—keep that up, sweetheart, and I might start thinking you missed me too."

Your stomach twisted, bile rising in your throat.

You had missed him. For years.

You missed the Caleb who had stayed up late with you on the rooftops of Linkon, tracing the constellations with his fingertips. The one who had held you when you cried, who had promised that no matter what happened, he’d never leave you.

That Caleb was dead.

And the thing wearing his face was trying to devour you.

That smirk—that same infuriating, arrogant smirk—made something burn in you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking hard, pressing him further against you, smothering him.

A muffled laugh rumbled against your skin before he bit down again, his grip bruising on your waist.

“Don’t worry Pips, I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight, ever again.”

A sharp noise outside the bedroom wrenched you back to reality.

Your pulse spiked.

You just needed to sleep.

Yeah. That would fix this.

On the other side of the door, the twins sat in silence.

"I’m calling Boss Man," Kieran muttered, already pulling out his phone.

Luke didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned closer to the door.

Just in case.

With a lingering sense of unease, you reached for the gun in the nightstand, fingers curling around the grip before tucking it beneath your pillow. Your gaze stayed locked on the door, your breath uneven, heart beating just a little too fast.

You didn’t understand why you were doing this.

You were safe.

The safest place in the world.

No one dared to cross Sylus—no one was stupid enough to show up at his home uninvited. And yet, the weight of Skyhaven still pressed against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like like a snake. The fear, the helplessness—it clung to you like a second skin, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones.

A fresh wave of tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

God, you were so sick of crying.

You wanted this to be over.

To wake up and realize this was all some twisted dream. That none of it was real. That Caleb hadn’t tormented you. That you hadn’t shattered under the pressure.

But no matter how hard you wished, reality didn’t bend to your will.

With a ragged breath, you curled in on yourself, gripping the pillow tighter as exhaustion finally took hold.

Sleep came in waves—slow, heavy, and mercifully dreamless.

When Sylus arrived home, he was pissed.

Why had you been so reckless? Running off to Skyhaven—of all places—without telling him. You knew he couldn’t monitor you there, not right now at least. Couldn’t risk being seen with the chaos unraveling between Ever and the Fleet. And yet, you had still gone.

He had wanted to trust you, to believe that you could handle yourself the way you always insisted. But what did he get in return?

You, bleeding all over his floors.

His jaw locked so tight it felt like his teeth might crack, his brows furrowed as his ruby eyes burned with barely restrained fury. His coat was still half-unbuttoned, rain clinging to his skin as he stalked inside, tension radiating off him in waves.

The twins flinched the moment his gaze landed on them—sharp, cutting. Without a word, they scrambled out of his way, pressing themselves against the walls as if they could vanish into the shadows.

He didn’t slow his stride.

His fingers curled around the door handle, knuckles whitening before he ripped it open. The force sent the door slamming into the wall with a deafening crash.

The sound jolted you awake.

Your breath hitched—panic, adrenaline, muscle memory kicking in faster than thought.

Your fingers closed around the gun beneath your pillow, your heartbeat a violent drum in your ears as you swung it up and—

Pulled the trigger.

The gunshot cracked through the room, deafening.

But Sylus didn’t flinch.

Before you could even register what had happened, his hand flicked up—red and black energy twisting through the air like smoke. The bullet stopped mid-flight, hanging in place for a split second before he let it drop to the floor with a hollow clink.

A breath punched from your lungs.

Sylus exhaled sharply through his nose, slow and controlled, but the heat in his eyes burned furious.

"First, you run off without telling me," he murmured, his voice low, eerily calm.

He took a step forward.

"Then, you wreck the bike I got you." Another step, heavier this time.

The mattress dipped as he reached down and ripped the covers off your lower half, exposing torn fabric and poorly dressed wounds to the cold air. You sucked in a breath, hands instinctively twitching toward your lap.

"And now you shoot me for walking into my own bedroom?"

His ruby gaze pinned you down, unwavering.

You felt small beneath it, stripped bare, your mind scrambling for words, for something—an explanation, an excuse. Your lips parted, but nothing came out except a pathetic breath.

It didn’t matter.

Sylus had already turned away.

His boots were heavy against the floor as he strode toward the bedroom door. The twins had lingered, watching with wide, terrified eyes—but at his approach, they bolted, disappearing down the hall like shadows before he reached them.

Then—slam.

The door shut with finality, rattling in its frame.

Your stomach twisted.

This is it.

He’s going to tell you to leave.

To never come back.

To never speak to him again.

You bowed your head, bracing for the inevitable blow. Your fingers picked at each other absentmindedly, trying to slow your racing pulse, to hold back the sting in your eyes.

But the words never came.

Instead—

Your head snapped up at the distant sound of running water.

The bathtub.

The tension in your chest tightened, confusion washing over you like a second wave of adrenaline.

Sylus was in the master bathroom.

Running a bath.

For you.

"Sylus?" Your voice came out pitifully quiet, but he heard you. He always did.

"Just wait there, darling. I don’t want you hurting yourself walking around."

You watched as he wiped his hands on his slacks, then let his coat slip from his shoulders onto the bathroom floor. The air around him was heavy—controlled rage simmering just beneath his skin—but when he stepped toward you, there was only restraint.

"I’m fine," you muttered, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, testing your balance. The moment you tried to stand, pain shot up your leg like fire, the world tilting violently—

Except you never hit the floor.

A red mist coiled around your body, weightless yet firm, suspending you just above the ground as Sylus sighed heavily.

You swallowed, heart hammering.

He stepped closer, the mist dissipating as he caught you effortlessly with one arm, his grip firm but careful. His nose brushed against your hair as he inhaled deeply, voice dropping into something dangerously fond.

"What am I going to do with you, kitten?"

He carried you easily, crossing the room in long strides before setting you down on the cool bathroom counter. His hands spread your legs slightly, making space for himself between them as he leaned in, his eyes flickering over the mess you had made of yourself.

Another sigh.

Slowly, he reached under the cabinet, pulling out a first aid kit and setting it down beside you with careful precision. But his other hand—his free one—remained on your thigh, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.

A chill crawled up your spine.

You felt gross.

The need to tell him everything—about Skyhaven, about Caleb—itched under your skin like poison, but you couldn’t handle his anger right now. Not when you were already teetering on the edge of breaking.

You chewed your lip, lost in thought, before you felt him shift.

Sylus tilted his head down, his gaze softening just enough as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I’m gonna have to tear these off," he murmured. "Don’t look, sweetie."

Before you could brace yourself, he pressed your head into the crook of his neck, his fingers threading through your hair, rubbing soothing circles against your scalp.

And then—rip.

A sharp sting shot through you as he tore the first bandage away. You flinched, instinctively moving to swat his hand—but he was faster.

He caught your wrist with ease, guiding both your arms around his shoulders.

"Hold on to me." His voice was low, patient. "Ground yourself, kitten."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping onto him as he continued.

You felt so unworthy of his tenderness.

Unworthy of his care. Of his anger, even.

You had let yourself get so tangled up in Caleb, the Fleet—Ever—that you had nearly forgotten about him. But it seemed Sylus had never forgotten about you.

He was here.

Waiting.

"All right," he finally exhaled, stepping back just enough to get a better look at your legs. His fingers instinctively reached for your swollen knee, pressing lightly.

Pain shot up your leg like a live wire, a choked cry ripping from your throat before you could stop it.

Sylus froze.

His jaw tensed, his expression darkening as he pulled back slightly.

"I’m calling the doctor."

He moved to turn away, but your fingers caught the fabric of his shirt, gripping it weakly.

"No, please... just want—you."

His breath hitched.

For a moment, something flickered across his face—widened eyes, a split-second hesitation.

Then it was gone, replaced by a quiet, lingering concern.

"Sweetie..." His voice was softer now, but firm. "I can’t leave you like this."

Despite his words, he stepped closer, letting you bury yourself against him, his hand cradling the back of your head.

You clung to him, trembling.

Sylus let out a heavy sigh, his hand smoothing over your back.

"Fine," he relented, his voice tinged with resignation. "But first thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling your doctor. For now, however—"

He reached down, sliding his hands beneath you as he carefully lifted you from the counter, mindful of your injured knee. His fingers grazed your shoulders as he pushed his shirt off you, letting it slip to the floor.

"You need to get in the bath. You look like a stray cat."

There was a small, teasing lilt to his voice, but the chuckle that followed was quiet, almost unsure.

You didn’t laugh.

Instead, your fingers curled into his shirt again, tugging softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Will you get in with me? Don’t want to be alone right now."

He stilled.

His grip on you tightened, just slightly, before his ruby eyes flickered down to meet yours. You could feel the hesitation in his body, the way his muscles tensed beneath you.

For a long moment, he just looked at you.

Then, slowly, he set you back down on the counter.

"Are you sure?" His voice was quieter now, measured. "I can just sit next to the tub if you don’t want to be alone."

His hand found your face, thumb grazing along your cheek, and you instinctively nuzzled into the warmth of his palm.

"Mm, sure," you murmured. "I wanna be close to you."

The way his eyes softened at your words made your stomach twist.

It was that look—the one that said he could never refuse you, not even if he wanted to.

A quiet exhale left him before he moved swiftly, stripping out of his clothes. He didn’t make a show of it, didn’t tease—just moved with purpose, carefully picking you up again before stepping into the warm water, lowering both of you in.

The heat of the bath wrapped around you, soothing the ache in your limbs as Sylus adjusted you against him, keeping you secure in his hold.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—you felt safe.

"So," Sylus muttered, head resting in the crook of your neck. "Are you gonna tell me what has my kitten so flustered, or do I need to guess?"

The words were teasing, but his voice was anything but.

It was broken.

Worried.

You let out a bitter laugh. "I don’t even know where to start."

His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against your hip, grounding you. "Would it help if I asked questions and you answered them?"

You nodded softly.

A breath. "Okay… where were you?"

"Skyhaven."

He already knew that. But it was a start.

"What were you doing there?"

"Retrieving an aether core."

Fuck. He knew it. His stomach twisted, thinking of all the bullshit you might have gotten wrapped up in.

"Were you able to retrieve it?"

You shook your head. No.

"I see…"

His gaze flickered down, and his fingers paused against your skin. That bite mark on your throat—dark, unmistakable. A twinge of jealousy curled in his stomach.

He shouldn’t feel jealous.

You weren’t his—not officially, not in any way that mattered. An unlabeled, unspoken bond tethered you two together, but it wasn’t enough to claim you.

And yet.

He placed a gentle kiss against the mark, his lips lingering just a second too long.

"Unforeseen complications?"

You inhaled deeply before shaking your head. Slowly.

The air around you felt heavier.

"Caleb’s alive."

Sylus stiffened.

His arms around you tensed, grip unconsciously tightening.

He had known of Caleb. Knew more than he had ever let on. And as he felt your body begin to tremble, the anger—the jealousy—inside him warred with something deeper.

"He’s alive," you repeated, voice barely above a whisper. "And working with Ever."

His hold on you stayed firm, unwavering, as if keeping you anchored.

"I don’t understand all of it, but he…" Your throat tightened, the words catching like glass shards. But you forced them out anyway. "He locked me in his house… and drugged me."

Sylus inhaled sharply.

Your breath hitched. "I—I couldn’t save that little boy because of him."

Your voice broke at the end, and you hated it.

"And, and we…" You squeezed your eyes shut, hands balling into fists against his thighs.

This was it.

Now or never.

"I fucked him."

Silence.

You let out a bitter chuckle, self-loathing creeping into your voice. "I don’t even know why. I was just—so consumed when I found him alive. I didn’t know what to do with myself."

Your gaze dropped to your hands, shame thick in your throat as tears spilled again.

"I felt so small. So out of control. I don’t ever want to feel like that again."

You braced for it.

For him to push you away. To hate you. To call you a traitor, a liar, a whore.

To tell you that you had tainted yourself.

But it never came.

His arms didn’t loosen.

Instead, his grip tightened.

And when he spoke, his voice was far away, as if lost in a memory.

"I understand what that’s like."

A silence sat between you, thick and heavy, before he continued.

"When I first saw you again," he murmured, "I was so consumed by my anger. My jealousy. I would have done anything to make you understand how you had hurt me."

A small chuckle left him—low, almost bitter.

"I wanted you to feel what I had felt. And I did things I’m ashamed of."

You swallowed, your voice timid. "How did you get over it?"

He hummed, as if considering the question carefully.

"You brought that dying dove over."

You blinked.

"I was a monster, the terrifying leader of Onychinus, the man who had been so cruel to you. But when you looked at me…" He exhaled, his voice nearly a whisper now, "that’s not what I saw reflected in your eyes."

Your breath caught.

"Instead, I saw a man who loves birds. Taming horses. A man who can’t fish to save his life."

That startled a small laugh out of you, despite everything.

His lips curled slightly. "Instead, I saw a man worthy of forgiveness. Of understanding."

A pause.

Then—he kissed just beneath your ear, voice thick with something sickly sweet, something that might just consume you whole.

"I can’t promise Caleb’s eyes will ever reflect that for you."

Your chest ached.

"But, darling…" He let out a breath, gently pulling your face up to meet his.

His skin was flushed a soft pink from the warmth of the bath, but his eyes—his eyes—they were impossibly soft. Drowning in unspoken words, in something so devastatingly real.

"If you need it, you’ll find it in mine."

Your breath hitched.

Your hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing over his.

"If you look in my eyes, love, you’ll see a strong, capable woman." His voice was so steady, like an oath, a promise that couldn’t be broken.

"A woman who overcomes any and every obstacle sent her way."

"A woman obsessed with plushies and cute animals."

"A woman who loves my family as if it were her own."

"A woman whose kindness knows no bounds."

His lips ghosted over your forehead, pressing a featherlight kiss there as he murmured:

"A woman I’ll love until the last star in the sky fades out."

Another kiss—your cheek this time, softer, reverent.

"A woman I’ll chase through every lifetime, in every universe."

Your throat tightened, eyes burning, as he cradled your face like something precious.

"So if you ever need to know what you really are," he whispered, "please… just look into my eyes."

Your body betrayed you, drawn to him with a force beyond control. Before reason could intervene, your lips crashed into his—a kiss meant to steal the very breath from his lungs. It began softly, a whisper of longing, but passion flared too quickly, too violently, consuming you both. Your hand, trembling yet desperate, slid up to the bare line of his undercut, fingertips gliding over heated skin. A low, throaty groan escaped him, the sound vibrating against your lips, sending a wildfire racing through your veins.

The kiss deepened, urgency overtaking restraint. Your lips moved against his with a silent plea, your body urging him to surrender, to lose himself as you had already lost yourself in him. As if hearing your unspoken demand, he parted his mouth, allowing you to drink him in, to taste the hunger in the way his tongue tangled with yours. A shudder rippled through him, his control teetering on the edge of ruin. Had he always been this raw? This undone?

You shifted, pressing closer, your smaller hand venturing boldly downward. The instant your fingers grazed his hardness, his entire body jolted, a sharp hiss escaping through gritted teeth. Yet before you could chase after him, his hand caught your mouth, silencing you with an authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unsteady. A flush crept down his heaving chest, his parted lips wet with stolen breath, his pupils blown wide. The sight of him like this, caught between restraint and abandon, made your thighs press together in need. His panting breath stuttered as you gripped him again, refusing to let go, your touch both a demand and a prayer.

"Sweetie… you're hurt," he rasped, his fingers wrapping around your hand, trying to pry you away. But you only held tighter, his name a breathy sigh on your lips.

"Don't be stubborn," you whispered, stroking him with slow, hypnotic precision. A guttural groan tore from his throat, his head falling back, surrendering for just a moment to the pleasure you gave. "You can be gentle with me, right, Sy?" Your voice was a sultry murmur, your lips ghosting over the sharp line of his jaw, trailing lower to taste the sweat-dampened skin of his throat.

His restraint snapped.

With a possessive growl, he lifted you both from the tub, water sloshing wildly onto the floor. His strength made you gasp, but he carried you effortlessly, depositing you onto the bed with a tenderness that contradicted the fire in his eyes. One large hand anchored himself next to your head, the other drawing your wrist to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to your pulse. His fingers curled over your hand, bringing it to his mouth where his teeth grazed your palm before sinking in just enough to make you gasp.

"You just can't listen, can you?" His voice was low, edged with frustration and raw desire. His lips trailed up your arm, lingering at the mark on your neck—his mark. He exhaled sharply, brows knitting together as longing and concern warred within him. Sensing his hesitation, you tilted your head, offering it to him once more.

"Want you, Sylus. Only you."

Your voice was a whisper, but it shattered the last of his resolve. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something primal igniting within him. The sight of you, breathless and waiting, was his undoing.

A deep growl rumbled from his chest before his teeth sank into your neck, hard and unrelenting. A sharp cry escaped your lips, your hands instinctively flying to his hair. Were you pulling him closer? Or daring him to take more? The pain mingled with pleasure, a dizzying storm that left you gasping, writhing beneath him. His tongue soothed the bite with slow, deliberate strokes, his hands roaming your trembling form, mapping out every inch of heated skin.

The warmth of his touch lingered even as he reluctantly pulled away, hovering above you, his gaze drinking in the sight of your flushed, needy body, the deep blooming bruise overpowering the previous mark. His lips, so brutal just moments ago, now pressed reverent kisses down your chest, each touch unraveling you further. You felt the world blur, your mind reduced to nothing but the sensations he left in his wake.

"Missed you so much, sweetie," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He locked eyes with you, a silent promise passing between you before he dipped lower, his lips pressing reverently over the softest, most intimate part of you.

Your back arched, a gasping moan slipping from your lips, but his hands steadied you, anchoring you to the bed. "Relax, honey, or I'll have to stop," he warned, his tone stern, leaving no room for argument. You barely managed a nod before pleasure surged through you, reducing you to a trembling, pleading mess beneath him.

His tongue worked you over with agonizing precision, teasing, coaxing, pushing you toward madness. Each flick, each slow drag sent you spiraling higher. His grip on your hips tightened, his groan vibrating against your sensitive flesh. You whimpered his name, each syllable dripping with need, and that was all it took for him to lose himself completely.

He growled against you, intoxicated by your sounds, your taste, your scent. His fingers joined his tongue, thrusting deep, stretching, claiming. Your body clenched around him, your hands grasping at anything—his hair, the sheets, your own skin—desperate for something to tether you to reality.

"Sy, I—it's too much," you gasped, pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves. But he wasn’t done. His tongue, his lips, his hands—he consumed you entirely, pulling you deeper into a pleasure so intense it threatened to break you.

He groaned against you, hips rocking against the mattress in desperate search oc relief as he devoured every moan, every plea. His hunger was insatiable, his need just as desperate as yours. And when your body finally shattered, trembling beneath him, he didn’t let go. Not yet. He let out a guttural moan that vibrated through you, strengthening your orgasm to the point you felt a wet gush flow from between your legs but Sylus wasn't done with you yet.

Because Sylus was a man who never left anything unfinished.

Finally, he leaned back on his heels, his impressive length leaking onto the sheets. Had he? You didn’t have a second to question before he rushed forward, sealing your lips in a kiss so full of hunger and restraint it stole your breath. "You make everything so difficult, my kitten," he whispered, his large hand cradling your face before pressing his fingers to your tongue, forcing you to taste yourself as you helplessly drooled around him.

"Listen to me," he murmured, forcing your gaze to meet his own. Despite the haze of lust, his eyes held a seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine. "You're going to tell me if it hurts, okay? I can't be hurting you more, or that pompous doctor of yours is going to accuse me of something awful…" Sylus chuckled darkly before leaning in, his breath warm against your ear. "Little does he know, his sweet, sweet patient is just a needy, spoiled little princess."

He pressed a chaste kiss to the mark on your neck before shifting, gently pushing your good leg aside, making room for himself between your thighs. His movements were unhurried now, measured, as he loomed over you with something both reverent and utterly ravenous in his gaze.

He pushes into you slowly, hand smoothing down the hair on your head, eyes searching yours for any sign that you wanted him to stop, any sign that this hurt you. Instead, he saw nothing but love swirling in those great big eyes of yours. He kisses you, gently this time, “was so worried about you sweetie,” he kisses you again a little deeper this time, “wanted to see you so bad,” he’s slipped in all the way now, every inch of him filling you up perfectly causing you to moan softly into his mouth, “wanted to take care of you,” he kisses your temple as your arms wrap around his large back to ground yourself through his skin. He starts at a deep, slow pace, allowing you to feel all of him, savoring every moment of you under him. “Wanted to cook you dinner, help wash your hair,” he lets out a staggered breath as his pace picks up slightly, “wanted to fuck you, to hear you scream for me, to make you feel good,” he goes back to biting at your neck, leaving new marks in his wake. “Fuck--sorry sweetie, ‘m not gonna last like this”, he creeps a hand between your bodies and begins to rub precise circles around your still sensitive clit. Your body arches into his touch clenching harshly around him as you feel yourself beginning to cum. Your brain is nothing but a pile of mush in the wake of his love for you, you love him. You love him so much. You love the way he loves you. In the mundane, in the way he cooks your favorite and shrugs it off, the way you never have to open a door, the way his fingers reverently card through your hair, the way his touch makes you feel so safe, so seen.

Fuck you weren’t going to last either, with the last part of your fading sanity you pull him into you, whispering into his ear, your breath hot on his skin, “I-I love you Sylus, I want you, I-I want to see myself in your eyes…always,” He swears his brain stops functioning at your sweet confession, his hand grows erratic, quickly rubbing circles into your clit, trying desperately to make you cum as he feels his own release ready to crash over him. And you do, you squeeze him so tightly his vision goes white for a moment as his pace stutters and empties himself into you. He came so hard he can feel it leaking out of you and onto the sheets but he just stays there. Holding you close to him, placing his head in your neck trying to hide his flustered face from you. He loved you.

EXTRA: Zayne had made his way to the N109 zone with a quickness the following morning. You had fractured part of your knee, he was sure of it and you would need to go to the hospital for X-rays, so you lounged on the couch, flipping through a novel while Sylus packed some things for you to take with you. While searching for your more comfortable shoes his eyes land on a necklace on the nightstand. He eyes it suspiciously before covering it with his evol to try and detect an electric signal, and sure enough, in the charm was the tiniest tracker, able to tell the location and listen to everything. Sylus smirks to himself before placing it back onto the nightstand. Serves that bastard right.

#love and deepspace #lads smut #lads sylus #lads caleb #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lnds smut #l&ds sylus #l&ds smut #sylus smut #love and deepspace sylus

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supernovae-explosion · 2 days ago

Text

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑜 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒸𝑒𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊

I. II. III. .·:¨ Artist | Dividers | Masterlist ¨:·.

Hello! To pick a pile please clear your mind and focus on the images above, whichever one speaks to you the most or you feel the most drawn to, this one is for you! If more than one speaks to you, feel free to read both. Remember to take only what resonates with you 🌠

Pile I.

While tossing the cards I really got some baddass vibes from this collective, intimidating energy... (A bit of emo energy as well) Your beauty and aura makes people shy, I hear that you guys really have that confidence in you, or maybe you're trying to have it, fake it till you make it, am I right? >:3c No, seriously, you're really, REALLY charming, but I feel like your energies may be unbalanced, feminine to be exact. Take care of yourself, go do your skin care routine! Go get comfy, it's a self-care day! Spirit is telling me, that you may be going through some tough times you have some goals in mind that need a lot of changes in your current life and it's challenging for you. Especially inner transformations, these are just as hard if not even harder, then the outer ones. You really are delaying this, but I feel like these changes will turn out to be good for you, you're just resisting the inevitable because it's scary, I fully understand you, but people are noticing this too, even though you're putting up a front. I know you can do it, you are a really strong person. Take some time to rethink all of your plans, don't make rushed decisions and furthermore DO NOT let people change your opinions, you know what you want or at least have some general idea of what you want. And unfortunately people are envious, your energy makes them very easily jealous. They may want to sabotage your goals and dreams seeing you struggle might be satisfying for them, maybe not on purpose, but beware and remember to be assertive! Show these people who's the baddest b**ch here. 💅

Advice: Your enthusiasm gives you energy and motivation to follow your goals. Healthy, honest and assertive communication is the key. Let your feminine energy inspire your creativity, and masculine to keep you confident in your beliefs.

Songs: After Dark by Mr.Kitty | A Match into Water by Pierce The Veil

Pile II.

I couldn't stop laughing while tossing this pile, maybe because the first song that played on shuffle was Lalala but the vibes were kinda goofy in a positive way! But the moment I saw the cards it started to look like a cover-up. It seems like people don't see the real you, they're blinded by the masquerade of abundance that you put on. Numb to the feeling was the second song that played, and honestly it fits with the vibes I'm actually seeing in this pile. There's some trouble in sleeping, somethings are keeping you up, you're stuck with your "demons" while putting on a mask for the people about how good you have it. You keep on pushing and pursuing your goals while hurting and overthinking, you only let them see the good sides of this hard work you're putting into this situation 🥺 Others see you as someone with a bright future, broad horizons and a bright way in front of you, someone who pushes through everything that life throws at them. But they don't see the impact that pushing through has on you. Let others help you a bit, you don't have to suffer alone even though it feels like you can do everything on your own, or better than it would've been done by them.

Advice: Substitute interdependence that's based on satisfying others with assertiveness and strength. Let it go, let the universe take care of it. You healed the past scars enough, you're ready to let love inside your life again.

Songs: Lalala by Y2K, bbno$ | Numb to the feeling by Chase Atlantic | Pretty When You Cry by Lana Del Rey

Pile III.

The beginning is born from the ending, there's no ending without beginning etc etc. This pile is giving me strong... Homewrecker vibes, sorry dude but i'm being honest... You're seen as someone hot-headed, someone who rushes into things, who makes connections easily, but you brought some destruction into someone's life. Maybe meeting you changed this person's whole core belief system? They started questioning what they know, which brought them pain and confusion in many ways, which I see by 10 of swords here... But as I said at the start of this pile, for a new chapter something has to end. (Homewrecker by Marina has started playing girl what you doing...😭) Anyways, you seem as someone balancing energies, you change people's perspectives on life itself, your presence is strong and you know what you want and you get it.

I wanted to know more about this pile and started tossing some cards, and two flew out right onto my floor... Nah girl you bring new beginnings where ever you go, but you're very generous, or like people to be generous with you... Have you ever been interested in sugar baby type of relationships? I'm not judging, good for you go get that bag ✨

Advice: Your unique characteristics are the most important part of you getting what you want in life. Don't compare yourself to others, focus on your progress and how far you've come. Make new healthy relationships, a support group that will resonate with you.

Songs: Supermassive Black Hole by Muse | You Right by Doja Cat, The Weeknd | Homewrecker by Marina

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nottslove · 2 days ago

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gentle sex with mattheo pls?

yes. 🥺🥺 normally he's so rough, being voldemort's son, he thrives on rough fucks, sometimes engaging in a lil bondage and knife play. but when he's had a bad day, there's only one remedy... he knows exactly what he needs to feel better.

Warnings: SMUT UNDER THE CUT. 18+ minors do not interact or you will be blocked.

IT starts off with him coming back from his death eater meetings all tired and unusually quiet. The scent of your comforting food fills the air, but his appetite is non-existent.

On seeing you, his arms are instantly wrapped around you as he nestles his nose into your neck, an inaudible whimper leaving his lips.

"Matt?" you whisper, tentatively, afraid of chasing him away as your hands gently wrap around his much taller figure, one of your hands tangling itself into his hair because you know how much it comforts him when you play with his dark curls. "What's wrong?"

"Bad day," he mumbles into your neck, words vibrating against your skin. You can see droplets of blood clinging to his robes, and you waste no time in slowly bringing your hands up to untie them, letting them fall at his feet in a pool of fabric.

Left in his shirt and slacks, he exhales, slightly more comfortable than before.

You say nothing, allowing your hands to gently trail up and down his back, fingers tracing over every contour, every muscle... His face still buried in your neck, you can already feel his lips peppering small, needy kisses to your skin, and without second thought, you tilt your head backwards, giving him more access.

Soft moans already leave your lips when he begins gently sucking on your skin, leaving marks of red and pink.

You try to be a comfort to him, but how can you? When all you can think about are his hands, slowly caressing your tits... his lips, leaving love bites all over your pale skin?

You can feel your desire pool between your legs. You can feel your nipples harden underneath his fingertips as he gropes your boobs like they're a stress relief.

"Matty," you breathe, as he lifts his head, but latches his lips to yours, drowning out whatever words you had prepared.

"I need you," he mumbles, as if he can read your thoughts, feel your arousal without you being verbal about it. His beautiful eyes bore into yours, as if he's seeking consent, and a tiny smile worms its way onto your face as you bite your lip, giving him a small nod.

He doesn't need any more consolation— he wastes no time in snagging your lower lip between his teeth, hands reaching around to hold your underbutt, lifting you up and guiding your legs to wrap around his waist.

You can feel his hard bulge pressing into your stomach, and you let out a soft moan, audible enough just for his ears. "M all yours," you whisper softly, gently beginning to leave soft kisses all over his neck.

Everything after that is a blur, except for the way Mattheo hovers over you, clad in his boxers after peeling all your clothing away, along with his, pressing soft kisses to every bit of skin his eyes feast on.

"So, so pretty," he mumbles, burying his nose into your stomach, inhaling that sweet scent of yours. "Gonna let me fill you up, Baby?"

You nod desperately as he slides your panties down, tossing them aside and pressing a delicate kiss to your wet folds, enjoying the little whimper that falls from your lips.

"Matty," you whine, bucking your hips involuntarily.

"Shhh, I'm gonna take care of you," he mumbles, dragging his tongue across your slit to collect your essence, eliciting another soft whine from your lips.

And then he's sucking on your clit with his two fingers pumping in an out of you slowly, bringing you closer and closer to your release. You can feel the coil tightening in your lower abdomen, but just before you reach your high,, he stops his movements, and you can see the barest hint of a smirk on his lips.

It steals your breath completely.

Your lips collide with his, and before you know it, the tip of his cock is pressed against your folds, raw and red, the tip leaking precum that smudges messily against your soaked folds, mingling with your juices.

"Please," you whisper, giving him another nod as he looked into your eyes for final consent.

And then slowly, he enters you, your walls stretch around his cock, and you can't breathe. He feels so good, so fucking good.

"Fuck, Princess—" he groans, head buried into your neck, his moans ricocheting against your skin. "So tight..."

He inches in, deeper, burying himself to the hilt, and a gasp spills forth from your lips, and your eyes widen, fingers tightening their grip on his hair and shoulder as you leave crescent-shaped marks all over his shoulder.

"Matty—" you whimper, bucking your hips upwards, seeking the friction you need to reach your high. "Please," you whisper again, and you can feel your walls fluttering around his girth.

And then he begins to move, in low, languid thrusts. Bottoming out fully, before plunging into you, the sounds of skin slapping filling the air, which is decorated by your moans and groans of pleasure.

"Such a perfect lil hole— always clenching me so well," he praised, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck. "Fuck— so fucking good, letting me use you all the time—"

His moans are soft against your ear, and you can feel how deep he is, how big he is, and you feel your tears balance in your eyes, unable to tell whether the moans you hear are yours or not.

He quickens his pace, the slightest bit, and your moans grow louder, along with his. "Fuck— Princess, I'm so close, you gonna let me fill that pretty pussy up?" he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours.

You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks as you give him a small smile. "Yeah, yeah, I want you to—"

Your words are drowned out after a particularly deep thrust, and your fingers clench the sheets underneath as you grow closer and closer to your high.

"Cum with me, Baby," he murmurs, as if sensing your approaching orgasm, his thumb drifting down to the apex of your thighs to gently rub your clit.

That is the undoing of you. Your eyes flutter shut, as white fills your vision and you're suddenly soaring, flying as you reach your high, but he doesn't stop.

Small screams leave your lips at the new angle— he lifts your leg and wraps it around his waist, tip brushing against that fleshy spot in the depths of your cunt.

You vaguely administer the curse-words leaving his lips, too preoccupied with feeling every nerve explode from the pleasure, and the next thing you know, his thrusts turn sloppy and you feel his seed spill into you.

You're a whining, moaning, shaking mess, and Mattheo presses a gentle kiss to your lips, telling you how well you took him and what a good girl you are.

You barely administer his words as he scoops you up and carries you to the bathroom, engaging in a slow make-out with you whilst he waits for the tub to fill with hot water.

profile, masterlist.

Author's Note: my first time writing for mattheo, i hope it was okay, and this is what you wanted..

so sorry it took so long, been having a sort of writer's block lately :') wanted to thank you all for 100+ followers :))

#—jas' treats🧁#slytherin #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle #mattheo smut #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys imagine #theo nott smut #draco malfoy smut #draco smut #slytherin boys smut #theodore nott smut #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle fic

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hjvi · 5 hours ago

Text

𝑺𝒂𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅

Pairing: Matt Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Summary: The night gets too intense and you end up using your safe word

Word Count: 2.2k

The room was bathed in soft, golden light from the lamp on Matt’s nightstand. Outside, the world was quiet, but inside, the air was thick with warmth and intimacy. His hands were firm yet gentle as they roamed your body, fingertips tracing familiar paths over your skin, mapping out every curve, every dip. He moved with care, his weight pressing into you just enough to make you feel safe beneath him.

His lips brushed against yours, slow and deep, stealing your breath away like he always did. There was never any rush with Matt. He was patient, attentive, making sure that every movement, every touch, was as pleasurable for you as it was for him. You could feel the way he adored you in the way his hands cupped your face, the way he whispered sweet words between each kiss.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice laced with affection as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze held yours, soft and adoring, before trailing lower to drink in the sight of you beneath him.

Your hands roamed up his arms, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself over you, your legs tangled together in a way that felt so natural, so intimate. Every part of you felt connected to him, as if you were one, and in this moment, nothing else mattered.

The slow, intoxicating rhythm of your bodies moving together left you breathless, every roll of his hips against yours drawing quiet whimpers from your lips. Your fingers found their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. You bit down gently on his shoulder, muffling your moans, feeling the heat of his skin against your lips.

Matt let out a soft chuckle, dipping his head to press a kiss against your temple. “Let me hear you, baby,” he whispered, his tone sweet yet teasing. “You like that?”

You tried to answer, but all that escaped were soft, breathy whimpers. He took that as a yes, as encouragement, his movements becoming just a little more intense, a little deeper, completely unaware of the way your body had begun to tremble beneath him.

Your legs shook, your fingers clutching at his back as your breath hitched. The overwhelming sensations made your chest tighten, the pleasure bordering on too much, too intense. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first—just another choked whimper.

Matt, lost in the moment, didn’t realize at first, his focus on the way your body responded to him, how perfect you felt around him. But then—

“Red,” you finally gasped out, your voice small but firm.

Everything stopped in an instant. Matt’s body went rigid above you, his breath catching. He didn’t pull away immediately, but he stilled completely, his entire focus shifting to you and only you. His heart pounded in his chest, panic flashing in his eyes as he searched your face.

“Baby,” he breathed, his voice laced with concern. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

He didn’t move, afraid of making it worse, of hurting you more. His hands found your cheeks, cradling your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. The way he looked at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world—made the tears spill over.

“I-I just…” You swallowed hard, trying to find the words. Your body still trembled, overstimulated and overwhelmed. “It was… too much.”

His face fell, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought—”

You shook your head quickly, gripping his wrist to reassure him. “No, no, it’s okay. I just… I needed to stop.”

He exhaled slowly, nodding as he stroked your cheek with his thumb. “Okay. We’re stopping. We’re done, baby. I’ve got you.”

He stayed inside you for a moment longer, not moving, just holding you close, grounding you. His forehead pressed against yours as he whispered soft apologies and reassurances, his thumbs wiping away the tears that had slipped down your cheeks. His entire focus was on making sure you felt safe, that you knew he was there.

And you did. You always did.

Matt’s hands tremble slightly as he cups your cheek, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your skin. His forehead remains pressed against yours, breath warm and heavy as he whispers soft apologies. His body is still nestled deep inside you, unmoving, giving you time to catch your breath.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs, guilt evident in his voice. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

You shake your head weakly, fingers clutching his arms. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

His brows furrow, lips pressing into a thin line. “Nothing’s more important than you. I never wanna push you too far.”

The weight of his words settles in your chest, warm and comforting. He doesn’t move right away, knowing you’re still sensitive, still trying to process everything. His hand smooths over your hair, his touch featherlight, grounding you.

Finally, he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’m gonna pull out now, okay? Nice and slow.”

You nod, even though your body tenses at the thought. He notices, placing another reassuring kiss against your skin. One of his hands moves to cradle your lower back, the other grasping yours. His grip is firm, steady.

Then, carefully, he starts to pull out—inch by inch, painstakingly slow, as if any sudden movement might break you. The stretch still lingers, the emptiness settling in as the pressure gradually dissipates. Your body involuntarily clenches, the oversensitivity making you whimper.

“I know, baby,” he soothes, voice dripping with warmth. “Almost done, just a little more.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he’s out. The bulge in your stomach is gone, but the ache remains. You let out a shaky breath, body slumping against the mattress. Matt doesn’t hesitate—he presses soft kisses along your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach, whispering endless praises.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “So perfect, baby. My perfect girl.”

His hands gently ghost over your waist before settling on your hips, his brows knitting together when he notices the faint red marks blooming there. His lips part slightly as if in realization, eyes flicking downwards.

Below you, it’s a mess. Evidence of the night glistens against your inner thighs, sticky and warm. Matt swallows thickly, guilt evident in the way his jaw clenches. He drags his fingers over your hip, tracing the marks he unknowingly left.

“Shit…” he whispers, voice laced with remorse. “I didn’t realize I was gripping you that hard.”

You lift yourself onto your elbows, following his gaze. The sight makes your stomach flutter and your heart ache simultaneously. “It’s okay,” you mumble sleepily, reaching to lace your fingers with his. “I like when you hold me.”

Matt lets out a breathy chuckle, though the guilt still lingers in his eyes. He leans down, pressing a kiss to each mark, his lips lingering as if he can erase the redness with just his touch.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Gonna clean you up, alright?”

You nod hazily, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. Matt moves carefully, slipping off the bed with practiced ease. The absence of his warmth makes you shiver, but he’s not gone long. He returns moments later with a warm, damp towel, kneeling beside you with a look of pure adoration.

“Gonna wipe you down now,” he murmurs. “It might be a little cold.”

You hum in acknowledgment, but when the fabric touches your overstimulated skin, you flinch, a small whimper escaping your lips.

Matt’s eyes widen in alarm. “Shit, baby—I’m sorry. I should’ve warmed it up more.”

You shake your head, offering him a drowsy smile. “S’okay… just sensitive.”

His brows knit together, and he’s impossibly gentle as he continues, whispering soft apologies with every swipe. His other hand rubs soothing circles into your thigh, grounding you. Once he’s done, he discards the towel and helps you slip into one of his shirts—soft, oversized, smelling like him.

Matt cups your face as he lays you back against the pillows, eyes searching yours. “You feeling okay?”

You nod sleepily. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “You scared me for a second,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanna hurt you, baby.”

“You didn’t,” you reassure, fingers curling around his wrist. “I just got overwhelmed.”

Matt exhales, nodding slowly. He tucks you into his chest, wrapping himself around you protectively. His lips press against your forehead, lingering there as he breathes you in.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin. “So much.”

A small, sleepy smile tugs at your lips. “Love you too.”

He tightens his hold on you slightly, like he never wants to let go. “Get some rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And with him beside you, warm and safe, you believe him.

Matt’s warmth surrounded you, his body still so close, but all you could focus on was the uncomfortable feeling that lingered. Your legs ached, a dull soreness settling into your muscles, and the sticky sensation between your thighs made you shift uncomfortably. Even though Matt had cleaned you up, you still felt gross. Your body was too sensitive, too raw, and when his hand found your lower abdomen in a comforting gesture, you winced without meaning to.

Immediately, he pulled back, his brows knitting together in concern. "Baby? What's wrong?" His voice was impossibly soft, as if he were afraid to break you.

You swallowed thickly, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you. "I just... I still feel dirty," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt’s heart ached at your words. He never wanted you to feel anything less than cherished, and seeing you like this—so vulnerable and uncomfortable—made him determined to fix it.

"Okay, angel," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let me take care of you, yeah? How about a bath? Nice and warm, just how you like it."

You hesitated, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, but the idea of being completely clean, of washing away the overwhelming sensation on your skin, was tempting. You nodded slowly, and Matt smiled, cupping your cheek. "I’ll get everything ready, just stay here."

As he moved away, you watched him through heavy lids. He disappeared into the bathroom, and soon, you could hear the soft sound of water running. The thoughtfulness in his every action made your chest tighten with emotion.

He returned quickly, kneeling beside you on the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. I got it just right for you."

Carefully, he helped you sit up, his hands steady on your waist as he guided you to stand. Your legs wobbled, but Matt was right there, supporting you. "I got you, baby," he promised, letting you lean into him as he led you toward the bathroom.

The warmth of the steam enveloped you as you stepped inside, and the sight of the bath made you melt a little. The water was filled just enough to submerge you comfortably, and Matt had even placed a fresh towel and your favorite body wash within reach.

He turned to you, his hands moving to the hem of the oversized shirt he had dressed you in earlier. "Let me?" he asked, giving you the choice.

You nodded, and with the utmost care, he lifted the fabric from your body, leaving you bare before him. There was no hunger in his gaze, just pure, unwavering adoration.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Then, with gentle hands, he helped you step into the tub, making sure you were comfortable before letting you sink into the warmth.

The heat of the water worked wonders, easing the ache in your muscles, and you let out a sigh as you relaxed. Matt knelt beside the tub, watching you with the softest expression. "Better?"

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Yeah… much better."

His hand dipped into the water, reaching for the washcloth. "Let me take care of you, baby," he murmured, soaking the cloth before bringing it to your skin. With slow, delicate movements, he wiped away the remnants of the night, making sure to be extra gentle in all the places he knew were sensitive.

Every touch was filled with love, and as he worked, he pressed the occasional kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, your knuckles—silent reassurances that you were safe, that he was here.

When he reached your thighs, he paused. "Tell me if this is too much, okay?"

You met his gaze, and all you saw was pure devotion. "I trust you."

He nodded, continuing with the utmost care, ensuring that every part of you was clean and comfortable. When he was finished, he set the cloth aside, running his hands up and down your arms. "You’re okay, my love. I've got you."

Tears pricked at your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from discomfort or distress. They were from love—the overwhelming kind that made your heart ache in the best way possible.

"I love you, Matt," you whispered, voice thick with emotion.

His lips curled into the sweetest smile. "I love you more, baby. Always."

And with that, he stayed by your side, making sure you had everything you needed, refusing to leave until he knew—without a doubt—that you were okay.

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! I wanted to share this draft with you all. I apologize for the number of Matt fics I’ve been posting lately; I’m really working on expanding my Matt masterlist. It’s hard for me to write him without imagining him as the sweetest, most gentle person ever. I truly appreciate any interactions and feedback!

╰┈➤𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚, 𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒊

tags- @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44 @mommymomm @chriss-slutt @humpster35 @courta13 @idkwhatthisis2009 @yourfavoritefangirl @slutformatt17 @watercolorskyy @mylifeisevenstranger @suyqa @junnniiieee07 @thecrawlys @sturniolohohoho @h3arts4harry @fratbrochrisgf @abysful @slvt4chrissturniolo @tezzzzzzzz @surfer-sturn

#matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo smut #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo edit #matt sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fluff #sturniolo

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starset21 · 3 days ago

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Miss Possessive

Did I just write a Lando fic? Yes, yes I did. Based slightly of Tate McRae's song Miss Possessive.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may currently be found is on tumblr.

She watched as Lando leaned casually against the bar, his laugh ringing out over the crowd. It was one of those nights where everything seemed perfect—the city lights casting a warm glow, the music pulsing through the air, and Lando, always the center of attention, smiling like he had no care in the world. They’d been friends for months, the kind of friendship where you know each other’s quirks, jokes, and dreams, but somewhere along the way, something shifted. Maybe it was the way he looked at her when they joked around or the soft touches when he’d reassure her after a bad day. She wasn’t sure when, but she knew she fell for him. Hard. And watching him now, her heart squeezed a little tighter.

A model—tall, gorgeous, and all curves—was eyeing him from across the room, the corners of her red lips curling into an inviting smile. She tossed her hair back, making sure her gaze lingered a little too long on him. She could feel her stomach tighten as she approached him, her steps slow and calculated. “Lando,” she purred, her voice smooth like velvet. “It’s so nice to see you out tonight.” She made note of the way Lando smiled at her—polite, distant, but still… he didn’t push her away. He was too polite, too kind to be rude. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and she felt a cold surge of jealousy wash over her. She had never realized how possessive she could feel. The model leaned closer, laughing at something he said, her fingers brushing his arm lightly. She bit her lip, trying to hold back the wave of frustration.

What was she supposed to do with this feeling? She’d always been the quiet one, the one who didn’t make scenes. But tonight, she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t let her think she had any chance. Without even realizing it, she stood up, walking over to them. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Hey, Lando,” she said, her voice a little sharper than usual. His head snapped toward her, a flash of relief crossing his face when he saw her. “Can I steal you away from the her for a moment,” she asked. Lando’s smile softened, and he excused himself from the model, his eyes flickering to her with curiosity.

The model, clearly irritated, gave him a final glance before turning away, leaving them standing there. “I thought you were going to let me have a little fun tonight,” Lando teased as she grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the crowd. “She was undressing you with her eyes. And I don’t share,” she replied boldly but quietly, not looking him in the eye, the possessiveness bubbling up inside was unmistakable. She could feel the heat of the crowded bar pressing in on her, the chatter around them growing louder as people danced and laughed. But all she could focus on was Lando—his tousled hair, the glint of mischief in his eyes, and the lingering warmth of his hand as she held onto it a little too tightly.

As they moved away, the crowd seemed to part, and she couldn’t help but notice how many eyes followed him. He had this effortless charm, the kind of charisma that made people flock to him without even trying. She hated that, but she also loved it, too. For a moment, Lando didn’t say anything. He just followed her until he deemed the area of the club good enough and stopped, forcing her to look at him. His hand came up and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I never thought you’d be the jealous type,” Lando chuckled, stepping closer to her. “Maybe I’m not,” she muttered, glancing up at him. “But I think I am when it comes to you.” His expression softened, and there was something in his eyes—a tenderness, an understanding. “Well, lucky for you,” he said with a smirk, “I don’t plan on sharing either.”

She felt the words settle between them, the vulnerability in both of them suddenly palpable. She took in a shaky breath, unsure of how to respond, but in that moment, everything felt clearer. Lando smiled, a gentle, reassuring grin, and it made her heart flutter, as if the world had shifted to just the two of them. "You're mine, didn’t you know?" he said with a teasing smirk, but his eyes were softer, his tone different—more serious than it had ever been before. She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. “I think I’m okay with that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando leaned in, his face inches from hers, and for a split second, everything around them seemed to fade. The music, the crowd, even the tension—it all vanished. He leaned in just enough to brush his lips against hers, a quick kiss, the simple gesture sending a wave of warmth through her chest. "You don't have to fight for me, you know," he murmured, his lips brushing her forehead next as he pulled back just slightly to meet her gaze. "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

#starset writes #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #lando x you

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astracora · 2 days ago

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Drunken Confession - Zayne

Characters: Zayne x gn!mc

Warnings: Very Drunk MC, Chronic Illness, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2677

Written: 21st February 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship, with Zayne and the main MC I write for. I'm so sorry to Zayne this came out way more angsty than I meant for. I guess it's in character for how tragic all his story feels.

Masterlist AO3

<- Caleb

Zayne is returning from a conference when he gets the call, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he parks his car.

"Hey Doctor Li, have you heard from your hunter at all?"

He stops from where he's walking to his door, normally he would gently nudge Greyson to drop formalities, but the man sounds out of breath, like he's been running. "Greyson, I have only just returned to Linkon, why?"

There's hesitation, he can feel it, he hears Yvonne speaking in the background, but can't really make out the words. He's about to nudge Greyson along, before the man speaks again, "I was going to cover their check-up today, but they met with Doctor Noah earlier, and then left. I haven't been able to get in touch with them since."

It's not like you to skip appointments. You're careful, you hate to put people out, and you've always at least shown up. Even if he knows you ignore his advice, even if he's heard enough from Doctor Noah to know the time he spent apart from you, you didn't spend it taking care of yourself. He hasn't heard everything, and you do not share what you don't have to, but there is enough information in your files, for him to piece it together.

Still, the you he's reacquainted with, is a person who values your role as a hunter, and you do not avoid your requirements to have health check-ups. Even if you act flippant about your own health.

'If I can still hunt, then I'm fine, Doctor Li.'

He wonders when the child he knew, energetic and vibrant, forgot how to live.

"I will go check on them, I will get back to you to rearrange the check-up afterwards." Greyson affirms, and Zayne returns to his car. When he gets in, he tries to call. The call goes to voicemail each time. He hopes you'll at least see missed calls and get back to him before he gets to you. Alleviate the anxieties rising in his chest.

The fear that something has happened to you, that he's too late. He always feels like he's too late.

He feels too hot under his turtleneck, as he rushes out of his car, and up to your apartment. Pressing buttons in the elevator with too much force. His fingers feel cold. Like ice, and he shoves them into the pockets of his coat, trying hard to breathe through the churning in his stomach.

He's logical, Zayne tells himself. You're fine, you just fell asleep, or forgot, or got distracted.

There's so many reasons, for why you didn't arrive at your appointment. He will not spiral. No matter how many times he's seen you be reckless on a mission, and had to stitch you up afterwards.

When he arrives at your door, he's not overly proud of how forceful he is with his knocking. Three sharp raps, before he pauses, hesitates and steadies his hands. When there's no response, he tries again, this time he's less heavy handed. Carefully knocking, three times.

This time he hears a groan through the door, shuffling and movement, before it swings open.

Zayne exhales relief as he sees you, alive, and solid in front of him. You're wearing a loose vest, the sleeves slipping off your shoulders, and shorts. Long fluffy socks up to the knee. Your hair is pushed back with a headband, and there's a bottle held in your hand, precariously held to the side.

He quickly reaches a hand out, to tilt it back up before whatever it is, spills all over the floor.

Even if his eyes don't stray from you. Your eyes are watery, the bright colours of your mismatched gaze glittering up at him, and your lip is bitten.

For the shortest moment, he's captivated by you, as though he's ever not, and stares.

"Doctor Li? You good?" Your words come out on a sigh, and you tip the bottle back up to your lips, taking a steady swig, all while watching him.

Snapping himself out of his stupor, he pulls his hand back, and is relieved that there's no more ice over his skin. "You missed your appointment."

"Ah." He watches your face, the guilt skittering through your expression, the way your shoulders jump, and you crack a tiny smile, "My bad, I'll rearrange later. I must have forgotten."

You're lying to him, he notices, the way your eyes dart away. The way you fidget on your feet. You've never been a good liar, even as a child, you're somehow worse now. He imagines the alcohol in your hand hasn't helped.

He's standing at your door, and there's a vague sense of knowing he doesn't want other people seeing you like this. Armour down. He's concerned about you, that's all. He's your doctor, and your old childhood friend, and he's worried about you.

"May I come in?"

You blink at him, then look behind you, and back at him. He watches you think, and hesitate. Until you open the door wider for him, and indicate with the bottle for him to enter. Walking in ahead.

The first thing he notices, is the television is on, but there's no sound coming out. Like you'd turned it on, and forgotten to unmute it. A movie he doesn't recognise plays in the background, but you find your way back to the sofa, sitting down and pulling your legs up to face it. Nudging your head at the seat next to you.

The second thing he notices, is there's quite an array of bottles on the table, not all of them are finished, like you've been going through to find ones you don't hate. Many are still full, others barely a tenth empty. There's three that are fully empty, and the one in your hand is close to joining them.

The third thing is that he doesn't know what to do. Hesitating at the edge of the sofa, looking at you, watching you, before you look back up at him. "You gonna join me or not?" Your voice is far more casual than it normally is, you speak like you're amused by his hesitation. Watching him with the smallest quirk to your lips. It is that, which makes him join you. Sitting next to you, but not touching.

"You want a drink?"

He doesn't. He doesn't normally drink at all, and he's not sure now is the time to test his likely terrible tolerance.

"Are you alright?" He asks instead, cutting to the chase.

You sigh, leaning back on the sofa, and looking over at him. Mostly looking over his shoulder, your cheek resting against the back, "I'm fine."

It's another lie, so he simply looks at you, reading the look on your face. When he looks for too long, you laugh. It's soft, and weak, but you do smile at him, "Would you like a picture?"

His cheeks feel warm, because he would. You look tired, sad, with glistening eyes and are dishevelled. Like a painting he'd see on the wall in a gallery, of beautiful sorrow. If it were a better circumstance, he would want this view every day.

"Your ability to lie hasn't improved, would you like to try again?"

This time you exhale, looking up at the ceiling, then lean forward to take another swig. You finish the bottle, and then place it down. "Noah, he-" You choke on the words, shaking your head to fight back the feelings, "We talked, about my condition."

Your heart, that beats in your chest. The thing that drives him, every path he has taken, to find an answer for it. To heal it, so that you could live a long life. He's never told you, and he never plans to. That you drove every choice he's ever made. That you have meant more to him throughout his life than any other.

That his heart beats for you.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing new. He wasn't any closer to an answer, no one is, that there's no cure. That no one knows how long I still have. I just-"

He watches the trembling in your hands, and he reaches out to take yours in his. Your hand is even colder than his. You make to pull away, and then stop, looking down at his hand. It's hesitant that you move over on the sofa, wiggling over, and tightening your grip.

"It just hit me again, that's all. Reminded me. I had to get out, I didn't want to see Greyson like that, I just needed to take some time to calm down. I'm sorry, Zayne."

Zayne watches you smile again, turning your head back to him, you're so close he can smell the lavender of your shampoo. "There are better coping mechanisms." He notes, but there's no bite in it. Especially when you laugh without humour, and shrug.

Like you know that, like it's all you can think to do.

"Why did you not call me?"

You pull away from his grip now, pulling back on the sofa, and reach out for another drink. Scowling a little when you find nothing that interests you available. "I can't bother you with everything Zayne, you have enough on your plate."

"You could never bother me."

Your edges have softened, and you're distant, like if he takes his eyes off you, you'll float away. Like the drink has taken the weapons out of your hands, removed your tether. You don't believe him though, he can tell that much, the way you don't bother to respond, just shrug once more. So he leans forwards, takes your hand between two of his, and rubs careful circles into your skin.

If he holds onto you, you'll never disappear. No nightmare will become reality, and no world will exist where he doesn't have you in front of him. "You will never bother me." He reiterates, carefully catching your mismatched gaze with his own, holding it there.

"I'll be fine, promise. I have a lot still to do." You affirm, but it's not a promise to seek him out. It's not an assurance that you won't continue to suffer alone. That he won't come find you curled up in a corner.

He has a recollection of Caleb finding you in the rain, where you'd hidden after an argument. Trembling because you didn't know what else to do but hide from all the feelings. All the fear and sorrow. He'd felt useless then, not knowing all the places you'd hide to lick your wounds. He feels useless still, watching you put up walls he can't get through… because he has his own to contend with.

Yours are agonised, lonely and twisted around your heart.

His are ice cold to touch, and sharp as thorns around his body.

Zayne stands, and then tries to leave, but your hand moves to grasp at his sleeve. Eyes wide and startled, you tug it carefully, and with a small voice, "Stay." Escapes you. His heart thumps, a beat skipped, and he would offer you his own heart in a second if you asked for it. He knows you never will. He watches the fear tremble your fingers as you ask for something so simple.

"I'm just going to clear up some of the bottles, and get you some water. I am still your doctor, and a hangover is hardly advisable."

You look guilty again when you pull away, releasing him to rub at your arm, and this time when he moves away you don't grab at him, let him pick bottles up and get rid of them. Watch him pour them out into your sink. He feels the weight of your gaze as he busies himself, occasionally asking for the location of things he needs.

As well as water, he makes the both of you tea. Bringing yours to the table, and returning with his own. You gratefully receive the cup from him.

"I wasn't aware you enjoyed silent movies." He comments drily when he sits down, speaking to distract himself when you attach yourself against his side. Glancing down to see your fingers tighten against the hem of his turtleneck, he replaces your grip and holds your hand again. Grounding you, grounding himself, when he squeezes, loosens, squeezes. Feels the heat of your hand in his, the weight of you.

Remembers you're here. You're alive.

It's all that matters to him, your life. He wishes you valued it as highly as he does, as highly as you value everyone else's.

"I didn't even realise it was muted." You laugh, leaning forward to quickly turn the sound on, before returning to his side. "I was a little distracted."

He stays, to watch the movie with you, at the start you laugh, relaxing a little, and talking about it. Commenting on things he can tell you've already seen a hundred times. He barely watches, enough just to comment, or nod along, but mostly he watches you. Watches as the sorrow eases out into something he remembers more. Soft, and relaxed and happy. After a little while, your eyes begin to droop.

The alcohol pulls you past the emotional ride, and into exhaustion.

Zayne realises he wants to see you relax more often, losing the formality you wear as a hunter, holding his name as Zayne, and not Doctor. He wants to see you laugh, and smile more often.

"You should get to bed." He speaks, making to move you, but the small sound of protest is already out, clinging to his side with far sturdier hands than he'd expect of a tired, drunk person. "Come on now."

You shake your head against where it has fallen to use his chest as a pillow, nuzzling against the fabric of his top. A sleepy little grumble is made against him, and he almost laughs. Almost. Fighting it down.

"Films almost over." You manage, but it's slurred.

Against his best intentions, he always does end up giving in to you, "Ten more minutes, then."

You nod, and he feels your thumb soothing over the back of his hand, absently like you don't even realise you're doing it.

"Thank you, Zayne."

"Well, I haven't watched this movie before. I may as well finish it."

You pinch his hand without real force, but he revels in the laugh he receives. "Not that."

He knows.

"Thank you for coming to see me, for caring." Your hand tenses in his, so he does to you what you did for him, rubbing circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, "I-" A yawn, and he watches you, head drooping, eyes closed, voice petering out as you succumb. "really-" You get quieter, and he has to lean to hear, "like you, Zayne."

You're asleep before he can respond, so he carefully moves, so he can lay a blanket over you. Leaving some medicine on the side, for if you wake up with a headache, that the water you've drunk hasn't taken away.

Turns off the tv, and closes your curtains. He wants to move you to your bed, but if he jostles you awake, he foresees you clinging to him and staving off sleep even longer.

As he goes through the motions, pulling his coat back on, he plays it over in his head.

I really like you, Zayne.

It circles around his head as he moves, skitters his heart. Nestles there. You're unlikely to remember you've even said it. Unlikely to show him this level of vulnerability again, though he hopes you do. Lower your weapons and your armour down, and let him take care of you.

When he kneels down at your side, brushing strands of hair back from your face, "Just stay alive for me, that's all I need." Everything else can come second, everything else he can think about after. He just wants time.

Even if he never returns your words, or speaks them out loud. He knows he'll always love you, more than you will ever know.

#zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace #lnds #lads #wonder writes #lads x reader #Zayne lads #lads x mc #zayne li #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x mc #zayne x you

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allisluv · 2 days ago

Note

imagine finnick and reader having to comfort each other after the capitol made people watch them have sex😢 it would be so hard for them to feel comfortable enough to do it privately

disconnected.

pairing: finnick o'dair x fem!reader

content warnings: please note that while this work is not explicit it is very heavy! finn and reader are sold into prostitution together. while everything is consensual in terms of sex, they do not consent to being watched. this is pure angst hurt/comfort. crying, dissociation, self-deprecating thoughts, not edited. if there's anything else you think should be added, please let me know!

word count: 0.7k

The silence is deafening, like static in your ears, as the room slowly but surely begins to empty of people.

Finnick hovers on top of you, shielding your naked body from view. Every so often, he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, a silent reminder that he’s sorry and that he’s there.

The door thuds closed behind the last Capitol man.

Finnick wraps a loose sheet around his bottom half and pads across the room, quickly sliding the lock into place, preventing any unwanted visitors from returning. His body feels like it’s made of lead as he rests his forehead against the wooden panel of the door and swallows around the rough lump in his throat.

You roll onto your side numbly and watch him from where you’re situated on the bed. Your hair is knotted and your body is slick with sweat. Everything feels like you’ve been thrown off-kilter and that feeling only worsens when you see Finnick’s thin frame rack with muffled sobs.

“Finnick.” Your voice cracks. He doesn’t move. You call out for him again, this time more firmly, but still gently. “Finn. Come here.”

Finnick hesitates, and you know his mind is bombarded with thousands upon thousands of badly intrusive thoughts. Eventually, he listens to you, and he brings himself back to the bed, the sheet still draped around him and tear stains on the apples of his cheeks.

He hovers by the edge of the bed, and you can see the signs of him clearly coming down from the dissosciative high that he so often falls into to protect himself when the two of you are forced into this scenario.

“Sit down with me?” You ask.

He nods once, but it’s disconnected, and you can tell he’s not fully back with you yet.

You’re not either, really.

Finnick’s movements are heavy and uncoordinated as he lies down next to you, flat on his back, as stiff as a board. You roll onto your side to face him but neither of you say anything. The only sound is the two of you breathing unevenly.

“Baby—”

“Don’t,” Finnick cuts you off, voice emotionless and full of dread. “Just don’t. Don’t call me that. Don’t give me your sympathy and act like everythings fine when it’s fucking not. Don’t…” He cuts himself off with a sob that makes your heart twist in your chest.

“You’re right,” You whisper, carefully moving your hand to tread your fingers through his hair in a way that you know keeps him tied to reality. “Its not fine. But its not your fault, either. You need to stop blaming yourself.”

“That’s easier said than done.” His voice is harsh, but you refuse to take it personally; you’ve had your own fair share of lashing out after this experience, and Finnick had been nothing but soft and gentle and caring.

It’s about time you return the favour.

His eyes flutter shut as you continue to run your fingers through his hair.

“I don’t blame you.” You whisper, knowing that he needs to hear the words from your mouth.

“You should.”

“I would never.”

“Why?” Finnick’s voice is quiet. “I’m just as bad as they are. I’m—”

“No.” Your voice is firm, broking no room for argument. “You are nothing like them, baby. Do you hear me? Nothing like them. It is not your fault what Snow makes us do.”

Tears trickle down his cheeks, and you want to kiss them away, to make it all better, but you don’t know how.

“Can I hold you?” You ask gently. You can see the gears in his heads working overtime. You know he feels like he does not deserve it, that he is tainted and bad and cruel, but that couldnt be further from the truth.

He’s Finn.

He’s your Finn.

He’s your bright, funny, kind-hearted, lovable Finnick and all you want to do is soothe him.

Eventually, his need for comfort outweighs his need to punish himself, and he nods.

You waste no time in bundling him up into your arms, and it’s like the floodgates open.

He sobs and sobs and sobs until there are no more tears left in his body.

You hold him and hold him and hold him until he falls asleep.

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redroomreflections · 13 hours ago

Text

Her Best Secret Part 4

1950s Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha and R are two married woman having an affair

w/c: 4.9k

Part 1

Warnings: Hetero Sex, Slight Violence, Angst, homophobia

Note: If you don't like angst don't read

Being in love is surreal. It’s nice. It makes you feel alive. The butterflies in your belly never seem to settle. The flowers bloom like never before. The sun shines brighter. Your senses feel heightened with every brush of skin, every lingering glance.

Being in love is what humans are made for. To love is to be loved.

Being in love behind your husband’s back… well, that’s a bit harder to sell.

You wish you could say you never meant for this to happen, but that would be a lie. It was never supposed to be easy. It wasn’t supposed to feel this impossible, either.

Early morning showers were your favorite. They gave you a moment of peace before the house wakes up. A quiet moment before Claire’s cartoons fill the air before Sam’s voice calls your name. Just you, the warm water, and the illusion that everything is simple.

But today, it didn’t feel peaceful. It felt suffocating. The steam clung to your skin; no matter how hard you scrubbed, you couldn’t wash away the guilt. Or the want.

You pressed your forehead against the cool tile, exhaling sharply.

What were you doing?

You already knew the answer. You’dknown it since the first time Natasha kissed you. Since the first time she pulled you into her arms. Since the first time you realized you loved her.

You were thinking with your heart and not your head. You were thinking of yourself without any regard for others. It was a confusing feeling. It should be exciting and thrilling. Which it was. But also scary. It was overwhelming. It was terrifying.

How did this happen? How did you let this happen? You love your husband. You've always loved your husband. And you love your daughter—more than anything.

So how was it possible that you also love her?

How was it possible that you fell in love with a woman you've known for years but never truly met until a few months ago?

Sam made you happy. Sam loved you. Sam married you. He gave you a home and a family.

Natasha makes you happy, too.

God, she makes you so incredibly happy.

Maybe that's why you were terrified. You'd never felt this kind of happiness before—this kind of love.

And the worst part was that it wasn’t a competition. You didn’t love Sam less because of Natasha. And you certainly didn’t love Natasha more because of Sam.

This wasn’t supposed to be hard. This isn't supposed to feel complicated. This wasn’t supposed to tear you apart.

"Hey," Sams's gruff voice startled you as he poked his head into the shower curtain. "Mind if I join you?"

You shook your head.

He stepped inside, and you backed up a few inches to accommodate him. You're standing toe to toe, bare and wet.

The shower wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and he had to keep his arms at his side because if he lifted them, he'd touch you.

It wasn’t the ideal setup. You didn't care before. How close you were to him. You didn't care about silly things like personal space.

Now, everything mattered. Everything felt like a test. Everything felt like a mistake.

He tilted his head to the side and studied your face. His eyes narrowed as he reached forward and grabbed your arm.

"What's on your mind?" He asked.

"Nothing," You lied. "I'm just a bit tired. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"Hmm," He hummed. He reached forward to kiss your forehead. "You feel pretty good to me."

"Thanks, I think."

He chuckled.

"Come here," He wrapped his arms around you.

It was awkward and uncomfortable, but you didn’t push him away. You didn’t tell him to stop.

Because this was Sam. Your Sam. And even though you're in love with Natasha, you're still in love with Sam.

"I love you," He whispered, kissing your lips.

"I love you too," You kissed him back. You know where this is going. You and Sam had sworn off shower sex long ago. It was too slippery and much too dangerous. Standing there with him, though, you couldn't say no in his space. You didn't want to say no. "Sam,"

He pressed his forehead against yours. "I've got you,"

And then he kissed you again.

The shower was forgotten. The guilt and the want were forgotten. The world was forgotten.

There was only Sam and his warm, safe, loving embrace.

It wasn't the shower that washed away the guilt. As he pressed you against the tiles, you allowed yourself to react to his hands. His touch was familiar.

"You're so beautiful," He murmured.

"Yeah?" You questioned as his hands traveled along your body.

He kissed your neck. He sucked the skin, marking you as his own. You moaned.

"Please,"

"Anything,"

You knew the second he was inside you that the guilt would come back. And it did. But then, you could pretend it didn't exist. When he lifted you in his arms to get a better angle, you could imagine a life where nothing had changed.

A life where Natasha had never entered the picture.

A life where things were simple and easy.

But a life like that didn't exist.

You couldn't have both.

"Oh God," He groaned.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," You repeated his name like a prayer.

When he came, so did you. You clung to him. Your arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, your head buried in his neck, your breath hot on his skin. You could feel the sting of tears in your eyes. You were still thinking of her. Still imagining you were in her arms and not his.

"Sam," You sniffled. Quickly adjusting your positions, you dropped your leg so that you were firmly planted on both feet.

"Yeah?" He panted.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

*******

The bell above the diner door jingled as another occupant stepped inside. Wanda crossed her legs, adjusting herself in the booth, trying not to display her discomfort. This place was nothing special - vinyl booths, checkered floors, and the sounds of a tiny boombox playing from the end of the hall. Natasha had been there before and invited her. A cigarette sat between her fingers, untouched but smoldering. She had a way of making herself look relaxed even when she wasn't

"Thanks for inviting me here," Wanda smiled gratefully. "Between the twins and Vision, I don't get out much."

Natasha smirked, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray. "Figured you could use a break. Motherhood’s a hell of a thing, ain't it?"

Wanda exhaled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It is. Rewarding, but exhausting." She tilted her head slightly. "Still… doesn’t seem like you to call me out for something like this."

The waitress approached, setting down a steaming cup of coffee before Wanda and refilling Natasha’s without asking. She gave the redhead a polite smile—one Natasha didn’t return.

"That so?" Natasha murmured once they were alone again.

Wanda blew on her coffee, observing Natasha over the rim. "Yeah. It is."

Natasha finally took a sip of her coffee, leaning back against the booth, her free arm stretched along the seat. "Can’t a girl just want some company?"

"Of course," Wanda shrugged. "I didn't mean to assume. It's just that you and y/n are usually attached to the hip. We've never truly hung out alone. Not in ages."

"We used to."

"Right, right. I remember. Those were the days, huh? We had some good times together."

Natasha nodded slowly. "We did. Things were simple back then. Easy."

"Are they not easy now?" Wanda raised a brow.

"You're a loyal friend," Natasha guessed.

"To a fault, yes," Wanda nodded.

"So loyal that you haven't brought up what you saw or heard even to me."

Wanda stiffened, fingers tightening ever so slightly around her coffee cup. She held Natasha’s gaze, searching for any sign of playfulness, but found none.

"Should I have?" Wanda asked carefully.

Natasha shrugged, tapping ash from her cigarette. "Most would’ve."

"I'm not most people," Wanda said plainly.

"No," Natasha agreed, studying her. "You're not."

Silence stretched between them, tense and unspoken.

"You gonna tell me what you want me to say?" Wanda finally asked.

Natasha smirked, but there was something tired in it. "A confession, a scolding, a warning—take your pick."

Wanda sighed, setting her cup down. "You love her." Her voice lowered.

It wasn’t a question.

Natasha inhaled slowly, flicking her cigarette against the ashtray again. "Yeah."

"You’re playing with fire," Wanda warned.

Natasha finally looked away, exhaling smoke through her nose. "I know."

Wanda hesitated, glancing toward the door as if checking for prying eyes. "Steve and Sam don’t know."

"Not yet," Natasha murmured.

"But they will," Wanda said. "Secrets don’t stay buried forever, not in this town."

Natasha hummed in agreement but didn’t offer anything more.

Wanda shook her head. "And when they do, you think you can handle the fallout?"

Natasha turned back to her, a small, almost wistful smile on her lips. "Doesn’t matter. Damage is already done."

"She's a woman," Wanda began, but she couldn't find the words. This was Ohio in the 1950s.

Natasha leaned forward, stubbing her cigarette out. "Don’t,"

Wanda sighed, rubbing her forehead. "You can't expect this to be a secret forever. You have families. There's a child involved."

"I'm aware."

"So you're prepared? For whatever comes next?"

Natasha swallowed thickly.

Wanda watched her, a deep sadness settling over her. She didn't have the words. What could she say that would make things easier? What could she say that wouldn't make things more complicated?

"I'm sorry."

Natasha closed her eyes briefly. "It's not your fault. Just promise me you won't say anything?"

Wanda looked down, tracing the handle of her cup. "You have my word."

"Thank you," Natasha's voice cracked.

She couldn't bear to say anything else.

Not here.

Not now.

******

Steve never minded running errands. He enjoyed getting things done and checking items off a lengthy task list. Natasha always had something waiting for him whenever he got too busy with work. He’d be apologetic and get to it whenever he could. It was usually simple stuff—mowing the lawn and cleaning out the garage—nothing out of the ordinary.

This time, it was the car. Buddy’s Auto Shop had been expecting it for a tune-up. He was almost out the door when he remembered something. Weeks ago, Natasha mentioned her wedding ring needed resizing. He figured he’d swing by the jeweler while he waited for the car.

Keys in hand, he pivoted and headed upstairs to their bedroom. Her perfume still lingered in the air. He liked that. Doing something nice for her, even small, made him feel good.

He checked her nightstand first. Nothing. Then, the vanity. He never really went through her things, so he wasn’t sure where to look. The dresser drawer stuck slightly when he pulled it open. Inside, the usual clutter—loose change, an old receipt, a tube of lipstick rolling in the corner. No ring.

His fingers brushed against something different—a small, leather-bound book. The spine was worn and creased from being handled often. He picked it up, wondering if the ring had fallen underneath, but his attention snagged on a photo slipping from between the pages.

Huh.

Their wedding picture. He always liked that one. Maybe she was making some kind of scrapbook? Natasha wasn’t sentimental, but she always found new ways to surprise him.

He almost put the book back. Almost.

But curiosity got the best of him.

Just one page.

His thumb flipped it open to the bookmarked section. The first line hit like a punch to the gut.

"I never meant to fall in love with her. I never meant for us to be this close. Her smell. Her eyes. Her touch. When she looks at me like that, I forget the life I built before. I forget my name."

Steve’s grip tightened around the pages. His eyes scanned for a name, some clue, anything that told him this wasn’t what it seemed.

But there was nothing.

Just Natasha. And someone who wasn’t him.

The book hit the vanity with a thud. His breath felt too heavy, too loud in the room's quiet. He ran a hand down his face.

Natasha was in love.

And not with him.

*****

Steve paced the length of the bedroom, back and forth, for what felt like forever. His mind was a whirlwind of scenarios, each worse than the last. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe this was something Natasha was writing—fiction, not a confession. None of it was real. It couldn’t be. Because if it was, then he was a fool. The faithful husband hoped his wife wasn’t stepping out on him.

His jaw clenched as he ran through the possibilities. Who could it be? It had to be someone he knew. Natasha didn’t talk to strangers easily. That was one of the things he always admired about her—her ability to keep a close-knit circle despite being distant. But had that distance been because of him? Had she grown tired of his late nights, his unwavering predictability?

Steve forced himself to reason. He went over names.

Diane from three doors down? No.

Wanda Maximoff? No, not her type.

Not that he even knew what Natasha’s type was regarding women.

Then, his stomach twisted.

You.

His fingers trembled as he opened the book again, flipping through pages, scanning for confirmation. There was no name. Not once did Natasha write your name. But the descriptions are so vivid and specific. He knew.

It all made sense.

His grip tightened around the book before he snapped it shut. His anger burned white-hot beneath his skin, but he refused to let it take over. He needed to think and be smart about this.

So, he made two phone calls.

One to you.

And one to Natasha.

He needed answers. Now.

*******

“Mama, a worm!” Claire said excitedly, stepping barefoot through the garden. Her little toes were practically covered in dirt as she explored, utterly unbothered by the mess.

You were absentmindedly pulling weeds from your flower bed when she toddled over, holding up the squirming creature with pride.

“Oh, dear, please put that down,” you said, scrunching your nose. It wasn’t genuine annoyance—just amazement at how fearless she was.

“Hey, how about some lemonade?” Sam called from the porch. “And maybe those sandwiches you like? I can try my hand at it.”

“Oh, I would love sandwiches, Daddy,” Claire lisped, clutching the worm. “See?”

Sam chuckled as he made his way down the steps. “Always an adventurer,” he mused, crouching next to her. “Are you scaring your Mama with those things?”

Claire giggled, wiggling her toes in the dirt.

You wiped your hands on your shorts, shaking your head with a small smile. “She’s fearless, that’s for sure.”

Claire beamed, utterly unaware of the slight wriggle of the worm in her grasp. “It tickles!” she giggled, watching it squirm.

Sam laughed, stepping off the porch and walking toward the two of you. He bent down, ruffling Claire’s hair. “Alright, kiddo. How about we let Mr. Worm go back to his family?”

Claire pouted, but after a moment, she carefully placed the worm back into the soil. “Bye, Mr. Worm,” she whispered before returning to Sam. “Can we still have sandwiches?”

“Of course,” Sam grinned. “I’m about to make the best sandwiches you’ve ever had.”

You raised an eyebrow, standing up and dusting off your knees. “That’s a bold statement.”

Sam smirked. “You doubt my skills?”

“I’ve seen you burn toast, Sam.”

Claire giggled, clinging to his leg. “Daddy, don’t burn the sandwiches!”

“Okay, okay,” Sam threw his hands up in surrender. “No burnt sandwiches, I promise.”

You chuckled, kissing Claire’s forehead before glancing up at Sam. “I’ll come help you. Just to make sure we don’t end up with a disaster.”

He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

You shrugged playfully. “Not when it comes to cooking.”

Claire ran ahead toward the house, already excited for lunch, and you followed to grab her arms quickly.

"You are not stepping on my clean floors with those feet, Missy," You shook your head. "Nuh-uh, I'm going to hose you down right out back."

"Mama, no!" She protested, laughing as you scooped her into your arms.

"Mama, yes," You grinned, carrying her to the hose. "You're lucky I'm not washing you with a bar of soap, little girl."

"I don't smell that bad!"

"Oh yeah?" You challenged, putting her down. "How about you give me a big hug and a kiss, and I can be the judge of that?" Claire fell into your arms, leaving a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

"I'll get started on the sandwiches," Sam didn't linger. He was hungry, too.

"Good idea," You winked. You reached for the hose, turning it into a gentle spray, and directed it towards her toes.

"Mama!" Claire cried as the cool water splashed against her feet. "it's cold." She shivered.

"I'm sorry, kitten, it's just for a second," You cooed. "Just a quick wash."

You hosed her feet, cleaning the dirt off her little toes. In the distance, you could hear the phone ring.

"Sam?" You called.

"Got it," He yelled back.

"Now, who could be calling us on a Saturday afternoon?" You mainly said to yourself.

"Maybe it's Grandma Joyce," Claire shrugged. "She likes to talk."

"That she does," You laughed, grabbing the towel. "Maybe wear shoes next time you decide to explore, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am."

You kissed her nose.

You carried Claire into the house, kissing her cheeks and making her giggle. Her little arms wrapped around your neck, clinging to you as you stepped inside.

As you crossed the threshold, you saw Sam hanging up the house phone. The old rotary dial clicked as it settled back into place.

“Who was that?” you asked, shifting Claire in your arms.

Sam glanced up, his easygoing expression slightly strained. “No one important.”

He turned to the counter, focusing on the sandwiches, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Claire wiggled in your hold. “Can I help, Daddy?”

Sam smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How about you play in your room for a bit, sweetheart? I’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

Claire pouted. “But I wanna help.”

“I know, peanut,” Sam said, ruffling her damp curls. “But Mama and I need to talk for a minute. Just grown-up stuff.”

You watched as Claire’s little face scrunched up in protest, but Sam had a way of persuading her. “Tell you what,” he said, crouching to her level. “You pick out a book, and we’ll read it together after lunch. Even the long ones.”

Claire considered this, then nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”

She kissed you quickly on the cheek before scampering off down the hall, her bare feet pattering against the wooden floor.

When she was out of sight, you turned to Sam, crossing your arms. “Alright. What’s going on?”

He let out a slow breath, wiping his hands on a dish towel before finally meeting your gaze. There was something different in his eyes—something guarded.

"Six years together, and I thought I knew everything about you," He said.

"What?"

"Why?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You shook your head.

"Tell me now!" He asked again, slamming his hand on the counter. "The truth, goddamnit."

"Sam, I swear I-"

"You've been seeing someone," He interrupted. "For months. A woman."

You felt the blood drain from your face. Your knees felt weak. This was the end, wasn't it?

"Sam,"

"Answer me!"

"I..."

He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "That's it, huh? You can't even deny it."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You've had that woman here under my nose for months, and you're sorry?"

"Sam,"

"What could she possibly have given you that I haven't?" He demanded, stepping forward. "What has she done for you that I haven't?"

"Please," You took a step back.

"Is it the sex? Is that what's got you going?" He stepped closer to you. "Or are you so stupid to ruin your life for no reason?"

"Sam, stop."

"Or is it something else? Are you in love with her?" He pressed. "Tell me now." His voice was louder, making you jump.

"Sam," You repeated, swallowing thickly.

"You have a daughter," He reminded. "We have a daughter."

"Sam, I know, but if you'd just let me-"

"There's nothing you can say," He shouted. He was getting angrier by the minute. You'd never seen him so angry. "She's been in our home. Our fucking home. She's been watching Claire. She's been touching our daughter. Infecting you. Breaking what we have apart. Did you think about that when you were fucking her?"

"I-" You choked, tears forming in your eyes. "Don't say that."

"What? The truth? That's what's happening, isn't it?" He stepped closer, but you didn’t even realize your back was against the counter. "You're fucking her."

"Don't touch me," You slapped his hand away when he reached for you.

"I can't believe you." He was shaking his head.

"Please, just calm down,"

"Calm down?" He scoffed, grabbing your arm. "How can I calm down when you're being so reckless, huh? Do you have any idea what you've done? I knew I shouldn't have moved you here. I should have listened to my parents."

"You knew this was coming."

"I knew I should've married someone more like Diane."

You tried to pull away, but he held onto you. "Stop. Don't say that. I'm not a mistake. Sam, just talk to me."

"Talk? You want to talk?" He asked, backing away from you before swiping his hand across the table. The plate clattered to the floor, shattering.

"Sam, don't,"

"Shut up," He snapped. Another bout of anger has him almost in your face again.

"Sam, Claire's here," You told him brokenly. "She's here and doesn't need to see you like this."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Sam, please."

"This is your fault, y/n," He growled. "You did this. You're the one who wanted to move here. You're the one who has been sleeping around. You're the one who's fucking a woman."

"Sam, enough," You pleaded.

"God, I just..." He breathed. "I'm leaving."

"What? Sam?" You followed him to the foyer, where he grabbed his jacket and keys.

"I can't be here right now. I can't look at you."

"Sam, please. Don't do this. It's not what you think."

"What's it then? You've been lying to me," He accused. "You're fucking someone."

"It's not like that," You shook your head. You couldn't believe you had to plead your case.

"It's exactly like that. You're sleeping with a woman,"

"I didn't plan for it to happen."

"You never think, y/n," He sneered, shaking his head. "Always doing whatever the fuck you want. I bet that's why she's with you."

"She loves me,"

"I love you." He shouted louder this time. "That doesn't matter to you. Don't wait up for me. I can't even look at you right now."

"Sam," You reached for his arm, and he shrugged you off.

"Get away from me," He said lowly. "If you think I'm going to let my daughter be around this shit, you're dead wrong. Don't come after me."

"Sam," You tried again.

His shove wasn’t hard—just enough to create distance—but the way you stumbled and the sharp gasp that left your lips was enough to snap something in him. His rage flickered, replaced by something unreadable, something almost haunted.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he said again, softer this time like he was more afraid of his own words than you were.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, breath caught in your throat.

He shook his head, something breaking in his expression. “I’m leaving. Stay the fuck away from me.”

The door slammed behind him.

And just like that, everything was ruined.

Your marriage.

Your family.

Everything.

You sank to the floor. Numb. No tears came, not because you didn’t want to cry, but because you didn’t know how. The exhaustion, the weight of it all, crushed your chest, leaving you hollow.

This was the end, wasn’t it?

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

What had you done?

“Mama?” Claire’s small voice carried from the steps. “Can I come down?”

You didn’t answer.

“Mama?” she asked again, hesitant this time.

You forced yourself to lift your hand, patting the floor beside you. “Come here.”

Claire ran over, climbing into your lap without hesitation. She curled into you, warm and trusting, her arms wrapping around your middle.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked, tilting her head to look at you.

Your throat tightened. “Daddy’s…” The words wouldn’t come.

“Is he coming back?” Her voice was so small, so full of unshaken faith.

You swallowed hard. “He’s… not feeling well.”

Claire frowned. “Is he sick?”

“No,” you whispered, stroking her curls. “Just a bad day. A really bad day.”

*********

Natasha entered the front door, dropping her keys onto the entryway table. The brunch with Wanda was nice until the call came.

Steve’s voice had been calm. Too calm. Come home.

Now, standing in the living room, her stomach dropped.

Two bags sat by the door, neatly packed.

She furrowed her brows. “You going on another fishing trip?”

Steve shook his head. “They’re for you.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for something on the coffee table. The moment she saw it, her pulse stuttered.

The diary.

"You went through my things?"Natasha’s jaw tightened. Anger flared, hot and immediate,

"Don't." He said firmly, holding the book in his hand.

"Why do you have this?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Steve,"

"Answer the question," Steve interrupted. "I have a right to know, especially since you've been keeping it a secret from me. For months."

"You went through my things."

"And what you wrote," He ignored her. "You know the things you write what you've been feeling. How long?"

Natasha clenched her fists. "Steve, this isn't the right time for this conversation."

"There is no better time than the present," He snapped. "I can't believe I've been so blind. I knew you were hiding something, but this? I was going through your things to get your ring resized. You know the one you haven't worn in months?"

"Steve, you don't understand," She pleaded.

"Don't understand what, huh?" He challenged. "That you've fallen for someone else? That you've been having an affair?"

"I never meant to fall for her," Natasha said, looking at him.

"What difference does that make, huh?" He raised his voice. "You did it anyway."

“Save whatever explanation you’ve got,” he said evenly. “I already called Sam.”

Her breath hitched. Sam. You. Claire.

Fear clawed at her throat. “Steve, tell me you didn't call him-"

"I did," Steve interrupted. "Because he deserves to know."

Natasha bit her lip.

"How long has this been going on?"

She remained silent.

"Tell me how long," Steve repeated.

"Long enough," She finally admitted. "Six months."

Steve's expression hardened.

"How could you?" He said in a low voice. "How could you do this to me?"

Natasha took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

Steve clenched his jaw. "That doesn't mean shit."

"Steve,"

"No," he interrupted. "Do you know what this means? Not only are you fucking someone, but it's a woman. I'm not even worth your respect. You don't respect me as a husband."

"That's not true," She said, stepping forward.

"Really?" He scoffed. "How else would you explain this? How would you explain the fact that you've been cheating on me for God knows how long if you're telling me the truth."

"Steve," Natasha breathed. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this. For you to find out like this."

"Oh, were you going to sit us down for dinner and have a conversation? I don't fucking think so."

"Steve,"

"What?"

"Let's talk," She insisted. "Not like this. Just let me-"

"There's nothing to talk about." He interrupted. "We're done."

Natasha felt like the ground was falling out from under her. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

"I booked you a room," Steve continued. "At the inn. I won't be there."

"Steve, please," Natasha said, a tear running down her cheek. "Don't do this."

"Take your bags," he said firmly. "I'm not letting you stay here a second longer."

"Steve, this is my house too."

"Was," he corrected. "Your bags are packed. Take them and leave."

"You can't do this," Natasha shook her head. "I can't."

"You can and you will," he replied.

"I won't."

"Fine," He said. "You can sleep in the car. I'm not changing my mind."

"Steve," Natasha said. "I love her. You have to understand."

"You're a fucking liar," Steve spat. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have cheated on me."

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it," Steve said, his jaw tight. "Tell me what I'm supposed to understand. Tell me why the woman who I've spent my life with, the woman I've committed to, has betrayed me."

"She makes me happy,"

"So do I,"

"Steve, it's not like that,"

"How's it like then?" He asked. "If you've fallen in love with someone, how the fuck am I supposed to compare?"

"She's-"

"Enough," Steve shook his head. "Get the hell out."

Natasha's shoulders dropped.

What had she done?

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #black widow x female reader #natasha x you #it’s super angst

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these-written-reveries · 1 day ago

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Great Heights

‣ Pairing: Simon Riley (Ghost) x GN!Reader

‣ Genre: Flangst (angst & fluff)

‣ Summary: When Simon realizes he has feelings for you.

‣ Warnings: Avoidant behavior, Simon being a stalker, Simon being completely incompetent at handling his emotions in a normal and healthy way (but we love him anyway, don't we?).

‣ Word Count: 1,214

‣ A/N: Idk about you, but I believe Simon Riley almost always resorts to stalker/creep behavior when he has feelings for someone. It's inevitable. He's either avoiding them like the plague, or going borderline yandere on their ass, with no in between. He doesn't know how to be normal about this at all. Good luck to whoever he falls for, 'cause you're in for a wild ride with this guy.

➼ Simon will distance himself from you almost immediately after realizing he has feelings for you.

• He is an avoidant type; known for burying his emotions and running away from any sign of vulnerability.

• Love makes him vulnerable. Love makes him weak.

• Claims he doesn't have time for love or relationships. That those things would distract him from his job.

• He'll indulge himself in meaningless one night stands on occasion, but that's as far as he ever takes things.

• His job always comes first.

• But then you came into the picture.

• He may not have consciously put the pieces together at first (the man needs AT LEAST 3-5 business WEEKS before he is finally able to truly understand his feelings), but he knew immediately upon meeting you that you were different.

• Not in a bad way, not in a "you stick out like a sore thumb," kind of way…

• More in a "you're so beautiful and your voice is so nice and your laughter is adorable and when you look at me I get all tingly and warm all over and it's kinda hard to breathe and I'm definitely not gonna be able to stop thinking about you anytime soon," kind of way.

• He'd never experienced that with anyone else before. So, to him, meeting you was a total shock to his system.

• After many days of random run-ins and conversations with you, he began to get really freaked out by his feelings and the way he reacted every time he was around you.

• You made him feel like he was free falling from a great height, unable to control the experience and unsure of when it would end, or if he'd survive it.

• It scared the shit out of him.

• Can you believe it? Simon RIley. Ghost. Scared.

• This was definitely uncharted waters for him.

• So, he promptly began avoiding you.

• He made no attempts to keep it subtle either. Every time he so much as caught the smallest glimpse of you, he was spinning on his heels and power walking away from you.

• He knew you knew he was avoiding you, but thankfully, you hadn't tried to bring it up to him.

• (How could you when he was bolting out of any space with you in it faster than you could blink?)

• He buried himself in his work, told himself he didn't care, that this was just a stupid, fleeting crush. He didn't need you. He didn't need anyone. He was better off alone.

• This little avoidance game lasted a good handful of weeks. He was thrilled when he was sent on a mission, hoping the time away would serve as a detox to get you out of his system.

• It didn't. In fact, it made everything worse.

• Now he couldn't even go a second without thinking of you. He wondered how you were doing, what you ate for breakfast, what pretty little outfit you decided to dress yourself in that day, if you had slept well the night before, if you were safe, if you were okay.

• If you were thinking of him too.

• Soon enough, the mere passing thoughts and silly daydreams turned into deep-seated longing. An ache for you that pervaded his chest. An ache to see you, to hear your voice, to protect you, to hold you.

• He needed you.

• He ached for you to need him too.

• You were hit with a wave of whiplash when he got back from his mission.

• Suddenly, he was popping up left and right. Most times from afar, silently keeping an eye on you. You'd catch him in the corner of your eye as you went about your day, or feel his watchful gaze on you, only to spot no sign of him when you turned to look around.

• He was there, though. An ever-looming presence in each and every day.

• If it were anyone else, you'd be frightened. But for some reason, knowing Simon was around, even at a distance, made you feel...safe.

• It also confused you. Why did he go from avoiding you to spending every moment of his spare time around you?

• Why hadn't he attempted to speak to you?

• One day, you'd finally had enough.

• The next time you'd caught him watching you from afar, you beelined straight towards him.

• It would've made you giggle, watching him grow visibly tense as he straightened his spine, eyes darting towards the nearest exit. But, you were committed to appearing serious to him. Him avoiding you for weeks and then stalking you like a creep was no laughing matter!

"Hello, Simon."

Stood rigidly before you, Simon cleared his throat, his mask hiding what you were sure to be a similarly tense and nervous face.

"Hello."

"Whatcha doin'?" you asked in a sing-song tone, though your eyes held an interrogatory intensity as they remained locked on his.

He broke contact with your eyes, and you had to stifle the smirk that tugged at your lips when you caught sight of his throat bobbing beneath his balaclava.

"I-erm, nothing."

You let the silence drag on for a moment, watching as his eyes flickered to and from you as he visibly struggled to decipher what your intentions were, before finally putting him out of his misery.

Simon nearly flinched when you suddenly presented a water bottle to him in your outstretched hand.

"Good. Can you help me open this?"

Your small smile seemed to set his nerves at ease a bit as he silently nodded, grabbing the bottle and giving it a simple twist before handing it back to you.

A sweeter smile was offered to him now as you took the bottle from him. "Thanks!"

Another silent nod from the burly man was enough to make you take things one step further.

He grew tense again when you took his hand and began pulling him towards where you were before.

"Come on, then! If you're gonna be a stalker, you might as well be a useful one."

• The two of you worked on completing your task together, and slowly but surely, you managed to pull Simon out of his shell. He began talking to you more, responding verbally instead of silent nods and quiet hums.

• You'd caught him staring a few times, and simply giggled at him before returning your eyes to what you were focusing on before.

• Normally, this kind of interaction would leave him wanting to run as far away from it as he could.

• Surprisingly though, he found himself enjoying it. Somehow, you'd managed to make him feel...safe.

• A switch had flipped in Simon's heart. Suddenly, he wasn't quite as terrified anymore.

• Maybe this whole relationship thing wasn't such a bad idea, after all? Beats being cold and alone and missing you by a long shot.

• Before, he couldn't stand being around you. Now, he couldn't stand to be away from you.

• Nor could he bear the thought of a future without you in it.

• When he met you, he knew you were different, but never had he expected you to be such a powerful force of change in his life; melting away his cold, steely exterior and exposing his battered heart to your mercy.

• All it took was one soft smile, a gentle touch, a knowing look, to anchor him to you—every fear dissipating as he looked to you as his guiding light.

➼ He decided then that he was alright with falling, so long as you'd be there to catch his heart in the end.

➼ Main Masterlist ➼ Request Info

‣Taglist: @jslittlebirdie @alittlesmartcookie

‣ If you’d like to join the taglist for Simon Riley/Ghost, let me know by sending me an ask/message, or comment on this post!

#simon riley #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #ghost fluff #simon riley fanfiction #ghost cod fanfiction #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #kalistawrites

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malk1ns · 1 day ago

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february 22 vs capitals, 8-3 loss

aaaand we're back. sorry, did i say back? i meant bad.

let's see if i remember how to do this....

for the record: sid is injured right now and has been all season (his wrist). it's not out of the question that he gets surgery in the off-season again—my understanding is it's been suggested that he do it now, even. but let's pretend that the only injury he suffered was that crunch right before the tournament.

Before Zhenya left for Miami to take advantage of a week and a half in the sun, he swore he wasn’t going to watch a second of the Four Nations tournament.

“It’s fake games,” he’d sniffed at Sid before the break, parked at their kitchen island watching Sid make their protein shakes after practice. “Like, not real tournament. Who cares. Russia isn’t even play, like, why I watch?”

“It’ll be good hockey,” Sid had said serenely, sliding over the glass full of sludge and strapping his ice pack back onto his elbow. Zhenya looks him over, but Sid shakes his head at whatever face Zhenya’s making. “It’s fine, just sore. And if it’s a fake tournament, why do you care if Russia isn’t playing?”

Zhenya didn’t have a good response to that.

He’s a liar, of course. He tuned in for every game, even Sweden-Finland.

Sid was wrong. It wasn’t good hockey. It was great hockey.

What’s less great, though, is Sid managing to conceal the extent of his injury from Zhenya before he headed to Montreal to play in this stupid thing.

Zhenya’s usually pretty in tune with Sid’s injuries. After so many years, it’s almost like…a hum, a buzz, something at the back of his brain that grabs his attention when Sid’s playing through something. It happens with Tanger too sometimes, but Zhenya’s intuition locked onto Sid the second he stepped through the front door of Mario Lemieux’s house in 2006 and never looked elsewhere.

He can’t fix everything, of course. Otherwise that horrible, dark time when Sid was confined to dark bedrooms when not being shuttled from doctor to doctor to try and find a solution for his head would never have happened.

Zhenya feels guilt over that still even though he knows he shouldn’t. When he was younger he had a choice: he could either pursue his hockey, or his magic. He picked hockey and he can’t regret that, even though there’s a part of him that wonders if he could have done more during off-seasons to get at least his healing skills a little more honed than they are.

They’re enough to fix minor stuff, though—bumps and bruises and soreness from big hits, and if Zhenya really focuses he can take away pain after medical procedures for bigger stuff, although that much leaves him tired for a few days after.

Sid hadn’t wanted Zhenya to look at his elbow after the awkward hit he took against the Devils, but Zhenya steamrolled over that. Everything was so swollen it was hard to pinpoint where the problem was, so Zhenya limited himself to reducing the inflammation and hopefully at least helping Sid sleep.

It worked, Zhenya thought at the time. At least, Sid woke up the next day and didn’t make the face he usually does when he’s in pain, and he’d assured Zhenya the two games he missed were precautionary, just to make sure he could play for Canada.

Watching the games, though, it’s obvious that Sid managed to pull the wool over Zhenya’s eyes. He’s not shooting the puck, not even taking faceoffs—Zhenya’s jaw dropped when he realized Sid was playing wing.

The commentators won’t stop talking about it. Zhenya usually mutes the television when he’s watching hockey, but when Canada’s playing he keeps the volume low, ears perked for a mention of Sid’s name so he can listen for any updates.

There’s far too much made of ‘Crosby playing with one arm’ for Zhenya’s liking. He looks up plane flights to Montreal, then to Boston, then thinks about how ticked off Sid would be about Zhenya showing up unannounced when he’s supposed to be getting rest and doing his own healing.

So, he stays in Miami and frowns at the screen whenever Sid moves awkwardly or takes a bad hit or forces a pass when he should shoot.

He has to admit that it’s nice to see Sid lift a trophy again. Zhenya wasn’t sure it would happen if he’s being honest. He’ll never say it to the media, will always publicly express optimism until the end, but he’s not stupid, he knows where the Penguins are. He signed his contract knowing this was a possibility.

Watching Sid skate around on Boston ice with a huge grin and a silly little trophy over his head soothes something in Zhenya.

Not for long, because he finds a video from the locker room after where Sid’s rolling his shoulder and grimacing in the background. Zhenya scowls at his phone.

—

Sid and Sully opted to fly back after the championship game. Sid gets home late, so late it’s almost morning, and from the way he tiptoes into the house he clearly expects Zhenya to be asleep.

“Sid,” Zhenya says from where he’s sitting in the dark kitchen, and Sid jumps about a mile in the air.

“Jesus,” Sid says, flicking the overhead light on and putting his right hand on his hip. “What the fuck are you doing awake? Are you okay?”

His left arm, Zhenya notices, is held carefully at his side. “I’m okay,” he says, getting to his feet and stifling a yawn. “Your arm, maybe no.”

Sid’s eyes widen, but it’s too late—Zhenya’s gotten to him, pushing his sleeve up and wrapping his hands around Sid’s arm.

“Sid, oh my god,” he mutters, flinching involuntarily at the blast of injury-heat. “You’re so hurt, like, why you’re not say? I can help before games, maybe, you’re not so bad this week.”

Sid yanks his arm back, unable to fully hide his wince. “Because I was fine,” he mutters, shoving Zhenya aside so he can get to the fridge. “Really, I got on the plane for Montreal and I felt so much better. It’s like something in the flight aggravated it—I don’t know if it was the altitude or what, but when we landed I was so swollen I couldn’t even get my sweatshirt off. I had to wait hours until the swelling went down so I didn’t have to have someone cut me out of it.” He yanks out the tupperware of peanut butter protein balls he keeps conning Chef Geoff into making special for him.

Zhenya waits until Sid’s stuffed three into his mouth at once and is distracted trying to chew, then pounces.

Sid tries to flail away from him, but Zhenya gets his hands on Sid’s skin again, and before Sid can pull away he forces cool healing magic down through his fingertips directly into Sid’s elbow.

“Fuck!” Sid yelps, but Zhenya squeezes tighter, pushing until his stores of magic are depleted. Panting, he hangs onto Sid for a second longer, confirming that some of the inflammation has started to fade, then lets go and staggers back.

“You idiot,” Sid says, hauling Zhenya against him. His voice is fond, though, and his hands on Zhenya’s back are gentle as he guides them upstairs. “You’re gonna be feeling that at practice tomorrow.”

Zhenya flaps his hands, too tired and dizzy to try and speak. He lets Sid lower him onto the mattress, keeping his eyes closed against the room-spinning nausea he knows is waiting for him while he listens to Sid putter around and get ready for bed.

When Sid slides under the blanket and wraps his arms around Zhenya’s torso, Zhenya takes a deep breath and feels his world steady.

“How it feel,” he croaks out, snuggling into Sid’s embrace. When he pushes himself like this it always takes a while for his magic to build back enough to even feel how Sid’s doing.

Sid’s quiet for a second, and Zhenya feels his left arm flex as he tenses and relaxes his muscles, testing. “Better,” he says, sounding surprised. If Zhenya weren’t as wrung-out exhausted as he is, he’d be offended. “Actually better. Not perfect, but wow, big difference.”

“Stupid,” Zhenya mutters, opening his mouth and biting lightly at whatever part of Sid’s chest he’s nestled against. “Let me do before tournament, like, you’re score ten goal, win every game.”

“Ten goals in four games?” Sid asks, digging his fingers into Zhenya’s back.

“Why not,” Zhenya manages around a yawn. He’s fading fast. Overtaxing his magic like that always knocks him out for hours. “You best, like, could do if you’re healthy.”

“Sweetheart,” Sid whispers into Zhenya’s hair as Zhenya drifts off. “Thank you.”

#sidgeno #hockey rpf #my writing #my fic #24-25 series

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